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loveinhawkins · 1 year

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When Eddie’s terrified, he feels cold—and it’s not a mild thing, not just goosebumps on his arms. It’s violent shivers: his breath catching as ice forms in his lungs, crystallising up his throat until he can barely talk.

It was bad at the middle school talent show: stuck in the wings with fellow students pressed up against him, all jostling for space. He should’ve been sweating.

And technically he was, but it was as if his brain hadn’t checked in with his body or maybe the other way round, and he kept biting down hard on his tongue as his teeth chattered.

A teacher noticed and even asked if he was feeling sick, if he wanted to be sent home.

He shook his head, felt his legs shaking; Jeff had to speak for him until it was finally the band’s turn on stage, and the ice thankfully thawed enough for him to sing.

But right now he thinks the ice is here to stay.

He’s sat back in the boat, the tarp tangled up by his feet; he can’t stop one knee from bouncing up and down erratically. He knows he isn’t really shaking because of the literal cold, but it doesn’t exactly help that it’s damp as hell in here.

He’s not alone—he’s still surrounded by quite possibly the most random group of people in history. Dustin’s leading the conversation, which has devolved into Max teasing him about some girl called Suzie.

Eddie suspects the change of tone is deliberate, that these kids who are somehow well-versed in a literal fucking war have an admirable intuition; have sensed that he needs a cool down after learning about an evil alternate dimension. Kinda like what he does if he watches a horror movie late at night—makes sure to read some light-hearted crap before he goes to sleep, so the scary shit isn’t the last thing on his mind.

Eddie appreciates the thought. If he wasn’t still repressing shivers, he might even find it sweet.

But the chatter isn’t helping.

He can’t grab a hold of it, the sounds slipping away before he can make sense of them; his mind keeps drifting away, and he’s suddenly stuck on the thought that he can’t remember what Chrissy’s last words to him were. He can hardly even recall what her laugh sounded like in the woods—like everything about her has been trapped underwater, stifled beyond all recognition.

He let her die, and he can’t even manage the decency of remembering her. What the fuck is wrong with him?

He exhales shakily. Neither Max or Dustin seem to notice, which both relieves him and sets his teeth on edge.

His lungs are tight, but he still feels a sudden urge to talk—for once wishes that he’d just bite his tongue instead.

Something’s cracking deep inside him.

He’d thought his breaking point had been reached long ago, but it keeps getting worse; as the kids talk, he can’t avoid the fact that they’ve already watched him profoundly lose it, and shame spreads from the pit of his stomach—merges with the ice, culminating in a bitter wave of self-loathing.

Leave me alone, he desperately wants to say, but he knows it’ll just come out in a scream, knows it’ll sound like he’s furious. That’s always been the way of things, at least for him: deep-seated fear hiding underneath anger.

He opens his mouth. His teeth are clacking together.

He manages to temper the feeling right at the brink so that all he says is, “D-don’t you assholes have a bed time?”

“Oh, that’s cute,” Dustin says, over the sound of Max scoffing.

Please go, just fucking go, I’m gonna fall apart and I don’t want you to see it, not again.

“Yeah, well I have a bedtime, so let’s get outta here, dickheads,” Steve says.

He sounds dry, borderline snippy. But his eyes fleetingly meet Eddie’s as he speaks, like he’s heard him somehow. Like he understands.

Dustin stands with some customary grumbling, pulling Max up with him.

“Night, Eddie. It’ll be okay,” he says, so optimistic—with an unshakeable courage that Eddie has never once possessed.

Eddie attempts a smile. Has no idea if he succeeds.

Robin’s already standing, walking off behind Dustin and Max—but then she spins, doubles back on herself; Eddie jumps at the sudden movement.

“Water!” she says, “I’ve got some in the car, you should—hang on, Eddie.”

“I’m—I’m fine, I don’t need…” Eddie’s voice is hoarse, fades out on him. He coughs, tries again, slightly louder, “I said I don’t need it!”

But Robin’s already too far away to hear him.

The quiet rustle of a jacket: Steve is still here.

Eddie lunges forward as quick as he can. His hand clasps around Steve’s wrist.

“Harrington, seriously, tell her not to bother, man. I’ll—” He swallows. “I’ll just throw it back up.”

It’s almost too dark to see, but Eddie swears Steve’s eyes are flickering over his face. He doesn’t know what he’s seeing. Doesn’t think he wants to know the answer.

“Dude, you need to drink, at least,” Steve says finally. He gently tugs himself free—stepping back with an apologetic air, slowly enough that Eddie doesn’t startle. “Gimme a sec.”

He’s back in under a minute, passing Eddie a bottle of water with the cap already off.

Eddie drinks. Despite his protesting, he knows it’s for the best; his head is pounding. He spills the water more than once; his hand is trembling.

Steve doesn’t mention it.

“I can get you some food,” he says.

Eddie shakes his head. “I ate before. Not hungry.”

He’s telling the truth, although he can’t remember what he ate. Can’t remember much of anything.

Steve doesn’t look very happy with that response. His frown is audible when he asks, “Don’t you have a blanket or something?”

Eddie laughs, horribly false. “Why, Harrington? Wanna tuck me in?”

Steve doesn’t answer.

Eddie wants him to retaliate with what he deserves: cutting words. Wants Steve to throw out something cruel, then leave him be.

No. That’s not…

He wants… he wants…

“Don’t move,” Steve says. “I’ll be right back.”

Eddie laughs again—a little more genuine. “Can’t exactly go anywhere.”

He doesn’t know how long Steve takes. He loses track of time after the sound of the car reversing fades away; the darkness stretches out before him, and his fingers flex, tremulous, and he almost starts to believe that no-one’s found him after all, that he’s alone, that he’ll always be—

The soft crunch of tires rolling over gravel. The twin clunks of a car door being opened then closed, not too loudly, followed by even footsteps. Slow. Safe. And Eddie hears Steve singing, quiet enough that he can’t really decipher the lyrics.

He doesn’t know why he recognises it, why it’s so familiar. But he understands why Steve is doing it, the realisation burning in his throat: that Steve is signalling his approach, so Eddie knows it’s him.

“Hey,” Steve says, and there’s a gentle kind of thud—something being dropped by Eddie’s feet. Then the soft press of fabric behind him: a pillow.

Eddie manages to shift his feet a bit. More fabric. It’s a blanket.

“I just thought, like, two layers, y’know?” Steve is saying. “Not ideal with the tarp, but it should trap more heat compared to…” Eddie’s throat tightens even more. It’s so… so fucking kind.

“Thanks,” he manages.

“Hey,” Steve says again, softer—a hand lands on Eddie’s knee; his palm is warm. “You’re okay.”

Eddie realises belatedly that he’s crying again. For a little while, it just feels automatic, as if he’s detached from the tears; Steve gives him space, working around him.

And Steve’s not tucking him in really, just sort of shaking out the blanket, but he lets it fall with intention—smoothes out the creases when it gathers around Eddie’s knees.

Eddie doesn’t know what changes, just knows that he’s abruptly aware of the silent tears building into something more. There’s a false jagged sensation of something getting caught in his chest as he swallows, and he gasps, inhales sharply—once, twice; feels that panicked stutter to his breath, like when he was a kid failing at treading water.

Steve crouches by the side of the boat.

“You’re okay,” he repeats. He’s rubbing his throat ever so slightly while he says it—doesn’t seem aware that he’s doing it.

“I’m s—” Eddie chokes on the words again, a distressed hum cutting through instead. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Eddie, it’s—”

Eddie points to Steve’s throat. “C-could’ve—mm, mm. Could’ve been bad.”

He remembers the feeling of Steve’s skin against the shard of glass, remembers his stupid shaking hands—so close, too close to blood being spilled.

Just a hair’s breadth away from…

It could’ve happened so easily. Two deaths on his conscience.

“Eddie,” Steve says calmly. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t have let you.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a reassurance.

His hand falls away from his neck, as if making a point.

Eddie stares and stares—and it’s definitely too dark to tell if there’s a bead of blood on Steve’s skin, but his mind does the work for him.

Vivid, wet. It wouldn’t stop. Chrissy. Her eyes…

The ice freezes over completely, stops up his throat.

Eddie can’t breathe.

“Yeah, you can,” someone’s saying, “hey, it’s gonna pass, it’s gonna pass, okay? I’m just gonna…”

A snap.

Eddie flinches, cries out with a wordless noise of anguish.

Through the roaring in his ears, he hears, “Shit,” before a contrite whisper of, “Sorry, sorry.”

Steve. Steve’s here, guiding his hands until they’re cupped around something.

Something warm.

It starts the thaw, draws air back into Eddie’s lungs. His head clears a little. He knows where he is. Wishes he wasn’t…

He wants someone to tell him that Chrissy didn’t suffer, that she didn’t feel anything.

No.

He wants someone to wake him up, to tell him it was just a nightmare, that he can go home; he wants the universe to rearrange itself so that Chrissy never even met him—that the only trouble she ever has to deal with is which shoes to wear with her graduation robes.

“I want,” he gets out, “I want—”

“I know,” Steve says.

His hands are still wrapped around Eddie’s.

And Eddie senses the source of the heat now, a packet of some kind.

A hand-warmer.

He manages to take a proper breath, deep enough that he can smell the pillow Steve has given him; it doesn’t smell of the detergent Wayne uses, but it smells like a home at least. The dip in the middle makes him suspect that Steve’s brought the pillow from his own bed.

Eddie breathes in again. Out.

“There you go,” Steve murmurs.

Gradually the warmth against Eddie’s palms brings about a repeatedly suppressed, bone-deep tiredness. His eyes are stinging with it, and he feels like the boat’s been pushed out onto the lake; he sways forward without meaning to.

“Sorry,” he says, tongue thick.

He lifts his head to find Steve looking at him intently, brow furrowed.

“You should lie down,” Steve says quietly. “You look exhausted.”

Eddie does, turns onto his side so he can still just about see over the side of the boat. But…

“I won’t sleep,” he tells Steve through a sigh. He’s not arguing the point; it just seems inevitable.

Steve shrugs. “Just shutting your eyes is better than nothing,” he says casually enough, but it sounds too knowing, like he’s speaking from experience.

Eddie wonders what Steve sees when he falls asleep.

Steve stands up slowly. Hesitant.

“I’m—um. I’m sorry,” he says. “I’d stay, believe me, but I just—I don’t want the car here too long in case someone…”

“Go, Harrington,” Eddie says, hopes it comes out as gentle as he means it to be. “You’re the taxi service.”

Steve smiles. “We’ll be back,” he says. “Tomorrow, okay? I promise. We’ll bring food.”

“Tomorrow,” Eddie echoes. Tries and fails to push down a yawn. “Food.”

It’s not so bad, listening to Steve walking away. Eddie’s eyes close, burn with relief; in his head he follows along with the sound of Steve’s footsteps as they get more and more distant.

Car door opening. Closing. Seems farther away than before. His head is heavy.

He doesn’t expect to fall asleep. But he does his best to keep his thoughts on something light anyway. Maybe the continual warmth between his hands helps, ensures he doesn’t spiral back down to… to…

It comes to him fuzzily: why he recognised Steve singing in the first place.

Last summer, going to the mall to catch a movie, walking past an ice-cream parlor and hearing…

It was an unselfconscious kind of singing—no tension in the high notes. The sort usually done alone.

And do you feel scared? I do. But I won't stop and falter.

Eddie glanced over. Steve had been mopping, head down, but he looked up suddenly—for a moment, Eddie worried that he had been spotted. But then he watched the surreal sight of a group of children walking all over the wet floor, Steve beckoning them onward with fond exasperation.

He tapped at his wrist. “You’re cutting it fine tonight. Through the back, round the—”

“We know,” came an already distant chorus.

Steve rolled his eyes.

“And if anyone hears about this—”

“We’re dead!”

A door shut—alone again, Steve shook his head to himself. Smiled.

And if we threw it all away. Things can only get better.

Eddie remembers thinking that his voice wasn’t all that bad. It was nice.

It was…

Eddie wakes up warm.

The sight of the tarp disorients him for a few seconds—but he’s too sleepy to be panicked. The blanket against his jeans feels perfectly heavy. Keeps him still. Keeps him…

He thinks he must unintentionally drift off again; when he comes to, he feels that the hand-warmer he’s holding has gone cold. His feet knock against something, and he opens his eyes enough to see that Steve’s left more pouches. He takes one, hums when he cracks it so he doesn’t hear the…

It’s another day. He’s still here, damp wood against his back. A pillow beneath his head.

He knows the nightmare hasn’t stopped; Chrissy is still dead.

But there’s things he can touch, hold onto—evidence that he’s not been left alone, not really. He knows that Steve will come back. They all will.

His hands are warm.

And that’s something.

#this is my first ‘the boathouse’ fic! ❤️#pre steddie #steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steve and the party

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superblysubpar · 1 year

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masterlist | the music

Chapter Warnings: spoilers for the movie franchise Star Wars | mentions of the holiday Halloween being celebrated by others and reader enjoying it | Leigh is not my character creation, a shared character who @sweetsweetjellybean originally created & I put a little twist on for this story with her permission.

Sorry freaks, no smut this chapter - but the series is 18+ and so is my blog so skedaddle on out of here if you're not!

9.4k words | A/N: I can't begin to express my gratitude for those who've read this story & those that helped me get through writing it, especially my beta extraordinaire @sweetsweetjellybean and @loveshotzz for helping me break that pesky wall of self doubt and writer's block always. I have a big long A/N on the epilogue that's posting right after these two chapters with more sap. Thanks for being here, I love you immensely if you've made it this far from the beginning or you're just arriving 💛

In the movies, they like to make those big plot twists drag out for the protagonist to let it really sink in. Or maybe it's more for the viewers. Special effects, camera angles, flashbacks, and poignant music playing - all to make seconds feel much longer than they are.

In your experience, these plot twists are usually predictable. Of course that guy’s the villain, it was the best friend all along, he’s Luke’s father, et cetera, et cetera. You’re utterly baffled every time by a character’s lack of intuition to see it coming. You’ve booed at writing and acting and told yourself that in real life, it’s so different.

Sure, surprises happen. Reality does not care about predictability, the fragile state of the human heart, or what’s fair. You get that. People cheat, they make mistakes, they die, they lose - and there isn’t some fade-to-black-happy-ending guarantee when they do. There isn’t a countdown on the bottom of a screen letting you know there’s still time left to make it all back from whatever happened, no assurance that it’ll all work out.

To call something real - something happening directly to you - a plot twist, seems horribly wrong though. Is there another word for it? Those moments that manage to catch you off guard, that come without warning or a build up. Moments that hit you repeatedly like a knife to a chest in a slasher flick. Or feel like the instant demise of oxygen leaving your lungs as a door opens to space. That sucker-punch from a red glove to the jaw when you think you’ve just won the big fight.

What do you call that shit?

Robin’s voice is an echo, muffled and distorted as if you’re deep underwater. “Oh my god, hi! Wow, you are so much prettier than Steve mentioned.”

Who is with Steve?

Robin keeps going, putting her entire foot in her mouth, oblivious to the way Steve’s eyes haven’t left yours. You only stop staring yourself, after what feels like hours, to finally take in their intertwined hands as Robin babbles. “Wait, I mean…no, see…alright, he told us you were pretty is what I’m trying to say, but like you’re even prettier…”

Who the hell is with Steve?

Her laugh cuts through the fog and your eyes finally focus on the woman attached to the sound.

She’s pretty, just like Robin keeps saying over and over again.

Dark, shiny hair, piercing eyes that you can see - even from this distance - are a hazel to almost match his. A hypnotizing smile, curves and a confidence radiating off of her… everything you wish you were but aren’t.

She laughs again, assuring Robin she gets it (in an infuriatingly humble way), introducing herself as Leigh Kensington.

Nancy perks up at the name when Robin gasps and shouts, “Oh my god! Nance!” Robin looks back, waving her over, “Just like Legally Blonde!” Her voice attempts to lower as she sighs to Leigh, “She loves Reese Witherspoon. It is Vivian Kensington right?” The question louder and directed at Nancy again. Robin doesn’t even take a breath to let her answer though, “Which is hilarious because Steve’s mom’s name is Vivian and you’re dating Steve and you work in legal, right? And-“

Emerald glass shatters around your feet as the bottle of beer falls from your hand, the sharp shards scatter quickly, too broken to ever be put back together. Your legs turn to lead and muscles are no longer in communication with your brain as it finally makes the connection to what you’re seeing and hearing and what that means for you.

“Shit! Jesus, woman-“ Eddie jumps back from you as the glass skirts across the pavement further.

Robin finally turns in your direction at the commotion, her brows knit together in worry. Face progressively getting more concerned as it tightens. Her hand lets a bean bag fall to the board with an echoing thump. “Hey, you look-“

Not waiting to hear the end of her sentence, you will your legs to work and spin, taking off in search of literally any place that isn’t there. Your feet pound against the pavement, thuds that vibrate through the rubber of your soles all the way up to your eardrums.

It’s seconds, less than a minute, and it’s as if the entire stadium - hell, your entire world - has spun upside down. Roars to your left, the rumbling of fan’s excitement from the nosebleeds down to the field mingle and harmonize with the rapid beating in your chest. As you keep running with no real destination other than away, your shoulders bump stranger’s, meeting their frowns and scoffs with whispered and rushed apologies. The familiar sting behind your eyes forms, eyelashes growing damp as you suck in a sharp breath. No more running, you need somewhere to hide.

You’re not going to cry about this. You’re not. How could you be so stupid? How could you let this happen?

The familiar long line all women are accustomed to grabs your attention and you’re off again. Disgruntled and shouted annoyance from everyone in line echoes across the dull gray tile as you rush past them, yelling something about an emergency. You slam a turquoise door, sliding the silver latch with shaking fingers as your forehead rests on the cold material of the stall. You focus on breathing through your nose and out your mouth, this is fine. You’re fine.

A buzz in your pocket once, twice, and then a third time, and you don’t have to pull your phone out to know they’re texts from him. Despite your better judgment, you look:

It buzzes a fourth time and you lock the phone, debating just chucking it into the toilet.

The sleeve of your sweatshirt presses to your mouth as you clear your throat. No tears are falling for him, not today, not ever.

You hate Steve Harrington.

This was always the plan.

You hate Steve Harrington.

It’s not like you were in love with the guy.

Even as you think it, the panic turns to defense inside of yourself - scrounging around for rocks and bricks, reinforcing the wall around your heart you had started to let crumble for a boy you thought was worth it.

“Girl, what the hell?”

A familiar pair of red converse with writing and doodles covering any space they can, mirror your feet at the base of the stall. You step back, fingers hovering over the latch, ready to tell her it’s fine. Robin isn’t an idiot though, and you’re certain that despite your denial, she’ll take one look at you and make you spill your guts.

Her feet move closer, the familiar clink of rings meeting metal hits your ears, letting you know she’s pressing her palms to the door. Robin’s voice is softer and for one brief, horrible moment, you think she knows. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

The guilt that’s hovered over you for months like a storm cloud, releases, engulfing you completely, the promise of sunlight no longer on the horizon. Funny how just hours ago, you were thinking about Robin finally knowing, about how she couldn’t be mad, not when you were both so happy. Your gut twists. You’ve lied to your friend for so long, and for what?

“Just, um, cramps.” The lies keep on building, pushing at the dam you’ve created to keep it all from her. You’re just buying time now, the pressure is going to reach its breaking point soon and you’re worried your friendship with Robin will be washed away when it does.

At the mention of cramps, the disgruntled voices of those in line turn to understanding - muted solidarity in the form of tampon and painkiller offerings.

“Robin, why don’t you grab her some food or something? Maybe a ginger ale? I’ve got stuff in my bag and we’ll meet you all out there,” another familiar voice suggests.

“But I can-“

“That would be really great, Robs,” you interrupt her protest, pushing out the words to sound as eager as you can.

A pair of white tennis shoes sneak between Robin’s and the stall door - like Nancy is trying to put space between the two of you, shielding her girlfriend from any more of your lies.

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Robin starts hesitantly, “I saw this gourmet grilled cheese stand thing and-“

“No!” Fingers curling over your mouth at the severity of your interruption, you take a beat before quietly continuing, “Uh, um, actually, just some chips please?”

Your eyes close, willing the memory of your last grilled cheese away. Now is not the time to remember the man you shared it with.

How he looked at you.

How he asked you to open up, how it made you feel when he said he knew you.

How he kissed you.

You hate Steve Harrington.

The initial shock has stopped sizzling and is now a full burn, anger releasing over your frazzled nerves. What else has Steve claimed, what other things could be ruined when all you can do is relate them to him? But as quickly as the anger for him forms, you have to glance down and realize there are three fingers pointing back at yourself.

Why did you give him the opening?

“Roger that, kitten!”

You’re sure she gives a salute to your closed stall door, the red sneakers turning on their heels, her footsteps fading away. The pristine white of Nancy’s twist slightly towards the door. Her voice is quiet as she asks, “Can I come in there?”

Clearing your throat once more, you try to brush her off, “Nancy, really, I’m fi-“

“Bullshit.”

Maybe it’s the way she says the word - that a girl you don’t know all that well can see through your lies, be so sure you’re not fine. Maybe it’s because you desperately wish that you could have opened the door for Robin, to leave the football game and go drown in margaritas and dissect every little thing that led to this moment and let her tell you it was all going to be okay and boys are stupid. Or maybe, it’s the fact that you’ll never get to do that, never allowed to tell Robin, that makes you slide the latch unlocked for Nancy Wheeler.

She slips in quickly, her brown curls that are clipped in a half up-do bounce as she tilts her head quizzically at you. Her arms cross over the embroidered team logo on her sweatshirt, her blue eyes peer directly into your soul. She’s got this way about looking at you that, without saying anything, makes you want to tell her everything. An energy radiates off of Nancy, a quiet curiosity bubbling under the surface - or perhaps it’s frustration. You’re being studied, a puzzle she can’t crack.

Her lips twist as she clearly debates her words before she finally settles on a simple, “You didn’t know?”

Nancy’s question makes your stomach drop, solidifying that she not only knows about you and Steve, but that Leigh is not a new or unknown development. Your mind swirls to their argument on the beach, Nancy finding you in the bathroom - how long has Steve been seeing Leigh?

“No,” your response comes out in a half laugh, trying to cover up any feelings that attempt to sneak out and reveal too much. The toe of your sneaker scuffs at a knick in the tile as you avoid her eyes.

She tucks a curl behind her ear and sighs. Her face pinches into that quizzical look again, huffing, “He’s an idiot.”

Rolling your eyes, you shake your head. You don’t want to dwell on how she connected the dots about you and Steve or how you’ve all been lying to Robin, and you especially don’t want her pity. “Nancy, I really don’t need you to comfort me. I’m fine. Can we just go?”

At the clamp of Nancy’s mouth shutting and the purse of her lips, you regret the icy tone almost immediately. Squeezing your eyes closed, you try again. “I’m sorry, I’m just…” trailing off because where do you even start? You’re mad, hurt, confused, blind-sided, the list could go on and on and you don’t care to reach the end at this moment. You force a smile, changing the subject all together, “Don’t you want to get out there and hear how incredibly little Robin truly knows about sports?”

Nancy’s lips twitch and her arms drop to her sides with a sigh. “Right, well, if you change your mind, I like to think I’m a pretty good listener if you ever want to talk about anything.”

Sometimes, people say things to say things - like they feel as if they’re supposed to say a certain thing when a certain situation calls for it. One look at the kindness in Nancy’s eyes, the small smile on her lips, and you know that is not the case right now. She genuinely, truly means she’s there to listen if you need it. Despite lying to all of them, despite barely knowing her, and the realization has tears forming behind your eyes for an entirely different reason than earlier.

“Thanks,” the word leaves you quietly. It feels small and inconsequential in return for a gesture you’re not even sure Nancy realizes the weight of.

That is, until she turns from the door, her hand hovering over the latch as she faces you again. “I should mention though, that one of you is going to have to tell Robin. Sooner rather than later. And I make no promises it won’t be me, but she should hear it from one of you.” Her tone is adamant with absolutely no room for arguing.

Your guilt tugs you down harder now, only able to nod in response.

Nancy’s head bobs once in return, silently agreeing to drop the subject unless you bring it up again, and she leads the way out of the bathroom.

You hear Robin before you see them. She’s passionately arguing her case about a new musical group that Eddie is scoffing at. Leigh holds her hand up at Eddie’s argument and begins agreeing with Robin, who beams before sticking her tongue out at him.

“Hey.”

The word freezes you and Nancy clears her throat as she makes her way towards the others. Steve pushes off from the brick wall as you turn to face him.

You’ve seen many looks in his eyes before now. When they glint with mischief and charm as he flirts, how they soften as you tell a story. When they’ve turned darker as clothes are shed and they get to roam freely over your body, taking you in like an artwork. How they seem to melt like honey all over you when you’ve found them staring and they don’t care to appear ashamed he’s been caught.

Now, they’re looking at you with far too much pain behind them that doesn’t seem fair. He shouldn’t get to look at you like that, he shouldn’t get to look sad.

Steve extends his hand, a green can with beads of condensation running down the sides of it in his palm. You ignore how your fingers touch and they way his try to linger as you take the soda from him.

When you don’t say anything, he pulls the sleeves of his maroon sweater over his fingers, the toe of his boot scuffing the pavement as his brows meet in the middle. Several pieces of hair fall over his forehead that’s wrinkled with concern, letting you know he’s run his hands through it too many times to have already broken whatever products he’s put in it.

“Can we go somewhere and talk for a sec?”

A sec.

A quick conversation, one he just wants to get over with. To tell you what? Things you’ve already concluded from his surprise today? That he’s with someone. He wants to stay friends. He never felt the way you were starting to feel for him. This was always the plan.

You’re not interested in anything Steve has to say any more.

“Game’s about to start, Harrington, maybe later.” Your tone is clipped and short, smile forced.

His brows pinch closer together as he tilts his head, the harsh line of his jaw flexing. “Really? Cause the way you ran off and that tone could have fooled me.”

“I’m fine, I don’t know exactly what you’re hearing, but if you have something you’d like to say, by all means Steve, let’s hear it.”

Steve closes his eyes and a long breath leaves his nose, “Please-“ his plea is cut off by her.

“Hi, I’m Leigh. It’s so nice to meet you, Steven’s told me so much about you! I hope everything is okay? Everyone was so worried…”

She reaches forward, arms wrapping around you and your stiffening body.

She’s fucking hugging you.

“Uh, yeah, you…too. And yes, thanks, I’m fine. This will help.” Untangling yourself from her, you hold up the can and force another smile. “Thanks Steven.”

Leigh beams at him, grabbing his hand and you just can’t help yourself, turning to him again. “Actually, Steven was just letting me know he had something to tell me, what was so important, buddy?”

Eddie coughs as Steve narrows his eyes. Nancy claps her hands, interrupting the tension filled moment, “Alright, ready guys?”

Robin points towards the bleachers. “I’m ready for tip off! To our seats!”

Nancy gives you a look, some sort of attempt at bringing light to the moment in front of her, before she wraps her hand around Robin’s arm and starts to walk away. “It’s kick off, hun.”

Leigh laughs as Robin lets out a long ‘Oh’, Steve and her following. When Steve glances back over his shoulder at you, the full can of soda meets the trash as you turn towards Eddie. Stealing the fresh beer from his hands, the plastic cup tips to your lips, foam slowing you down as you chug.

“Woah, woah, woah! Easy killer.” Eddie tugs on the cup, pulling it from your mouth. “From my understanding, football games are long and we need to pace ourselves. Stevie is not worth a two in the afternoon black out.”

Your mouth opens to protest and he waves his hand in front of your face, “Ah, ah, ah, you can squeeze my fingers or something whenever you feel like punching him instead.”

“Ed-“ you begin, adamant you need another drink (or twenty) to deal with the day you’re about to have.

He begins to walk away, waving his hand dismissively, “No really, I’m a secret masochist, I’ll love it.”

Your eyes narrow, hating the way your lips fight a smile that wants to meet his mood. Despite everything, you’re grateful for him and Nancy. Unsure of how to even attempt to show them how much you appreciate them. Especially after Nancy’s reminder that someone was going to have to tell Robin eventually, and these two had been lying for the both of you, keeping your secret when they didn’t need to.

Up ahead, you hear Leigh laugh, catching her head thrown back and his smile, the squeeze of her fingers on his bicep and you gulp. Your feet plant to the ground harder and you tug on Eddie’s wrist. As the group rounds the corner, heading to their seats, he turns to look at you with his eyebrows raised.

Eddie must see something in your expression because he mumbles, “Such a fucking idiot,” before he turns to the nearest vendor. “Yeah, hi, I need four very large beers. And I’m talking take your idea of large and triple it.”

This time the smile wins just a little. It’s quick to fall though, when Eddie taps his cup to one he hands you and proclaims, “If you can’t date ‘em, drink about ‘em. To the losers who break our hearts.”

“I-“ ready to tell him that’s not it at all, but his look makes your mouth close.

You don’t say it out loud, you don’t dare to speak it into existence - Eddie is wrong. You’re not broken hearted, you’re just mad Steve didn’t tell you. You’re mad that clearly they all knew, so why not you? That’s all.

Your cup taps Eddie’s again and you let the beer wash away the bitter taste in your mouth.

Screw Steve Harrington.

As the third cup of cheap beer hits your lips, you risk a glance down the line of your row again. Immediately regretting it like you have every other time. Leigh pushes the loose strand of hair on his forehead back and your eyes return to the field quickly. You’re sure your skin is turning just as green as the artificial turf, the beer making it a little easier to admit to yourself that you are jealous of the intimate moment. Your gut twinges slightly at the remembrance of only a few short weeks ago when you purposely tried to make him feel what you are now. You have no right to be mad at him.

The players blur as they move in an intricate dance only they know before anyone else. You’ve always liked sports, but today has been a good reminder as to why. Players and teams practice and memorize skills and plays that work - but there’s no guarantees. They need intuition to know when to use certain moves, to have a good defense and follow their gut and deviate from the plan when they think the other team is pulling a new play.

It’s all predictable, but not at the same time. Risks and playing with the odds, yet revolving around something incredibly low stakes like a ball in a net or getting past a painted line on fake grass. It’s also realistic. Sure, there are once in a lifetime passes like the Minnesota Miracle or a ball sinking into the net from a distance unfathomable as the final buzzer sounds - but most of the time, it’s just about who’s the best that day. Who ran faster, who slipped through someone else’s mistake. You like that the players can pour themselves into it and it’s still not going to be a win every time, because it’s just not sometimes, and that’s okay. They lose and they get up and they do it all over again. They also know that if they win, it doesn’t mean they’ll keep doing so without hard work and dedication.

Poetic to your circumstances, really. Steve was just better at the game, and you knew the eventual outcome of your deal with each other. So really, is there anyone to be mad at here other than yourself?

Steve’s laugh echoes down the line and your jaw clenches, because maybe Steve was better at the game, but he certainly wasn’t playing fair.

Yeah, you can still be mad at him.

Your eye twitches as Robin and Leigh gush over horror movies they both love, a breath you didn’t know you were holding leaving you when they head off together for a bathroom break.

His eyes actually burn your cheek from the way they stare down the row in your direction now that he doesn’t have her to focus on. Clear to you now that all you are - all you ever were - is an afterthought, something to pass the time.

Refusing to look his way, you try not to feel bad about the sigh you hear all the way from five seats away.

Oh, I’m sorry Steve, are you mildly upset that I don’t want to talk to you after you got me to open up just to blindside me?

You’re not surprised when a dark denim leg presses against your shoulder, his large brown boots landing on the open seat next to you as he climbs over. As he sits, you stand, quickly making your way down the row, occupying Robin’s empty seat on the other side of Nancy.

Steve stands, hands on his hips as he frowns. “Are you being fucking serious right now?”

Turning your attention back to the field, your knees bounce with restless energy, anticipating his next move. An intricate dance just like the players below you.

Steve climbs back over, and you can’t help but relish a little in his groan and mumbled comment about being twelve under his breath as you shimmy between Eddie and Nancy, shoving Eddie into your old seat, ignoring his grunted protests. Unable to help yourself, you smirk into your beer, watching out of the corner of your eye as Steve’s jaw clenches. Making him irritated seems only fair under the circumstances.

You’re ready for his next attempt, sure he’s going to make Nancy swap with him or come up behind you. So when he puts his foot on the chair, you move to the edge of your seat. Steve pounces, tumbling over the back of the row in front of you instead. He’s breathless, cheeks flushed pink as his hands land on the armrests of your spot. His arms cage you in as he leans over the back of the blue metal chairs, ignoring the grumbled complaints of those he bumped out of the way in his pursuit.

His face fills your vision, freckles that dot the sharp slope of his nose, the light scruff he’s let grow more highlight’s the angle of his jaw and the curve of his cupid’s bow. For a second you forget you’re supposed to be mad when you finally meet his eyes. They steal all of your attention and you hate that you can’t look away.

You hate him.

“We’re gonna talk,” he huffs, catching his breath.

“You should hit the gym.” A sad attempt to change the subject, to hurt him a little. Your eyes flit down to his lips in a mistake. You can’t look at his eyes again so you settle on his cheek, trying your best to ignore the endearing pair of freckles.

“I know you’re mad, and if you just let me explain, I-“

“You’ve had plenty of chances to explain before today Steve!”

The hush of the people around you makes your eyes close, taking a moment for a calming breath. Eddie coughs into his fist on your left and squints at the field, Nancy scratches the denim on her thigh and clears her throat on your right.

Steve’s eyes narrow, his top lip pulls in, tongue licking over it before he lets out a cold laugh, “Jesus Christ, what was I supposed to do, tell you while we’re fucking? Or how about after you told me about your parents? I-“

The beer in your hand splashes across his face as he coughs and sputters. His fingers wipe over his eyes and you stand, pushing past the gawking crowd and down the stairs.

Nancy and Eddie were right.

Steve Harrington is a fucking idiot.

You’d rode the train past your stop twice, both your airpods in and a look about you that dared anyone to even glance at you the wrong way. At the sight of the sun sinking past the horizon, you bite down on your cheek, willing your gut to stop twisting as it attaches a thing you love to him. Steve Harrington was not going to ruin sunsets for you, you draw the line at fucking grilled cheese and football.

The flick of your entryway lamp illuminates your place, the lyrics “You call me strawberry wine…” drift out of your airpod as you remove it from your ear. You’ve had enough of the universe’s poetic irony today. Tossing the case and your keys into their dish as you turn the lock on your door.

The sunset is the least of your worries, what didn’t he touch here? Your door, the coffee mugs he proclaimed as his favorites, the counter, the fire escape. You reach for the bottle of wine on top of your fridge as you click on the Instagram notification.

A caption reading ‘We just hope both teams had fun🏈 ’ below her photos. A selfie first, Robin’s bashful face filling the screen, getting her cheek kissed by Nancy. Another, this one with you - she must have caught it during bags - a shot of Eddie and you mid-laugh. The last one clearly taken after you left, the group in the stands, Steve’s sweater gone, replaced by a dry light blue t-shirt. You click your phone locked again and drink straight out of the bottle as you walk down the dark hallway. Old wood floors creak underneath your feet as you make your way to your room.

Fuck, your room.

It’s a moment that perhaps you should be crying during, do normal people cry when boys like Steve Harrington blindside them? When a man you start to break down for was spooning you fully clothed at the start of the day and getting a beer tossed in his face by the end, shouldn’t some sort of despair come out in the form of dramatic tears? Nothing leaves your eyes though as you strip the sheets off of your bed. Steve’s not worth any. No guy is.

Tugging harshly at the last corner of the fitted sheet with a frustrated grunt, you throw all of your bedding out into the hallway and slam the door. The flutter of paper on your desk as the door swings closed catches your eye, your chest tightens at the realization of what you left there.

The glow from the setting sun outside washes over the photobooth strip as you walk towards it, lit up in a perfect square of tangerine. Your thumb brushes the last photo as you pick it up, wondering how it all went so wrong, so fast.

It rips easier than maybe it should have, diminished to something small and as broken as you can make it before you toss it in the trash in your bathroom. Your eyes linger on the shower curtain and then your shampoo. The wine bottle presses to your lips again as you make a mental note, adding those to your list of things to replace tomorrow as well.

Your phone pings again, the group chat you’ve just been recently added to:

Your thumb presses the lock after turning it to silent, the dots from Robin appearing letting you know you don’t want to keep reading all of them talk. Your bare mattress stares at you as you drink more wine. They’re home. Together? In his apartment? In his bed?

It doesn’t matter, good for Steve, hope he’s happy. Good fucking riddance, right?

Opening your bedroom door, you sigh at the pile of bedding, stepping over it and making your way to your couch. Your protective wall is still standing, your armor dusted off and polished once more. It’s time to pick up the pieces, replace what’s broken, and move on from what others like Eddie may want to tell you is heartbreak, but you would argue is just called life.

And life is pain, and anyone who tells you differently is selling something, right?

Halloween season used to be one of your favorite times of the year. Parties and opportunities to dress up like someone you’re not. Evenings to be a character in a story far different than the one you were living, with lines already planned for you to say, an ending meticulously thought out. Now, however, the red fabric that clings to your body serves only as a reminder of how your life is the furthest thing from picture perfect.

Originally, when you found the dress thrifting with Robin, it had felt a little like fate. A tiny and gentle nudge from the universe in the right direction - a sign. Now, you’re sure it was actually some twisted joke. Someone, somewhere out there, is laughing it up as they play with you like a plastic doll. Because even meeting Robin, a thing you were positive was divine intervention, is now wrapped around him. Some evil force at work as they had you meet her, then him, while they cackled and said ‘Ha! Watch this! This one’ll be good.’

Your costume now a cruel oxymoron - a girl who resents love dressed as someone who cherishes it. Pretending to be a girl who loved a boy endlessly, so devoted, she claimed to die the day he supposedly did. A girl who-

“You know,” a finger pokes your cheek, “For a princess, your sour look is not very princessey.”

Robin raises her eyebrows at you, hands on her hips, orange fabric of her skirt swishing around her thighs as she turns. Her sparkly red turtleneck and shine of her black mary jane’s glint in the strobe lights that are making sweeps over the room.

You try to smile, if only for the fact that Nancy actually got her to wear the costume. Crossing your arms, your eyebrows raise as you respond, “Well, you must be a detective or something, Miss Dinkley.”

Robin rolls her eyes, but fights a smile, fiddling with the magnifying glass in her hands. When you don’t say anything more though, her big blue eyes soften as they glance up at you through fake glasses, and she reaches out and squeezes your shoulder. “Seriously, is everything okay? I feel like…” she trails off, shaking her head, at a loss for words it seems - an unusual thing for her.

The line for the bar shifts forward and you nod, that terrible feeling still sits heavy in your stomach like a bag of rocks - you’re weighed down, to be left at the bottom of your guilt to drown. “I’m fine, Robin,” it slips out when you repeat the words quieter, because maybe if you say it enough times it’ll come true, “I’ll be fine.”

“Aha!” She points a finger in your face, “You just said be fine, implying something is in fact not fine currently and-“

“Robin,” your laugh is unconvincing even to yourself. You rub your temples as you face the bar. “Quit being a meddling kid.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but it comes out with a little more bite than you intend and her mouth shuts quickly. It’s silent for only a few seconds though, before her shoulder bumps yours. Her question quiet, “How long were you waiting to use that one?”

Your head rests against her shoulder in a silent ‘I’m sorry’, hers against yours in an equally unspoken ‘You’re forgiven’ as you sigh. “Oh, just since you put on the costume.”

She hums and then lifts her head and faces you. “Last thing, and then I’ll drop it, I swear.”

Facing her, you swallow harshly as she stares at you with eyes that feel like they can see everything. Even more so when she says, “I know we haven’t known each other that long, but you’re important to me. And if there’s something going on…” she trails off before smiling sadly and continuing, “You can tell me, okay? You can open up and I’ll probably talk too much and offer too much advice, but comes from a place of love and-“

You hug her tightly, Robin wraps her arms around you just as fiercely as her sentence breaks off. Your response sticks in your throat, an alarming hope of ‘what if I told her?’ rising in you that you need to squash down quickly. She can’t know, despite Nancy’s warning that she should. If she did find out, you’re not certain she’d be on your side anyways. It was all your idea to lie to her, it’s selfish of you to ask her to comfort you in this situation.

Especially after you made her practically drag you to the party tonight. Eventually giving into her puppy dog pout (for a girl who easily falls for it, she has a pretty convincing one herself), your guilt all but consuming you at this point. You could put on a smile, a brave face - you could pretend to be someone you’re not, just tonight, and just for her.

You haven’t seen Steve since the football game, ignoring any sort of notification related to him in your phone. But in the process of trying to remove anything Steve from your life, you’ve removed Robin from it as well - a packaged deal. Each ignored message, each call you watched ring and left unanswered, every dodged lunch, were just more punches to your gut, pieces of your heart ripped off and stepped on. You missed Robin so much, one night out, forced to make small talk with him, was a fair price to pay for the deceit and lies - if it meant you got to see her again.

When you break away from the hug, it’s your turn for the bar finally. Both of your eyes widen at the sight of the specialty drink menu. ‘Bootini’s’ and things like a cocktail called ‘Vampire Kiss’ making both of you frown at the dollar signs next to each. You’re suddenly grateful for the tequila that’s still filling your stomach with warmth and Eddie’s insistence on taking the shots before leaving Nancy’s.

“They do have like, a regular bar, right? Cause your girl is on a budget and…” your sentence trails off as Robin smiles at something, someone, over your shoulder.

“Well, there isn’t much money in revenge.”

His voice alone is enough to make your shoulders go up, to cause your stomach to twist, but when you spin to see him, you know it’s not the tequila making the room feel fuzzy and your stomach heave.

He can’t be serious.

He is not wearing that. He’s not.

“Come up with that all by yourself, did ya?” Robin pats Steve’s shoulder and before he can reply she’s holding up a hand in front of his face, letting out a low whistle. “Hoolly cooww.” She motions for Leigh to spin who blushes and laughs, but obliges as Robin keeps going, “Miss Morticia Addams, if you wanna ditch Dingus here…”

Steve puts his hands on his hips, an edge to his tone you may have found amusing if it wasn’t because of his best friend hitting on his girlfriend. “Seriously, Robin? Are you being serious right now? Where’s Nancy?”

Robin rolls her eyes at him and Leigh laughs more, squeezing his shoulder. “I should be the one saying holy cow! Look at you two! Y/N, where did you find that dress?”

God, you hate that she’s nice.

Her dress is phenomenal. The low cut, black fabric that hugs her curves and drapes over her flattering in a way it simply wouldn’t be on you. She’s got the perfect gauzy sleeves, the rings and red lips and nails, she’s even got a rose and scissors in her hand.

You hate that you want to like this girl.

Your smile is tense, “I, uh-“

The bartender clears her throat and you point, saved by the bell, turning your back on the group. A name of one of the drinks leaves your lips and you’re vaguely aware of Robin saying something about finding the others and to not order her something with whiskey in it because he remembers what happened last time.

The deep breathing through your nose is a sad attempt for composure when you get a longer chance to take Steve in. Even with the dim bar lighting, the mirror behind the shelf of various liquors gives you a perfect view. You’re not sure whether you want to kiss him or punch him.

Steve’s dressed in all black, head to toe, the v-cut of the flowy top revealing quite a bit of his dark chest hair and you swallow, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter. You always hated how Buttercup couldn’t tell it was Westley, in fact, you hate it in any movie when a character has a mask over their eyes and suddenly everyone is unable to tell who they’re dancing with, hell who’s kissing them. If anything, the black band of fabric across his face only makes the lips below and the eyes underneath it stand out more - the curve of his top lip you can still feel under your tongue. The colors of his iris’ so distinctly Steve that you’d recognize anywhere - instead of a sea after a storm, a forest. He really went all out, even his scruff shaved to have a thin mustache, he’s wearing the black cap pushing down his normally styled and perfectly messy hair, and when you glance down, you’re not surprised to find matching pirate boots standing next to you.

His hand reaches across your chest with a matte black card - that kind that isn’t glossy like a normal one and you quickly hand the bartender crumpled bills instead, earning a sigh from Steve.

“You’re not seriously wearing that.” Weeks of no contact, and you hate that your voice doesn’t come out strong and confident when that’s all you can think to say.

Risking a glance his way, you find his eyes are already on you, his jaw clenching before he asks, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Your inhale is sharp - how can he be this cruel? How can he act like that costume means nothing, or like the last few weeks weren’t awful? Weren’t they awful for him? To go from talking almost every day to nothing?

“Are you fucking kidding me Steve? After everything, after what you said at the game, you’re really gonna stick to not admitting what this is?” Gesturing up and down his body as you ask. He truly can’t be this much of an asshole, he can’t-

Steve shrugs. “I’m just a pirate. I don’t know what your problem is.”

Turns out, he can be.

Before you can even start to formulate something nasty to respond with, a person walking by shouts out, “Oh nice! As you wish, dudes!” Clapping Steve’s shoulder as they waltz past like it’s the 90’s and people still say ‘dudes’ to strangers.

Dude did just make your point for you at least, though.

You hold your hands out to the retreating body in a show of ‘see?’ and then childishly flip Steve off. “The case rests, your honor.”

“It was last minute and I didn’t-”

His weak and pathetic attempts at excuses fall on deaf ears as you push your way through the crowd towards the beacon of red neon announcing an exit for this god forsaken bar.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, but you don’t think it is - screw Steve Harrington for ruining a fucking bar, for ruining the word dude, for ruining The Princess Bride, for ruining everything.

Screw everything.

The sting of rejection and the quiet anger that’s been sitting at a simmer since the game rests over an open flame now. Your insides quickly grow to a rapid boil. Apathy and anger rage for the top spot as everything you’ve tried to keep under a lid steams, ready to overflow and burn.

Ignoring the calls of your name, something still makes it past your seeing red rampage of an exit, connecting the voices, aware of Steve saying something to someone, but you can’t really find it in yourself to care who or what. The cool air hits your body as you push outside, stinging against the damp skin under your eyes.

A hand on your shoulder makes you jump, his voice quiet, “Y/N-“

“Don’t touch me, Steve,” you warn, taking a step backwards after yanking your shoulder from under his fingers. Your hands balled into fists as you spin to look at him.

He runs a hand through his now uncovered hair, face fully revealed without a mask too. He watches you closely, his voice gentle, as he raises his hands up, “Look, I just want to make sure you’re okay. You can-“

“You don’t get to check on me anymore, or worry about if I’m okay, you’re not my boyfriend,” your tone scathing.

Steve’s gaze bounces over your face, his jaw hardens as the vein in his forehead dances. Somehow his voice is soft despite the bite to it, “Yeah, I know. You’ve made that perfectly clear. But I am your friend, and I -“

Your laugh causes him to break off. You gesture inside and then to his outfit. “Friends don’t treat each other this way, Steve.”

He drags his palms down his face, his own disbelieving laugh echoes against the brick of the bar. “Are you kidding me? I have been nothing but your friend! I am sorry about what I said at the game, but really, when was I supposed to tell you? And this costume…I…” He shakes his head, licking his lips as he takes a step closer to you. “Look. I should have told you about Leigh sooner, but if you would have given me five minutes to-“

“Five minutes. A sec.” Your hands move in quotation marks as you recall the conversation he wanted to have at the game too. Your face pinches into an irritated scowl as your hands drop in front of you, palms open. Exasperation laced around your words, “What the fuck is there to explain anymore, Harrington? You’re dating her and you didn’t tell me - the story is over.”

Steve stands just in front of you now, that gravitational pull at silent work again, even weeks apart unable to switch it off. Your bodies move with each other, your voices rise in sync, your chests fall with shared breaths. A different sidewalk, that same feeling of flight or fight, but you know that it’s too late this time. Even turning the heat off isn’t going to fix the damage that’s been done.

Another laugh huffs out of him, “You’d like that, right? That’s it, case closed. Y/N calls the shots and decides everything.” He shakes his head and points to his chest, towering over you, “This is all such total bullshit. You’re mad at me for something that was your idea, because you didn’t get to decide when it was over.” He shrugs, waves of nonchalance carrying his words through the air to hit you hard like a slap across the face. “You’re a spoiled brat who’s mad because you’ve lost a toy.”

Any maturity you attempted to have towards the situation has evaporated.

“Me? The spoiled brat? Excuse me, Mr. 50th floor and Daddy’s Credit Card. Take a look in the fucking mirror, Steve!”

Your chests almost touch with each ragged breath as his hands run through his hair and he pulls. A frustrated groan at your words, while the volume at which his come out becomes louder, “I’ve got plenty of fucking mirrors, why don’t you take your own advice! You’re a hypocrite. You can’t even admit it to yourself, can you? Tell me I’m wrong! Tell me you didn’t ask me for this arrangement. Tell me that the words ‘no feelings’ and ‘just sex’ didn’t leave your mouth. Tell me what you have to be upset with me for then!”

Your chin quivers at his words, the truth of them daring the tears behind your eyes to fall.

Steve gulps, his fingers dance on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His eyes shine with his own held back tears, like he regrets how he said it but not that he did. His voice quiets as he pleads, “Tell me.”

He doesn’t get to look at you like that. He doesn’t get to say those things to you and then look at you like that.

What happened last time Steve Harrington asked you to open up and tell him something?

Tequila lingers on your tongue, aiding in the formation of words that are meant to sting - you want to hurt him like he’s hurting you. You bite down on your jaw, the anger and pain ready to fall down your cheeks as you remove yourself from him.

Your hands press against his chest, “You’re bullshit. This is bullshit.” A small shove as you practically growl the next words, “I’m a hypocrite? How about the fucking bathroom at that party where you told me I couldn’t have it both ways, but then you’re dating someone while getting all jealous?” Another shove, this time his fingers brush your wrists, a halfhearted attempt to get you to stop. “Begging me to open up to you? For fucking what, Steve? This costume? You…” you close your eyes and let your hands drop, letting the words do all the work now, “You’re a liar. You’re an asshole.”

Steve’s head ducks down, his fingers brushing his nose before he rolls his shoulders back. When his mouth opens, you step backwards, shaking your head.

“Lose my number, Steve.”

His eyes roam over your face, waiting, searching. He only nods once and takes his own step back.

“As you wish.”

Your breath sucks in sharply, a sob you’ve been holding in since the moment he said the words ‘Sorry we’re late’ threatens to finally crack out of your chest. You wish you had another beer to toss in his face for using those words at this moment.

It’s not said with the kind of reverence of the movie. There isn’t a narrator to let you know what he actually means by the phrase. But you know. It’s not an ‘I love you’, not like this. No, it’s merely a promise to do as you asked.

All you can do is turn away from him, hold your chin up and roll your shoulders back as you walk down the sidewalk.

There is no hopeful glance back over your shoulder, no loud smacks against the pavement made by his feet chasing after you like in the movies.

Like you said, your story is over.

'One New Voicemail':

“Hey, just thought I’d try ya, I know you’ve been busy. Um, well, Steve and I are heading to the Rocky Horror show tonight and I know he’d love someone to aid in his teasing of how totally into it I get. Right Steve?”

[muffled sounds of movement and whispers]

“Hm…yeah, I uh-”

[a clear smack to his shoulder]

“It feels like forever since I’ve seen you or we’ve done something just the three of us! Anyways, call me back, text me…beep me if you wanna reach me…ugh, sorry that was so lame, okay bye. Love you!”

If you were surviving before them, you could survive without them. It seemed simple enough.

You’ve never stayed in one place for long, friendships like Robin, Eddie, and Nancy had been left before. Friendships that were never given a chance to really even start before you were gone. The promise of any relationships packed into boxes and off to the next city. Addresses and phone numbers and notes of ‘Keep in touch’ left to collect dust until forgotten about completely.

So, it should have been easy to continue to ignore their messages. To ignore the holes in your chest, to ignore the want to call or text one of them when something happened as mundane as a stranger calling another stranger ‘toots’ in your mailroom. If Steve touched things in your life and now caused them to wilt in your memories and sights, the other three made things bloom. They breathed life into you again.

You weren’t going to let Steve Harrington take something like that away from you.

Which is why you found yourself curled into your father’s sweater for courage, walking down the sidewalk towards the cemetery with a promise to meet them there.

Orange and brown leaves crinkle underfoot before they blow across the pavement. The moon is full, the sky that deep indigo it seems to only get this time of year. Both a perfect backdrop for the bare trees that dance in the wind and the blocks lined with homes with glowing porch lights. Orange buckets overflowing with candy rush past in a blur, laughter and squeals of children echoing down the street past you.

As you make it to the black iron fence, your eyes roam the blankets and patrons occupying them in the park next to the cemetery. Apple and brown sugar meet your nose and you take special note of the mini donut booth attached to the scent. Which is where you see Eddie, shoving two in his mouth and rolling his eyes at Nancy. He spots you and grins around the sugary dough, nudging the shoulder to his right and nodding in your direction.

Robin spins and you see her shoulders visibly fall and a grin spread across her face. She says something to the other two who head in the direction of the blankets and she races through the crowd. Muffled oofs and sorry’s meet your ears as she dodges and spins around people balancing concessions.

You reach the front of the line, a sandwich board proudly displaying the original ‘The Evil Dead’ poster sits next to an older woman on a stool at the gate. She smiles at you, holding a flashlight towards the ground. “Ticket, dear?”

“Rose! Rose, she's my girl!” Robin shouts, breathless as she makes it to the gate.

“Oh!” The elderly woman smiles wider, ushering you through, “Have fun ladies! Tell Edward I’m still waiting for my hot chocolate.”

“Yes ma’am.” Robin salutes with two fingers and then grabs you in a hug. “Jesus Christ I missed you!” Her voice is loud and she shrinks in your arms as the lights of the booths go out and the crowd surrounding you turns and shushes. Her voice shifts to a whisper, “Whoops. Come on, we’re towards the back and we still have all the commercials to chat without too many nasty looks.”

Robin holds your arm in a death grip, a silent promise to not let you out of her sights and clutches so long as she can help it again it seems. When you reach the blanket, Nancy and Eddie’s conversation stops abruptly and their smiles seem painted on as they look up at you.

It’s one of those moments, those silences that are too stilted and too abrupt, letting you know exactly what was being discussed just seconds before. You wave a little, ears burning since you have no doubt about who the subject of their interrupted conversation was.

“Eddie,” Robin begins, huffing as she falls to their cushy spot with extra blankets, trays of drinks, and several bags of sweets littered around them, “Rose is fiending.”

“Oh shit!” Ducking and wincing when someone turns around and glares at him. He grabs one of the cups with a big R on top and squeezes your shoulder as he stands, “Be right back! Glad you came!”

Sitting as Robin pats his now empty spot next to her. “Can I get you anything? We have cocoa and cider, donuts, popcorn, candy corn, caramel corn, basically any kind of corn and-“

“Robin,” Nancy hums, almost singing, as she sips from a cup. She squeezes her fingers. “You have to actually take a breath to let her respond.”

“I’ll never say no to a cider or donut,” you point to the items with a laugh.

Robin grabs them and hands it to you. She whacks pillows and squishes around, rolling and frowning and readjusting.

Eventually, she sighs, content, and grabs Nancy’s hand and then a donut from your bag and knocks it against one in your fingers before taking a bite.

“Happy?” Nancy asks as Robin hums around the sugar she licks off of her lips.

“You know it. Only thing that would make tonight better is…” she trails off with a grin.

You take her words as a warning to look around, wondering where he is and mentally preparing yourself.

Nothing could have prepared you though.

It happens quickly and yet not at the same time.

Your head turns to see them walking hand in hand. A swing of fingers as they walk past twinkling lights, the breeze blowing her hair perfectly.

Nancy says “Shit,” under her breath as she sits up. When you turn to look at her with a frown, she opens her mouth but no words come out.

The movie starts.

Eddie slows down as he makes his way back towards the blanket, looking at Nancy then over his shoulder then back at you.

Robin waves her arm too much and you turn to look again, trying to figure out what you’re not getting.

Steve’s eyes meet yours and he stops, tripping over his own shoe.

Leigh waves and something sparkles on her hand in the moonlight.

Robin beams and squeezes your wrist. “Oh my gosh I can’t believe they actually came! I figured with the whole engagement thing they wouldn’t. Now it’s all officially perfect. All my favorite people together on my favorite day.”

Plot twist: Steve Harrington is engaged.

WCIL taglist:

@loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @johnricharddeacy @freezaz123 @selfdeprecatingnerd @big-ope-vibes @manda-panda-monium @hellkaisersangel @yogizzz @soulmatecashton @happytimeunicorns @mandyjo8719 @lunarxeclipse @buckleylips @beckkthewreck @differentdeputyfishpaper @supardupar @micheledawn1975 @imjuststeddietrashatthispoint @sagelittleplace @totally-bogus-timelady @steves-babysitter @fallinginlovewithqueue @aftermidnightwriting @omgshesinsane @pootcullen @definitionwanderlust @nostalgiafool @palmtreesx3 @scoopshxrrington @live-the-fangirl-life @eddiesguitarskills @mannstarkey @keepingitlokiii

#steve harrington #modern!steve harrington #modern!steve #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington series #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fic #stranger things fanfic #we'll call it love

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ronearoundblindly · 5 months

Note

how would Steve try and describe human relationships to mermaid reader? and what would her reaction be?

also I love the fact that she has her own “room”.

Miss G?

Steve Rogers x deep sea mermaid!Reader from Sun, Salt, and Shield

Headcanon below the cut! (It got soooooo rambly, but is very cute.)

Well, only Steve calls you 'Doll,' and though Tony will not stop calling you 'Grariel,' eventually you're called 'Miss G' instead--added bonus that you roll around on your Segway with Hollywood-huge sunglasses.

'Miss G' sounds like a celebrity and fancy. You don't understand that distinction yet, but Tony and Steve like it.

Oof, does Steve know how to describe relationships to humans? He's so awkward. He would start with simple things: couples enjoy doing activities together, spending time with each other and other couples or people, often times they touch casually (tricky to explain that word in limited english), and they...kiss.

Important things Steve would mention is that your teeth are very sharp (and numerous) compared to humans. Respectfully, he teaches you to smile without opening your mouth, and does warn that, though he's a fast healer and tougher than most, he will bleed if your teeth catch any part of him ::cough::.

Tony sank a pressure chamber into the bottom of the pool, so you can sleep there comfortably. Rarely, he'll let Steve take one of the Divers and camp out on the ocean floor where you live. Sometimes that makes Steve a little sick for a day or two after, but he never mentions that to you.

This is sorta dumb, and Steve thought it was downright offensive at first, but Tony left all the pool toys in the corner of the room and slowly teaches you to play with all of them. You're quite dense, so you need like ten foam noodles to 'float' you on the surface, but it's very fun.

You find the beach ball is endlessly entertaining, mainly because you swim so fast and can hit it so hard that the ball ricochets off the ceiling like a higher level of Pong. You've popped nearly a dozen of them, but Tony just buys them in bulk.

So, back to relationship and Steve's explanation.

The most heart-warming thing Steve teaches you is the hug. So simple. So reminiscent of your first meeting. If you lay your head on his chest, your face can remain underwater to breathe and hold onto Steve indefinitely, and he's tried. The longest he's gone is five straight hours of just you two holding each other, brushing his thumb over your cheek, giving you soft back rubs, getting gentle back scratches from you, and loving every second.

Sometimes he just talks to you, even when he knows you can't understand most of the words. It's shocking how much gets across by emotion and intonation alone. You squeeze him a little tighter when he's telling you a sad story, and you rub your forehead into his sternum when he laughs at something.

Turns out, Tony used F.R.I.D.A.Y. to compile 'essential human visuals' into a slide-show, and Steve will explain pictures like prompts. That's helped a great deal because it gives him somewhere to start a conversation and lets him see how interested you are in what's happening on the screen. The light of the projector took some adjusting for your eyes, and then was too low for Steve to make out very much, so he now has his own special glasses, like Tony's, that show him an enhanced version of the slides.

Okay, okay, but I gotta say, the absolute most random and best thing ever was you trying to find Steve's room in the compound on your own. Tony gave you the room number--which you don't actually know how numbers work yet, but you go by memorizing the shapes--and then got engrossed by some other work. You hopped up onto your Segway, shades on, Atlantian breathing mask on to keep your mouth and throat in salt water, and you zoomed right through those double doors and past you 'guard.' They aren't there to keep you in, after all, but you did scare the shit out of them.

Off you fly down the main hall, back the other way, straight into the elevator, and you wait patiently, listening to horribly boring music and flicking your fin rapidly with nerves.

The buttons are confusing.

So. You press all of them.

Zippity doo-dah, round and round the halls you go, smiling (with your lips together) at the multiple people you almost run over, getting waylaid by the view of distant mountains from one window, and diligently starting to understand that the shapes Tony showed you repeat everywhere. You're looking for the correct order to them.

It takes over 45 minutes of going between 0 and 20 miles per hour to find the right combination on a little plaque, and it takes only the very tip of your nail to depress the squishy button below the plaque.

You're growing quite fond of the squishy buttons. Some of them are hard but light up. The surface is fun.

Steve is wiping white foam from a fresh shave off his jaw when the door swings open, and you do a spin on your wheels, spreading your fingers like the showy jazz-hands in one of the pictures about stage plays--musicals, they're called--better than elevators, you hope.

You get the ten cent tour of his little apartment and sit on a couch for the first time. Very exciting. Fabric is delightfully strange.

There's talk of a beach vacation, one where you and Steve might get to race along the shore, you in the surf and him on the sand.

You aren't sure whether you'll let him win or not.

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

a/n: yeah...i don't even know, gang.

#ro answers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #mermaid!reader #mermaid au #deep sea mermaid #steve rogers fluff

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wh0reforoldmen · 1 year

Text

Safe with us

paring: Bucky Barnes X fem!reader X Steve Rogers

warnings: Hints to SAD (Seasonal affective disorder), hints to mental illness, angst, hurt/comfort, panic attack? slightly beta read all mistakes are my own.

word count: 1.2k

summary: Bad days suck, and so do bad weeks. Unfortunately, your boyfriends aren’t here to help you with it; until they are.

Bad days fucking suck.

Bad weeks suck more.

It's been a week since your boyfriends, Steve and Bucky had been at work day and night.

You get it, business is important, and their job is extremely important to them but god it's so demanding you don't know how to cope.

It's getting warmer, but you still feel like shit. Down, miserable, lonely. Some days you feel overwhelming emotions of despair, frightened, and loneliness, and others you feel - nothing. Numb you could say.

The numb days aren't that bad, you don't feel anything to put it, so you just get on with it. The days you feel overwhelming emotions are the days that you suffer the most.

As soon as you woke up, you wanted to go back to sleep and sleep for the rest of the day, but no matter how hard you try, no matter how long you wait for that darkness to surround you, no matter how much you twist and turn to get comfortable without your boys in with you; you physically can not fall back asleep. So you get up.

Not entirely.

You stay in bed, awake and staring at the ceiling with your thoughts racing around your head as the sun slightly shines through the blackout curtains by the top. You didn't feel hungry from the anxiety you were experiencing and your energy levels were just down.

You didn't even get up to go to the bathroom, you were just too exhausted to get up and do anything, you just laid there in silence as your overwhelming emotions just got worse and worse.

"Malyshka?"

A good few hours later, a knock came on your door. Your head turned as your body tensed, who could it be?

Oh, it was Bucky.

Your nerves calmed down a little as you heard the sweet nickname he's always called you. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing.

When he heard nothing, he opened the door and Steve was with him, behind him and looking at you. They saw the state of the room and the deep frowns on their face said everything.

You felt your heart drop to your stomach, thinking they were disappointed in you. They were disappointed in you because you didn't look after yourself.

You blinked the tears away but they kept coming and as soon as you knew it, your vision became blurry and you choked out a sob. The feeling of disappointing your boyfriends just broke your heart. You never wanted to disappoint them. Never. But you had, and you hated it.

You looked away from the two, not wanting them to see you cry but they came to your side in an instant, Steve scooping you up in his arms and sitting on the bed, placing you in his lap.

You wrapped your legs around his hips and buried your head in the crook of his neck, the smell of his mind and jasmine cologne did nothing to calm your nerves as you sobbed into his shoulder, gripping his shirt as hard as you could, afraid he'll leave.

Your lungs felt like they were being crushed, your throat tight and your heart was racing, feeling like it was in your head with how loud you could hear it.

"It's okay sunshine, everything's okay," he spoke softly in your ear, though it felt like he was underwater. His hand ran up and down your back soothingly as he spoke affirmations to you.

"you're safe, sunshine. Nothing is going to hurt you,"

"We're here now, nothing to worry about, safe and sound,"

"Breathe with me sunshine, in… and out, that's it. In - and out, good girl,"

You can tell he's trying his best, he really is. He's still… unsure how to help you on these days but the fact that he's here and he's trying to help you is all that you need.

When you calmed down, which was a long process, you lifted your head up slowly and looked at him, your eyes had become sore and your throat dry from your rapid breathing.

"Here, malyshka," you heard Bucky from the side of you, holding a glass of water.

You tried to take it with your shaky hand, but Steve gently took your hand away. Bucky placed the rim of the glass to your lips.

He let you take small sips of the water, the cold water going down your throat felt amazing as you took more and more sips.

They didn't say anything at first, letting you calm down but they did lay you back down and they didn't leave your side.

Bucky curled up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist and hands placed on your soft tummy, his chin resting between your shoulder blades while Steve had your head on his chest, your ear listening to his heart going at a steady rhythm, his hand playing with your locks of hair, his fingers running through the strands or twirling them around his finger, they both keeping you grounded.

"Why didn't you call us, sunshine?" Steve asked after at least ten minutes of silence. They both said multiple times that if you were having a tough day, call them and they'll be there. You're their priority.

"Knew you were busy… didn't want to disturb you," you reply, your voice hoarse from the sobbing earlier.

The pressure from Bucky's head on your back quickly went away, and his flesh hand came up and made you look at him "What did we tell you, malyshka? You. Come. First," he spoke, kissing your cheeks as he did "Fuck work, couldn't care for it, as long as we have you, you are out priority,"

His words alone could've made you burst into tears again, he meant every word and you knew it, the way his steel blues starred into yours, all the adoration and love is all you needed in those eyes.

"Understand?" Bucky asked, keeping your face towards him and keeping eye contact with you.

You were too scared to speak, worried that you'll start crying again so you nodded, not averting your eyes from his for a second.

"Good,"

He rests his head back on your shoulder blades and his hand where it was before, letting your head go back to Steve's chest.

The rest of the day, you three just stayed in bed, well you did. Your two boys brought you lunch and dinner since they did eventually find out you hadn't eaten, it was something small but it did you for a bit.

They looked after you and treated you like a queen, they even did some online shopping for you, ordering things that you looked at and liked even though you tried to reason with them that you didn't need more clothes, but their reasoning was that their queen needed to feel like one, they even fed you, and overall making you feel better.

You weren't 100% by the end of the day, but it was better than this morning. They made you smile, laugh, and the anxiety that you felt this morning had almost vanished.

They really meant the world to you, and you meant the world to them.

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rainbow-nerdss · 2 years

Note

Steve letting(>cough<forcing>cough<)Max and Eddie use his hot tub & pool for physical therapy after they get out of the hospital.

Steve keeps his distance from the pool, even years after that party, but he'd still offered it up the moment the doctors suggested it might be helpful for Eddie and Max to spend time in the water. He had practically forced them to come over and do their physical therably exercises in his pool rather than going to the public pool or paying for somewhere.

He hardly ever goes into his backyard, except on those days where Eddie or Max, or both of them are over to do their exercises. On those days, he doesn't retreat inside, but rather stays where he can keep an eye on them, where he can get to them in case of an emergency.

Steve had been a lifeguard, after all, and someone had died in his pool when he hadn't been paying attention. He knows it was the Demogorgon. He knows there was never anything he could have done about it, but he stays vigilant all the same. Takes it upon himself to check Eddie's wounds before he gets in the water, making sure he isn't bleeding, making sure Max is careful when walking on the decking since it can be slippery.

Eddie's healing well, Steve notices. He's glad. Max is progressing well too, and she's able to swim with relative ease, though walking is still a struggle. It's helping, he thinks. He's glad he can give them this.

Max is like a sister to him now, and Eddie is---

Well, he's something.

Steve watches Eddie in the pool, the pink newly formed scars so similar to Steve's own, the way he looks with his hair pulled back, bare chest and pale skin and tattoos and---

Yeah, maybe Steve has other reasons for being so attentive while Eddie swims.

Eddie starts to come by on his own. Sure he still drives Max over twice a week, but on the days in between he drops by, claims he's got an ache here or a twinge there and asks if he could maybe swim for a bit to ease the tension.

Steve always agrees without hesitation.

On those days, when it's just Eddie, Steve finds himself inching closer and closer to the edge of the pool.

He almost dips his toes in, once, but the image of that photograph, the last one taken of Barb with the Demogorgon creeping up behind her flashes in his mind and he retreats.

Eddie asks him what's wrong, and to Steve's surprise, he answers honestly.

Eddie accepts it. He still comes over, still uses the pool, and Steve keeps inching closer.

Finally, as Eddie's attempting an underwater handstand---Steve suspects he's fully healed, and probably doesn't really need the pool sessions anymore. But Steve is certainly not going to be the one to suggest that. He sits at the edge of the pool and finally lets his feet submerge in the water. When Eddie sees him there, he swims over and beams.

"Look at you, Mr Swim team 1985!"

Steve laughs, and then reaches a hand into the water to splash Eddie, who flops back so dramatically he manages to send an even bigger splash back.

When he resurfaces, he swims even closer. Steve barely has to reach out to push a stray strand of Eddie's hair out of his face. Eddie goes still, or as still as one can be while treading water. Steve watches him.

Eddie is so close, right there between Steve's legs and looking up at him. Hands find their way to Steve's waist and rest there, comfortable, warm and reassuring.

Steve rests his hands on Eddie's shoulders and then, as much to his own surprise as Eddie's, he slides himself forwards and into the water, fully clothed.

Steve doesn't care, because now Eddie's holding him in the water, now they're pressed together chest to chest and their faces are so close, Steve can see the individual droplets of water clinging to Eddie's eyelashes.

The water is warm, and Steve has a brief moment if panic, remembering why he doesn't do this, why he hasn't so much as dipped his toes in this pool in so many years.

His breath catches, and Eddie tightens his grip around Steve's waist. He's not afraid. The panic subsides, and he knows he's safe here. Steve lets arms slip from Eddie's shoulders to wrap around his back, and he just goes for it.

He kisses Eddie, right on the lips with no hesitation, and Eddie kisses him back.

The next day, Eddie brings Max by to swim again, and Steve changes into his own swimming clothes to join them in the water. There's a brief moment where Max looks surprised, but then Eddie splashes her, and Steve splashes Eddie, and Max laughs.

When Eddie wraps his arms around Steve from behind in the water as Max runs through her exercises, Steve leans into the embrace, tilts his head so he can meet Eddie's lips in a kiss.

Max splashes them both and tells them to stop being gross while she's working. Eddie laughs, face pressed into Steve's hair, and Steve isn't sure if he remembers the last time he smiled so much.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic #steddie headcanon #my fic #stranger things fic #ficlets and headcanons #ive got a bunch of requests in my inbox and i will get around to most if nit all of them eventually i promise!

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dcforts · 11 months

Text

[Steve and I]

5.9k. S09E06 fanfiction gap but Cas has a flat. Domestic, light angst. theirprofoundbond - thank you for all the work that you've done to help me with this one and all the kind words and you gifted me with. Read on ao3

Steve signed the lease a little over a month ago. It’s a second-story one-bedroom, in a building that is just two narrow flights of stairs, flickering ceiling lights and dirty carpets.

Cas doesn’t tell Dean that, he just gives him directions and points to a parking space out front. When the Impala quiets down, Dean doesn’t ask any questions and Cas is grateful for that. He fishes his keys from his pocket and leads him inside.

He says, “It’s a good neighborhood,” as they climb up, because that’s what you’re supposed to say. It’s what his landlady said when she led him up the first time, maybe to distract him from the cracks in the walls and the smell of laundry detergents coming from the laundromat next door.

He says that, even if Dean knows better than anyone that you can’t really be safe, no matter where you are, and even if it wouldn’t really make a difference for Cas who, grace or not, could still kill a man in the blink of an eye.

Dean follows him inside, past the little entryway and into the living room.

Cas turns on the lights and walks across the dusty carpet and around the coffee table to get to the window and open it. The cold evening air brings in noises from the street and allows him to breathe more easily. For a moment, in the dark and the musty air, it felt like being underwater.

Dean says, “Hey, it’s not bad,” only a beat too late. He looks around, nodding to himself. “Yeah. Nice, uh, couch.”

It’s a simply distributed space; if one drew it from above, it would resemble a square, divided up into uneven boxes facing each other in pairs. On one side the living room and the bedroom, and on the opposite one, the kitchen and the bathroom. Dean could tour the whole thing in fifteen steps or fewer if he so wished.

It seems even smaller with him in it now.

“Everything here came with the apartment,” Cas says.

It’s not exactly true. In the kitchen, on the wall just behind the fridge, there’s a complimentary calendar that he got from a shipment of energy drinks. Cas brought it home and hung it there, because Steve needs to pay attention to what month it is and what day it is—he has rent to pay, shifts at work, bills and deadlines.

Cas painted wards and sigils on walls and floors; Steve covered them up with dull paintings and soft carpets.

Nora gave Steve a succulent that sits on the windowsill of his bedroom. Cas only remembers to check on it when he is in bed, and he turns on his side. Most of the time, he’s too tired to get up again, says to himself he’ll do it in the morning, then he forgets again.

Cas doesn’t care about furniture; he doesn’t care about things. About the old couch that groans when you sit on it, about the low batteries in the TV remote. He doesn’t care about the dust in the empty flower vase on the shelf or the light in the bathroom that goes out sometimes.

Steve does. When he comes home after a ten-hour shift, the couch does not help his stiff and aching back. When he gets up at night to go to the bathroom, he has to be careful not to trip over things in the dark. Steve minds about furniture, about having hot water, a working washing machine and a window that opens all the way.

Cas doesn’t care about having a home, but Steve does, so now Cas has an address and a mailbox.

Steve needs so many things, some days Cas can barely keep up.

Dean is still standing there and seems unsure what to do. Cas can’t bear the sight of him in the apartment. This wasn’t something he’d ever planned on seeing, but nothing had gone according to his plans today.

He puts down the keys he realizes he’s still clenching and goes back toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?” he says, because that’s what you’re supposed to say when you have people over at your apartment. He’s seen it on TV plenty of times.

He stands in front of the open fridge and scans the shelves—the carton of eggs, the half-eaten burrito, the jar of grape jelly—and says, “I only have water.”

“Water is fine,” Dean says, his voice a little strained.

This entire situation must make him as uncomfortable as Cas is. He’d followed him to the threshold of the kitchen and it looks like he’s feeling larger than he is, one shoulder pressing against the door frame. His gaze wanders over the surroundings: the beige walls, the bowl of bananas and oranges on the table and the teaspoon on the edge of the sink.

That morning Steve had used it to stir his coffee and then forgot to wash it. He was distracted because he was checking his mail. He collects it at night, but sometimes he’s too tired to look at it before bed and he leaves it for the morning.

Dean doesn’t comment on any of it. “Are you alright?” he asks, as Cas hands him a tall glass with his bandaged hand.

“It’s just a cut.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Dean says.

Cas walks past him. “I’m fine.”

He goes back to the entryway to take off his shoes and put them away and he feels Dean watching him from around the corner. He senses that he has no intention of letting go of the conversation.

“That angel—he came for you, didn’t he?”

Cas sucks in a breath. He’d known the question was coming; he’d spent the silent journey over dreading it and wondering how much Dean had heard of his conversation with Ephraim. He really doesn’t want to talk about what he said; he doesn’t even want to think about it.

“Because you’re in pain,” Dean adds.

Cas keeps his eyes on the ground and wonders if Dean is thinking about that night not that long ago, when he’d confessed how much guilt he was carrying. I might kill myself.

“He was mistaken.”

Dean doesn’t buy it. “So you’re fine. We’re gonna leave it at that?” he insists.

Cas fixes his eyes on the pea-green wallpaper in front of him. “Ephraim is gone and I’m tired. I’ve got work in the morning.”

“Right, yeah,” Dean says, sounding weird again. He shifts on the spot, looks down at his water. “I should, uh—”

Cas doesn’t meet his eyes but he says, “You can stay. The couch is a pull-out.”

Dean says okay, then, even though there’s a motel room already paid for with all his stuff in it. He says okay, even though the living room window doesn’t have blinds or curtains to keep the light out and Cas has no spare pillow.

Cas goes over to the couch and starts removing the cushions.

“You don’t need to do that,” Dean says, but Cas doesn’t stop maneuvering the coffee table out of the way.

“You have a long drive tomorrow.”

And there’s that.

There’s a big blinking neon sign on the other side of the street that paints Cas’ bedroom walls in red and pink and purple. Cas rarely bothers with turning on the lights in this room. The landlady promised to get Steve some heavy curtains, but she hasn’t come back yet. Cas doesn’t mind. One night the sign was down for maintenance, and he had trouble falling asleep without its constant shifting colors.

He’s looking for clean sheets while Dean uses his little bathroom, and then all of a sudden he’s standing in the doorway, as if hesitant to come in for some reason. He’s only in his jeans.

“Do you have a T-shirt I could borrow?”

Cas goes to the dresser where Steve keeps his T-shirts—he’d paid ten dollars for a pack of three—and picks a dark one for Dean. He smells of the shower gel with the tropical fruit on the bottle.

Cas got it because the ads say it will nourish and soften his skin and Steve’s skin gets dry when it’s windy. He also has shaving cream in the cabinet, a razor, a toothbrush, a box of bandaids. Sometimes Cas stops and looks at Steve in the mirror and asks himself if he’ll ever get used to it, to being this, just this. Sometimes he lies in bed and watches the ceiling change colors and wonders how long he will need to wait before he stops feeling fragile.

“Do you want me to take a look at that?” Dean asks, gesturing with his chin to his bandaged hand.

“I’ll do it,” Cas says and he knows this rejection will unnerve Dean more than his refusal to talk. He reminds Cas of a bug bumping against a window, but Cas isn’t ready for him to take a look inside yet, let alone come in.

Dean clenches his jaw for just a moment, then lets it go. Cas follows him to the living room with clean sheets in his arms and makes the pull-out bed while Dean pokes around in his kitchen, with the excuse of getting another glass of water. Cas hears him open cabinets and pull out drawers. It seems like it didn’t take him long to make himself at home.

Cas isn’t sure he likes that.

Maybe it’s because it still hurts. When he got to the bunker, he’d thought that he had nothing to worry about anymore, and what he had gone through since the fall had just been a rocky journey to get back home. He wasn’t alone, he had simply been misplaced, but now he could rest.

He’d been naive. Dean had made it clear that he didn’t belong there, and it was a confusing truth he had to learn to accept. And yet, it still hurts. He’d thought it didn’t anymore; he’d thought the bitterness had left him but maybe it doesn’t happen like that. Maybe it lingers and lingers. You think it’s gone, but it’s not. Maybe he won’t ever be rid of it.

Cas thought he had been hurt before. For sure, he had felt sorrow and disappointment.

But the open wound inside his chest is a crater, and it’s swallowed him, and he has to make his way back out and he’s not sure he’s there yet.

He’s exhausted though, especially tonight, with the things Ephraim said still ringing, true and inevitable, in his ears.

Dean pops his head through the kitchen door. “Do you cook?”

“Occasionally.”

“Really?” He sounds surprised. “What d’you make?”

“Eggs.”

Steve likes eggs in the morning, with coffee—two sugars. But not orange juice. It makes his stomach burn for hours. He breaks and scrambles one egg in a pan with butter and pepper. Some days, Steve is so tired the eggshell breaks in small pieces and the kitchen gets dirty, and sometimes he wakes up late and rushes through the door. He eats a donut at work—but only the pink kind. The chocolate ones have a weird aftertaste.

“That it?”

“I have lunch at work, and I buy something for dinner on the way home.”

And if he’s too tired to stand in line or doesn’t feel like eating anything, there’s always peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Dean nods thoughtfully.

Cas thinks he’s passed some sort of test, but maybe not with the highest of grades, because Dean adds, “You— I mean, you’re eating enough, right?”

Oh, so he does worry.

Cas thinks of that time he’d had expired food and stayed awake the whole night: his stomach cramping, face pressed against the cool surface of his bathroom tiles, dreading the next wave of nausea, thinking he was going to die, his thumb hovering over Dean’s name in his contacts more times than he feels comfortable remembering. Wishing to hear his voice.

Not calling.

“I think so,” Cas says.

Dean slips out of his jeans and sits on the edge of the bed that groans under his weight.

Cas should go and take care of his hand. Steve needs to sleep; he has tomorrow’s opening shift. New products to shelve and customers to serve. Usually at this time of night, Steve has already turned in.

But when he starts for the bathroom, Dean says, “Hey, wait,” and Cas has no choice but to stop, because Dean is here now, in the middle of his living room, and Dean unbalances everything.

“You don’t wanna talk about it—that’s fine. I just wanna say that whatever Ephraim told you, you don’t need to listen to him. You got a good thing going here. You got a job, you got a place for yourself. You got a chance to get out. Like, really get out.”

Something colors Dean’s voice that makes Cas suspicious. He doesn’t want to start a conversation, but he can recognize when Dean’s trying to say something without saying it.

“I have a responsibility toward my kind. Even if I can’t do much, I should try.”

“I know,” he says, but he’s fidgeting. “It’s just too dangerous out there right now. You said it yourself: after what happened with Metatron, angels are all over, looking for you.”

Cas holds his gaze and doesn’t say anything. Dean blinks one too many times. There’s something he’s not telling him, Cas knows.

“I’m just saying,” he starts again, and goes on as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “I get that you want to make things right, but maybe you can wait a little longer?”

His words hang in the air. Cas studies the way Dean’s eyebrows arch over his eyes, the tight lines around his mouth. He’s still convinced he can hide things from Cas, maybe now more than ever, but Cas sees him. Dean always forgets that.

“What is it?” Cas finally asks, fixing his gaze on Dean.

That’s all it takes. Dean sighs and it’s as much as a confession.

“Crowley said there’s no reversing the spell,” he says then, and he looks like he’s bracing himself for Cas’ reaction.

Somehow though, it doesn’t come as a blow. It doesn’t hurt him, it doesn’t shake his world. Cas registers Dean’s words and he surprises himself by thinking that he’s not broken by them.

He never expected that it would be easy for things to go back to they were.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t go back,” he reasons. “We can still find a way.”

“So you wanna go back.”

Cas is taken by surprise, not so much by his words, but by the way Dean blurts them out, almost as if they had escaped before he could control them—urgent, as if he could be directly affected by his choice. Cas can’t understand what difference it makes to Dean if Cas is on Earth or not, when he’s the one who sent him away in the first place.

“I don’t want to be trapped,” he says, a kind way out of a reply, and he feels his good hand close in a fist. This is not where he was supposed to be, where he was born to be.

Of course, he doesn’t want to leave Earth—not forever. Even back when he’d thought he was closing the Gates of Heaven, he was leaving because he had no other choice, and coming to terms with that was one of the hardest things Cas had ever done.

Dean acts as if he doesn’t know that, and maybe he really doesn’t. But Cas is still in pain and won’t clear that up for him; he won’t show himself needy of his company and his time.

“Yeah, no, I get that,” Dean says, but he sounds like he got the opposite of what Cas was trying to say. Cas won’t correct his misunderstandings. Not tonight. He’s feeling weak enough.

Cas leaves the room; there is not much else to say.

The springs of the mattress Dean is sleeping on groan whenever he moves.

Cas hears him from his bedroom. They groan and groan and groan. It makes it impossible for Cas to relax enough to fall asleep, even though he’s exhausted and the wound on his hand has started throbbing again.

He’d disinfected it and wrapped it in clean bandages, but he doesn’t have any painkillers, so he grinds his teeth and hopes it’ll be morning before he realizes.

The mattress groans and groans and then, when Cas resigns himself to the fact that he won’t get any sleep, the sound suddenly stops. Dean could have managed to fall asleep but somehow Cas doesn’t think that’s the case. The hair on the back of his neck stands up when he hears Dean’s footsteps coming toward his bedroom.

There’s a moment of silence and Cas doesn’t dare turn around. Then the bathroom door shuts and he lets out a breath.

The toilet flushes a few moments later, the door opens, and again, silence.

Cas frowns, rolls onto his back to find Dean standing there, just a dark silhouette in the door in the purple light—still behind that invisible wall that won’t let him cross the threshold.

“Dean?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says, “Sorry, uh, I can’t sleep on that bed so…”

The neon blinks in pink and Cas notices Dean’s wearing his jeans again. The thought of him slipping into the night, and Cas finding nothing but an empty apartment in the morning, has his heart pounding in his chest.

“You can sleep in here,” he says, and his voice sounds broken and loud.

“Uh, you don’t ha— I’ll be fine on the floor with just an extra blanket or something.”

The color in the room changes again. Dean wasn’t going to leave. Cas is confused by his emotions; his heart won’t behave, his ears start ringing, his insides burning. He didn’t want him here in the first place, so why does the thought of him going away hurt so much?

“I don’t have an extra blanket,” he says in the end, and then scoots over and gives him his back. “It’s late,” he adds and hopes it’s enough to end the conversation.

“Alright,” comes Dean’s voice, and then there is the sound of footsteps, his jeans hitting the floor and then the comforter is lifting, the mattress sinking.

Cas still can’t relax. Not when he can feel the tension in the room, Dean’s body rigid on the bed and his intakes of breath telling him that he’s getting ready to speak.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Cas?”

Cas had thought he wanted an apology from Dean more than anything.

He thought about it at night, imagined what he would say if he called, if he wrote it in a text message, if he showed up at his door. But when Dean says, “I’m sorry,” right there and then, Cas realizes he doesn’t need it anymore. He has forgiven him already.

“I know I let you down,” Dean says, “I should be here for you.”

And Cas had thought about what to say to him a million times. To make him feel worse, to spike his guilt, to reject him completely.

He can’t do it. He’s never wanted to be one of the things Dean blames himself for. He won’t be one of them tonight, either.

There’s an open wound inside his chest, but telling Dean how much he’d hurt him would only make it deeper.

He says the only thing that feels true. He says, “I’m not mad.”

“You’re not okay though, are you?”

Cas doesn’t know if he can find the right words to explain how he feels.

He rolls onto his back, fixes his eyes on the ceiling and watches it as it changes: red, purple, pink, and red again.

He tries, “I’m not myself.”

Dean shifts on his spot and now he’s looking at him. Cas can feel his gaze and knows Dean is frowning.

“What do you mean?” It comes as a whisper, worry bracketing each of his words.

“I don’t know who I am.”

“You’re Cas,” Dean says with a familiar high note of stubbornness and confusion.

That’s probably what does it. Cas’ lips start trembling, his eyes prickling. There’s a sudden lump in his throat, his chest starts hurting, and then there are hot tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, rolling down his temples and disappearing into his hair. The tickling sensation on his skin and in his nose is not entirely unpleasant, but he has to keep swallowing and can’t bring himself to talk.

Dean sees all of it. He stays absolutely still but when he speaks, every word is soaked in a softness that makes him feel even closer than he is.

“You’re still an angel. Without grace, okay, but that doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change who you are,” he says, and he sounds like he knows for sure.

Cas knows this is hard on Dean. To see his tears and to know that this time he can’t say what he usually says: I’ll take care of it, I’ll figure something out, Let me handle this. Because tomorrow he’ll be gone. He’ll hop in his car and drive away, and nothing will change that. So he can’t take Cas' burden now, like he always tries to do, like he does with everyone else.

“You’re still you,” he keeps going. “And you know, I really meant what I said earlier. You are doing one hell of a job, managing all this on your own. Being human sucks. Like, truly, sucks. Of course you hate it.”

Dean’s words have a tentative lightness to them and Cas knows he’s trying to cheer him up so he makes an effort to smile. He takes a deep breath and glances at him.

“I don’t hate it,” he says, his voice still a little broken. “I just… want my grace back. I want to feel like myself again.”

Cas doesn’t look away from him and doesn’t move a muscle, not even when Dean says, “Okay,” and reaches out with one hand to rub away a tear on his temple. The touch is unexpected, and Cas eyes’ close on their own for a moment. Dean is serious now. “We’ll get it back.”

In Dean’s eyes Cas finds something that, incredibly, resembles understanding. Does he understand? Is he comparing Cas’ grace being ripped from him with the bite of the Hellhounds tearing him apart? Is he thinking of Hell consuming his soul? Is he thinking of losing Sam?

Cas doesn’t know, but somehow the understanding is there, and there’s no need for him to say more.

“I’ll start looking as soon as I get back, okay?” Dean says.

Cas nods and his tears are replaced with a calm certainty: that Dean is here, that he himself is not completely lost, that there’s a possibility to feel whole again. He doesn’t even remember how he could have thought everything was so hopeless.

“Okay,” he says, and worries that he will feel silly and ashamed once Dean turns around again, and the moment will be gone. But Dean stays where he is. He settles down on his side with his head on his arm because the only pillow is too small for the both of them.

“You’ll be alright,” he says, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing once. Next to Dean, Cas believes it.

Slowly, Dean’s breathing evens out. The rhythm is so familiar that Cas' body relaxes to it. He has lost count of how many hours he spent in a dark room with this sound, back when he used to watch over him while he slept.

Cas lets out a deep breath and closes his eyes. Then he feels it—a touch on his shoulder again, Dean’s fingertips on the fabric of his sleeve, then the same featherlight touch of a knee against his bare thigh, right below the hem of his boxer shorts. No real pressure, just a light contact, but it starts a gentle prickle that travels through Cas’ body and fills his chest and limbs. He’s never felt anything like it.

Cas keeps his eyes closed and his body still and he falls asleep like that, thinking that Dean has never been close to him like this before. Whether it’s chemistry or instinct, maybe it’s now and it’s here, because somehow humanity makes him more accessible, more recognizable to Dean: the warmth of his skin, the smell of his body, the beating of his heart.

And so maybe there is, at last, something Cas can be grateful to Steve for.

It’s not quite morning when Cas wakes up. He doesn’t need an alarm. Even when Steve gets a day off, Cas still wakes up very early.

He doesn’t like lingering in bed for too long, because his mind gets busy with thoughts and memories, and he has to occupy his hands to make them go away. But Steve needs his rest on his days off, so Cas stays under the blanket until his bladder or his stomach start complaining.

This morning, his limbs feel heavy and his nose is stuffy, and he can’t remember why.

He reaches out to grab his phone and check the time, and it’s the hand with the bandage that reminds him what happened the day before.

It reminds him that this morning is nothing like every other morning, that there’s someone lying next to him, and that someone is Dean. He can feel the heat of his body warming his back.

He sits up on his side of the bed and only then dares to look over his shoulder. Yes, Dean is still there, asleep on his stomach, one arm bent under his head, Cas’ shirt stretched over his shoulders.

Dean probably senses his gaze, because he opens his eyes and looks back at him, his signature morning pout on his lips.

Cas thinks he must make quite a sight; with the window behind his back, he must be just a silhouette against the weak morning light, his hair sticking up, his clothes wrinkled.

He wants to speak, but he’s forgotten the first thing people usually say to each other in the morning.

Dean’s brain must still be foggy because he doesn’t comment on the fact that Cas is just staring at him. After a moment, he blinks and yawns and lets out a mumbled “You got a really nice bed,” as if it isn’t just a mattress and a metal frame.

“Thank you,” Cas says, and only then remembers that what he was supposed to say was, Good morning.

It’s too late now, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

“What time is it?”

“Five-thirty.”

Dean smiles in bliss. His eyes are glassy. “I haven’t slept six hours in a long time.” He yawns again. “You getting up?”

“Yes, but you can stay longer,” Cas says. “I’m going to get dressed.”

Dean nods and rubs his face and then follows Cas with his gaze while he gathers things around the room.

“I’ll be up in a sec. I’m gonna make you eggs,” he says.

He’s pulled Steve’s pillow to his side and made himself comfortable again, stretching his legs and taking up space. Cas can’t resist turning to watch him from the door. He looks like a dream in the early morning light.

Dean’s eyes are still on him and Cas suddenly feels exposed, with his bare thighs and calves. He’s seen Dean in various states of undress plenty of times, but he’s not sure Dean’s ever seen him, and he doesn’t know what it means that he’s watching.

“Okay,” Cas agrees. After last night, it’s an easy concession to make. The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up, and Cas feels himself mirroring him.

Dean is a great cook. Cas has heard him boast about it in the past, but this is the first time that he’s tried his cooking.

His eggs are good, more savory and less runny than his, and they come with toast.

“I never have toast with my eggs,” Cas comments.

“What’s with all the bread, then?”

“It’s for PB&J.”

That makes Dean snort a laugh. He’d moved the bowl with the fruit to the counter next to the sink and poured coffee into two mismatched mugs. Now, he sits across from him and digs into his plate.

He’s already dressed, shoes on too. Cas doesn’t mention that he’s still wearing the T-shirt he borrowed. He’s pretty sure the black one he had on before is still where he left it, on the hook behind his bathroom door, and he wants to keep it that way.

The time is running out and he doesn’t know how to convince himself there’s no point in wishing it could stop.

“You can use bread to do lots of things,” Dean is saying. “Ever had French toast?”

Cas shakes his head.

“Alright, I’ll make you some next time.”

“Next time?” Cas repeats, almost losing his grip on the mug he’s bringing to his lips.

Dean puts down his fork, picks it up again, avoids his gaze. “I just thought— It’s not that I want to bring the bad guys to your door, obviously, but maybe I could slip out here sometimes. I’d be careful.”

Cas' face must be asking, Why?, because Dean rushes to add, “Just, you know, to see how you’re doing.” He massages one of his thighs out of nervousness, then in a light tone, he says, “First thing, I’m buying you groceries, replacing that couch, and fixing the light in the bathroom.”

Cas puts down his coffee mug, anger rising in his chest. “No.”

Dean hadn’t expected that. His face crumbles all at once, showing hurt and confusion. “Wh—?”

“You can come here, but as a friend. I don’t want a caretaker.”

“What?” he exclaims in disbelief. “I didn’t say that.”

“I’m serious, Dean.” Cas clenches his jaw; this is the last thing he wanted. “I don’t need your pity and I don’t need you to parent me.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “That’s not what I meant!” he says, raising his voice. He gets up and circles around his chair, taking a moment to calm down. “Jesus, Cas, I don’t wanna be your parent. I know you don’t need me, I just—” He sighs, frustrated, shakes his head. “I— I didn’t mean that,” he says, looking up at him like he does sometimes when he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

Cas knows that look. It takes all the fight out of him. Without the anger, all that’s left is the knowledge that Dean might come back and this might not be the only morning they spend in this kitchen. It’s an unbearable thought, difficult to grasp—almost as difficult as it had been to imagine Dean here before yesterday. “Well then, in that case, it’s fine, I’d like that,” Cas says, and Dean deflates in front of him like a balloon.

Cas takes the dishes to the sink, gives them a quick wash. He wonders what happens now.

“Are you leaving right away?” he asks, sneaking a glance over his shoulder.

“Nah, I can give you a ride to work,” Dean says casually. And then, in a different tone, he adds, “Go on, go brush your teeth and get your jacket.”

Cas throws him a look, his mouth already open in protest, but Dean is grinning at him. “Just kidding.”

Cas rolls his eyes.

The ride is quiet and the closer they get, the sadder Cas feels.

It’s a dull pain that presses down the corners of his mouth and makes him clench a fist, irrationally resenting green lights and empty roads, pedestrians that wait on the sidewalk instead of crossing and slowing them down.

Dean talks about getting Cas a car and doesn’t seem to mind or notice that Cas barely responds. He’s probably just doing it to fill the silence. He stops in front of the entrance, and Cas doesn’t expect him to, but he turns off the engine and gets out to say goodbye.

He lingers in front of Cas, his eyes wandering from him to the Gas-n-Sip windows, to the gas pump, down to the asphalt, up to Cas again.

Cas is no fool; he knows that it could be a long time before they see each other again.

“Let me know if you see any of the angels,” Cas says to stop that line of thought. “They may despise me, but they know we need to work together.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, a wrinkle in between his eyebrows.

“Say hello to Sam for me.”

Dean sets his jaw and doesn’t say anything, and Cas feels there’s something there he doesn’t know. But they’ve run out of time. He takes a step forward and hugs him.

Hugging him as a human is different. It’s warmer, for one thing. Cas feels his own breath pushing his chest against Dean’s, his heart picking up the pace. And then there’s the scent of him. Cas can’t resist leaning his head into the crook of Dean’s neck, to feel his warm skin against his cheek, breathe him in.

Dean’s hands come up after only a moment to rest under his shoulder blades. He lets Cas hold him for longer than he thought he would.

“Hey,” he says then. “You can call me anytime—you know that, right?”

Cas nods, takes a breath, and steps away.

Dean seems sad now. He flashes a smile, but it’s not genuine. He looks like he’s about to say I’m sorry again. Cas wishes he wouldn’t, and thankfully he doesn’t.

Instead he says, “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Cas tries to smile, too, but he thinks it comes out all wrong. “I’ll see you soon.”

"Yeah,” Dean says, now walking backward. “Buy me a pillow, will you?” He points and flashes another of his fake smiles. He gets to the car door. “Toothbrush, too.”

“Okay,” Cas says.

The door opens with a creak.

Dean looks at him over the roof.

“Have a good day at work.”

“Have a safe drive.”

Dean gets in and Cas bends to look at him through the passenger window.

Dean’s not smiling anymore. He’s sighing, and when he notices Cas, he leans over to roll the window down.

“I’ll be back.”

Cas knows Dean believes it. “You know where I live.”

Dean’s lips stretch in a grin that doesn’t show in his eyes.

The Impala starts rumbling and vibrating under Cas’ fingers still on the window frame. He holds up one hand in an aborted wave, Dean does the same. Cas lets go of the car and the wheels start rolling.

In a moment, he’s gone.

And Cas would stand there to watch the car disappear from his view, but Steve needs to open the store, turn on the cash register, make a few calls, start the coffee machine.

And on any other day, Steve would do that without thinking about Dean. Steve wouldn’t ache for him, wouldn’t long for him.

Cas isn’t sure he can do that anymore—shut himself away. As he wipes the counter and organizes the coins, he almost doesn’t remember how he did it before.

He knows then that there is no going back, because Cas and Steve have something in common now.

They’re both in love with Dean.

#deancas #destiel #destiel fanfiction #deancas fanfic #destiel fanfic #what can i say #this took A WHILE #but im glad it's out now #weirdly im not even sick of it even if i've read it more times than any other things i've ever written

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stobinesque · 1 year

Text

the firmament in you ✨

For Lex’s Spicy Six Summer Challenge! Thanks again for putting this together, @thefreakandthehair! rating: T | wc: 4k | cw: Insomnia, Sleep Paralysis, Suicidal Ideation, References to past self-harm, hurt/comfort | tags: Stobin, Stargazing, Dancing, Post-Season 3 prompt: Dancing under the stars [ FIC PLAYLIST ] [ READ ON AO3 ]

Robin stares up at the ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark stars she’d stuck there when she was a kid winking back at her. The only sounds she can hear are the hum of the box fan in her window, and the rasp of cicadas beyond it. She’s resolutely refusing to turn her head to the side and face the blinking numbers of her clock taunting her.

Every time she closes her eyes, she sees smug faces leering down at her. Feels Steve’s dead—not dead, just slack, just passed out—weight strapped to her. She invents horrors that never happened.

If she keeps her eyes wide open, she only catches it in snatches and brief whispers.

Who needs sleep, anyway?

She thinks maybe the meat-monster spider should be getting more traction in the waking nightmares of her insomnia. And there are certainly times when she squeezes her eyes shut and fireworks burst behind them to a soundtrack of shrieks and groans and echoing fears. But they haunt her far less than the memory of cold fear gripping her chest when she thought, for just a moment, that she had a corpse tied to her back.

She moves to burrow herself into Steve’s side, hoping his warmth might trick her brain into thinking she’s safe.

It’s not a trick. We are safe.

There’s no way of knowing that for certain.

There’s no way of knowing anything for certain.

She rests her head on Steve’s chest and feels his heart rabbiting against her cheek. It makes her lever herself right back up to get a look at his face. She can barely see it in the darkness of the room, but the pale light of the streetlamps filtering in through her curtains is just enough to make out the way his eyes are darting back and forth beneath his eyelids. His breathing is coming in ragged pants, broken up by the occasional pained moan. Fine tremors course through him, like he’s fighting against something, but can’t actually move.

Robin’s own heart kicks up to a racing beat. Steve has spent the past couple weeks trying to explain the last two years of horror to her, and she can’t help the panicked thoughts that start running through her head. What if it’s back? What if it never left? What if it has Steve? Because apparently possession was totally on the table in their lives.

“Steve? Steve! Can you hear me? You’ve gotta wake up.”

His eyes stutter open like he’s being dragged to wakefulness. Hazel eyes stare back at her; unadulterated fear glinting in them. The small whines and groans he’d been making shift into muffled humming, like someone trying to talk through a gag. Like he’s trying to say something, but can’t form his mouth into words.

Robin is seconds away from grabbing the phone off her nightstand and calling anyone and everyone who might be able to help—wishing she had a walkie instead to radio out an all-purpose Code Red—when the dam breaks, and Steve sucks in a giant gasp of air and jerks upright like he’s surfacing from underwater.

“Steve! Steve, are you okay? Are you there?” She’s gripping his shoulder so tight that her nails are biting into flesh, but she can’t loosen her hold on him because if she lets go, he’ll float away.

“Couldn’t—” he gasps out. “Couldn’t move.” He’s nearly hyperventilating; chest heaving as he sucks in big gulps of air like he’s just been drowning. “Tied up. Frozen. I can’t—” He bites out each word like it hurts to speak. “Robs, I can’t—” He breaks off as something seems to crack in him, and collapses into her chest with a muffled sob.

“Hey, it’s alright,” she murmurs, trying to force her voice low and comforting as she wraps an arm around him. “I’ve got you.” She rocks him back and forth, gently, like she’s trying to coax a scared child back to sleep. “It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s all over now.”

It has the bitter taste of a lie on her tongue, but she just has to pretend that it’s true for now. Between the two of them, they can just barely afford a scrap of empty hope.

“—The kids are safe, and the gate is closed.” She knows Steve won’t really accept that until he sees everyone with his own eyes. But they’ve gotten used to telling each other these kinds of lies in the dead of night.

The band that’s been tightening around her chest snaps, and a tidal wave of exhaustion crashes over her. Sleep is all but a lost cause for the night, but they’ve each been at their wit’s end since Starcourt, and the unending turmoil of it all is finally catching up to her.

“I’m so tired,” she whispers into Steve’s hair.

“Robs.” his voice is croaky—strangled with some emotion she can’t quite place—and a calloused thumb sweeps across her cheek. She hadn’t realized she’d started crying.

“I’m tired too,” he admits. He lets out a shaky exhale. “I just want it all to be over.”

Fear catches in her throat. The way he says it makes her think he’s not just talking about the monsters and the torture. She remembers the scars she’d found littered across the skin of his thighs the other day. Remembers tracing a finger over them gently; begging him to never leave her.

The fear she felt in that moment is still lodged in her, tucked firmly behind her heart. But in the grey emptiness of the witching hour, she thinks she understands him.

“We should get out of here,” she says, not really knowing the scope of what she means when she says it.

“Where would we go?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Anywhere? Paris, maybe.”

Steve laughs, but it’s watery. “Might be hard to do on short notice.”

“Let’s just drive then. See where the road takes us.”

Steve sits up and looks at her, expression open and honest. “I mean…I’ve got the Beemer back. We could, if you wanted?”

Robin hooks her fingers through his. “Maybe just for the night?”

They sneak through the house, careful not to wake her parents. They haven’t bothered to change, so Steve’s still wearing an old marching band shirt and checked boxers; Robin, a Hawkins Swim Team shirt with a worn neck, and a pair of Steve’s sweatpants.

They pile into the car silently, Robin curling into the passenger seat, tucking her socked feet underneath her, and resting her head against the window. Through some unspoken agreement, neither of them makes a move to try to pick through Steve’s glove compartment of mixtapes. Steve just reaches over to tune the radio until he lands on something that seems to suit his mood well enough, and turns to her with a questioning tilt of his brow.

…because a vision softly creeping / left its seeds while I was sleeping / and the vision that was planted in my brain / still remains…

Robin’s breath hitches, and she turns to look at Steve, whose face is now glowing in the light of the streetlamps. His hands tighten on the wheel, and the corners of his mouth are drawn tight. She doesn’t want to ask what he saw. She thinks she can guess. Even with the whole gallery of horrors his mind has to choose from, she thinks there’s only one that would leave him paralyzed.

The song bleeds into another as Steve pulls out of her driveway, a soft bass line humming beneath a lilting guitar riff, filling up the car like it has physical presence. It leaves an ache in Robin’s chest, and she reaches out with a shaky hand, laying it palm up on the center console. Steve’s slots home a moment later.

They pull up to the quarry. The chorus of crickets and cicadas echo so loudly it’s like they’re the only sound left in the universe, even though she can still hear the music drifting like smoke from the radio (stars fade, but I linger on…)

“Here?” Robin turns to Steve with a frown. She tries not to think about them standing together at the precipice. Tries not to think about the drop. Tries not to think about how much a part of her wants it.

L ’appel du vide.

The thought scares her, and she has to force herself to back away from it.

Steve meets her gaze with a gentle squeeze of his hand. “There’s a clear view of the sky,” he says. “Thought we could stargaze.”

Robin’s face twists up into an expression she doesn’t think she could put a name to, even if she was looking in a mirror. Eyebrows scrunched, lips twitching upward. She feels some funny mix of fondness and bemusement, tangled up with love. “You wanna go stargazing?”

Steve shrugs. “Figured you’d rather see the real things.”

Robin doesn’t say anything, just stares at him. In defiance of all sense, Steve always drifts to sleep fairly quickly—his troubles are always with staying there than getting there—so she’s had no reason to think he’d noticed her tendency to go cross-eyed staring up at the stars on her ceiling.

“That…that would be great, yeah.”

Steve nods once, decisively, and turns the engine off, but leaves the car on so the radio keeps playing. Robin steps outside, wiggling her toes where she stands. She stretches them out wide; presses them down against the rough, rocky ground.

“C’mon, hop up.”

Robin jerks her head around at Steve’s voice. He’s produced a threadbare quilt from somewhere and is throwing it onto the hood of the car, before climbing up and patting the empty space next to him. Robin settles at his side and under his wing.

“So. Tell me about the stars.”

Robin looks up at him. “What do you wanna know?”

Steve shrugs, rustling her hair. “Dunno. They’re all, like, stories, right? Tell me one.”

Robin hums, considering. “Okay.” She grabs Steve’s hand, arranging his fingers so he’s pointing up at a spot in the western sky, a bit above the horizon. “See that group of stars up there? Looks kind of like two trapezoids smushed together, with little spokes coming out from the corners?”

“I…think so? Maybe?”

“It’s kind of hard to find sometimes, because there aren’t any, like, super super bright stars in it like there are in a lot of the other big constellations? Tonight’s a pretty good night for it, though, especially out here away from all the streetlights. And the new moon, too—it’s always harder to see things when the moon’s out—she’s so bright, you know?” Robin directs Steve’s hand along the constellation’s path. “If you wanna do this again some time I can bring my laser from home and help point things out to you that way.”

Steve nods against the top of her head. “I’d like that.” He lets his hand drop back down between them, but keeps their fingers entwined. “So, which one is that supposed to be?”

“Hercules,” she says. She raises their hands again to continue tracing over the constellation’s shape as she speaks. “That’s his head. And those are his legs—he’s kneeling—and sometimes people draw him with a club in that arm.”

Steve hums. “He was like…some big hero guy, right? Had to kill a bunch of monsters as, like, his job or something?”

Robin chuckles. “That’s not really what ‘labor’ means in this context, but yeah, that’s the basic gist. His whole story’s actually pretty long and complicated, though.” She rubs her thumb over the back of Steve’s hand. “Hercules—or, really, Heracles, if we’re talking Greek myth; the constellation is just named Hercules because that’s the one people know—anyway, he’s kind of cursed from the beginning. His mom gets pregnant with him after Zeus tricks her into sleeping with him, and then Hera—that’s Zeus’ wife—basically makes it her life’s mission to make sure this kid doesn’t exist, right? To the point where his mom just abandons him, because she’s so scared of what Hera might do.”

“Wait, if Zeus tricked the mom, why is Hera taking it out on the kid?”

“Great question! The actual answer is probably that the men telling these stories had really shitty opinions of women. In the context of the story, though, I think it’s supposed to be like…Hera is the queen of the gods, right? And the Olympians as a whole are a mess; they’re fucking mortals left and right, and also fucking each other indiscriminately, but at the same time they’re all, these, like, fundamentally prideful and jealous creatures? So Zeus constantly sleeping around with other people isn’t just a betrayal of Hera, it’s also humiliating to her. But what can she actually do to Zeus, right? So instead, she goes around trying to eradicate all the symbols of his infidelity.”

“That’s dumb,” Steve says. He stares up at the sky. From her vantage point Robin can’t quite make out his expression, but she thinks maybe it’s contemplative. “There’s probably a decent chance I have a half-sibling or two running around out there. And I guess it’s different, because if I don’t know about them, that means no one who would matter to my mom is likely to either. But I still can’t imagine her going out of her way to make another kid’s life miserable just because my dad fucked their mom.”

Robin’s brow wrinkles. Steve hasn’t really talked about his parents. Just told her that they usually spend summers outside of Hawkins, and otherwise carefully side-steps any allusion to the subject. The silence speaks for itself, though. Or so she thought, at least. The way he’s talking now…there’s a bitter edge to it, but he also talks about his mom like he loves her, if in a messy way. “I think…I think that, maybe, it’s easier to hurt people who can’t hurt you back.”

Steve sucks in a sharp breath, but doesn’t say anything. Robin doesn’t either.

Morissey’s crooning slips out from the Beemer. I am human and I need to be loved…

“Yeah, that makes sense, I guess,” he whispers—more like he’s talking to himself than to her. “So how does the rest of it go?”

“Athena finds him, and takes him to Hera, without telling her who he is. And the irony of it all is that she’s the goddess of, like, marriage and childbirth? And since she doesn’t know who the baby is she feels bad that he got abandoned, and she ends up nursing him. But baby Hercules is already so strong that he bites her breast so hard that she spills milk all across the sky—and that’s how we got the Milky Way.” Robin brings their joined hands up again to run along the bright band of stars cutting a path through the heavens.

“…what the fuck?”

“Mythology is super fucked up, dude.”

“That feels like an understatement!”

“Yeah, well, how else would you explain the Milky Way if you didn’t know about astrophysics yet?!”

“Not with some chick’s breast milk!”

Robin purses her lips and gives an exaggerated head shake. “You just don’t appreciate the power of the female form, Harrington.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s it.” Their hands are still raised high above them, and he idly plays with her fingers. “Tell me the rest of it.”

“You are so demanding,” she scoffs, but carries on anyway. “After he accidentally creates the Milky Way—or, I guess, accidentally causes Hera to create the Milky Way? Whatever, not important. After that, Athena brings him back to his mom to raise him. Which, y’know, passes more or less uneventfully—except for him murdering his music teacher, in some retellings—”

“What?”

“Yeah, I don’t really get it either. It’s just kind of a blip, and then he’s passing from ‘boyhood’ to ‘manhood’ and has to make a choice about whether to follow the path of Vice or Virtue for the rest of his life.”

“Isn’t that a little late since he’s just murdered someone? Also, that seems…overly literal.”

“Yeah, well, it’s mythology. They’re all basically parables.”

“Isn’t that a type of graph?”

“No, it’s like…fables? Moral tales.”

“Sure. Okay. But that still doesn’t make sense, because it’s not like you just make a decision like that once and never get the chance to try again.”

“Well, take that up with Prodicus.”

Steve blows a raspberry, and Robin can picture him rolling his eyes in disdain.

“Do you want me to finish this story, or not? You can give your review at the end.”

Steve is silent for a beat. Squeezes her hand. “Yeah. Keep going.”

“Okay! So, he’s having trouble deciding which path to take, when these two women approach him. One claims to be ‘Happiness’—nicknamed Vice—and the other, Virtue. And each of them presents their case for why he should follow their path. Vice runs up to him first, promising a life of wealth and happiness, and freedom from hardship—”

Steve snorts.

“Have something to share with the class, Harrington?”

“You told me to wait until you were finished!”

“And yet you still interrupted me.”

“What, so I’m not allowed to make sounds?”

“Not like that!”

Steve shakes his head with a laugh. “You’re unbelievable! Keep telling me your little parabola, then.”

Robin rolls her eyes with a dramatic sigh. “Vice promises him untold riches and blah blah blah, and then Virtue comes up and tells him that there are no good things in life to be had without hard work and sacrifice, and that following her path is the only way his memory will be honored and immortalized in death.”

Steve lets out a small disapproving sound. “And? Which does he pick?”

“He picks Virtue, just like any good hero, right?” Robin’s goading him intentionally now, but it’s worth it for the way he actively works to stifle a groan of annoyance. “Anyway, then he starts going on various adventures as a big hero man. He helps defend a city against an invasion, and the king is like ‘here, marry my daughter’ as a reward.”

“Yikes.”

“Very. But the two of them end up being pretty happy together. They get a house, have lots of children. Happily ever after, right?”

“Something tells me the answer to that question is gonna be ‘no.’”

“Yeah, because Hera’s still obsessed with getting revenge. So she induces this, like, godly madness in him, which drives him to kill his wife and kids—”

“What the fuck!!”

Robin shrugs. “Like I said, Greek Mythology, man. Anyway, that’s how we get to the part of the story most people know: Heracles goes to the Oracle of Delphi and asks how he can atone for what he’s done, and that’s how we end up with the Twelve Labors of Heracles/Hercules.”

“Absolutely none of that made any sense. Why would going around killing a bunch of monsters make up for killing his entire family? Especially when it wasn’t even really in his control? Also, if this is how he ends up with his name getting immortalized or whatever, how is that any better than just choosing vice? He didn’t actually really sacrifice anything! His family did! If the way you get to have honor or glory or whatever is by killing your loved ones—even if you ‘atone’ for it later—how does getting those things make you any better than the person who chose happiness?”

“All great questions, young Padawan,” Robin says, affecting an exaggerated, sagely tone. “To answer the first one: arguably, it isn’t. The Oracle was basically working for Hera and sent Hercules to offer ten years of servitude to a king who hated him. As for the others: I don’t know, something to think on, I guess. But. It’s not like Hercules knew he was going to lose his family. And Vice’s path hinges on exploiting others.”

“I don’t know, it just sounds like either way you spin it he’s choosing a path based on what he thinks it’ll get him.”

“I think the way the Greeks thought about morality is probably different from how we do now.”

Steve makes a sort of disgruntled sound. “I guess that makes sense.” He sighs and presses his face into her shoulder. “So, tell me how these ‘labors’ go, then.”

She does, launching into dramatic retellings of Hercules slaying the Nemean Lion and the Hydra; capturing the Minotaur and the Erymanthian Boar; stealing Hesperides’ golden apples, and King Diomedes’ mares.

The music from the radio keeps playing in the background, a strange sort of backing track. Robin hasn’t been playing close attention to the songs as they roll through—just enough to notice that whoever’s in charge of the late-night programming has been doing the musical equivalent of throwing spaghetti at walls. It suits them, though. She’s halfway through regaling Steve with Hercules’ capture of Cerberus when conscious awareness of the music knocks into her by way of Steve bopping along to the opening bars of “Dancing in the Moonlight.”

He’s up and off the hood of the car before she can say anything.

“Steve!” she yells in protest as he yanks at her arm for her to join him. “I wasn’t done!”

“You can finish later! We’re not going to pass up the opportunity to literally dance in the moonlight when the universe decrees it, Bobbin!”

“There’s no moonlight tonight, dingus!”

“Starlight, then,” he says, shimmying his shoulders at her with a wide smile on his face.

And Robin is a lot of things, but immune to the delight of one Stephen Richard Harrington is not one of them. He starts doing a little swaying and snapping number, beckoning her to join him.

This was how the early seeds of their friendship were planted. Dancing to Dolly and Madonna as they mopped the floor; yelling and laughing together as they worked. It’s easy to slip back into. Into that space where Robin was just starting to see the first glimmers of who Steve Harrington could be—who he is. That time when she started to suspect that—maybe, just maybe—he could be something like a friend to her. Before they were SteveandRobin, sure, but also before they were trapped in a metal box with two kids they’d led into danger. Before Steve was bloodied and bruised for information he didn’t have. Before Robin learned that monsters were real, and the Russians were punching holes through reality to try to reach them. A time when—for once in Robin’s life—it felt like there was moonlight in the darkness of her life.

So she dances. Shoulders swaying, and feet tapping. Hips bumping with Steve’s. Lets him twirl her under his arm like he did in her kitchen last week while teaching her how to make the best grilled cheese sandwich of her life.

She smiles, and she laughs, and for a moment she forgets about heroes, and monsters, and gods.

Her cheeks are aching from smiling so hard, and even though it’s a short song, she’s panting with exertion by the end. It trails off into the night air, and Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” fades into place.

This time she extends her hand to him, pulling Steve into her arms. She’s never been that great a dancer—clumsy, and awkward, with limbs that won’t heed her command—but she’d dragged her father to a father-daughter dance thing during the handful of years she was a Girl Scout, and she’d picked up some basics. Enough to know how to lead in a dance without structure.

Steve follows without comment, making himself smaller so he can tuck himself in against her. It actually makes it a little harder to steer them without occasionally stepping on Steve’s feet, but she takes it as the unspoken request to be held that it is, and she dances in the starlight with her best friend. Feels it sparkling through him.

She knows the constellations that dot his skin, the streaks and starbursts of light of his scars, and his nebulae of bruises. The stories written on his skin are just as mythic—just as full of heroism—and all the beautiful contradictions those things entail. And she hopes he knows it. Hopes that she can show him someday.

Notes:

This fic is in the same universe as my other Stobin-centric Summer Challenge fic, which you can read here, and to my Steve-centric fic lay your cuts and bruises over you skin, which can be read on AO3 here. I'm including this at the end since this fic works just fine as a standalone :) Also, my Classical Studies major partner feels it is imperative that I point out that Robin's description of myth vs. parable vs. fable is inaccurate. These are each distinct categories of stories, and not all of them have or are meant to have a moral. (She's right. Don't believe everything fictional teenagers say when explaining complicated concepts to other fictional teenagers :P )

taglist of people who have requested snippets of this as I worked on it! @devondespresso @theheadlessphilosopher @delta-piscium @steves-strapcollection @bifuriouswaterbender @spicysix @inairbinad and @starryeyedjanai. thanks for all the encouragement, pals!

#lexssummerfanworkschallenge #stobin #platonic stobin #stobin fic #stranger things #read writes #me last week: this fic is gonna be 3k. max.#me now: 🤡#(at least i was only off by 1k this time)#also in case anyone is wondering i did indeed look up #the moon cycle and star chart for indiana in 1985 #for the day this is set on in my head

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medusapelagia · 2 months

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When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let's spread the self-love 💞

Oh this is such a lovely ask!

Thank you dear!!!

So my favorite 5 fics are: Second Chances Mixtape, pre Steddie, Time travel AU | Rating M | words: 49,000 | 5 chapters | complete

It's 1986 and the plan to kill Vecna was a disaster: Vecna escaped, Hawkins was devasted by an earthquake and Eddie Munson is dead. Or so they presume.

“The cassette player broke.” Lucas whispers after hours of silence. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t help her. I was right there, but I couldn’t help her.” Steve holds him tighter, he has no words of comfort for him and he knows exactly how he feels. How hard is he judging himself, how he is playing the entire movie of the night in his head trying to find the point in time where he could have fixed everything. Steve knows all of that because he and Lucas are so similar and he is doing the very same thing, thinking about Eddie. Only…. Only Steve has another thought that doesn’t let him breathe: did he really hate him? Steve can’t deny that he was jealous of Dustin’s new cool friend but… did he let them risk their lives because he was jealous?

Hidden Treasure, Metal Sandwich, Pirate AU, Omegaverse | Rating E | words: 64,283 | 15 chapters | complete

In an omegaverse world, the alpha Billy Hargrove, captain of the pirate ship the Golden Lion, is traveling with his lover and second in command, the beta Eddie Munson, and their crew, raiding every merchant ship they can get their hands on. One day during one of their attacks, they stumble on a pretty beta boy who’s trying to get back to London, paying for his journey with golden jewels. Why is Steve, the pretty boy, so desperate to get to London quickly? Is he running from something? But the more important question is: is he really a beta or not?

The restless sea calls back to you, Harringrove, Mermaid AU| Rating E | Words:15,156 | One shot

When the training ends Steve brings Billy back to his tank. The merboy is tired and he has red bruises where Neil hurt him. “You ok?” It’s a stupid question, Steve knows that, but he can’t avoid it. “Are you worried about me, Harrington? How sweet.” The merboy replies, licking his sharp teeth “Maybe next time you’ll get into my tank I’ll keep you.” “Fuck you, Billy!” “Are you proposing, pretty boy?” It’s just their usual bickering but Steve can feel that his cheeks are blushing. “Oh, so you do have a crush on me. That makes so much sense: that’s why you are obsessed with me. Don’t worry, pretty boy, I’m not going to fuck you… at least not as you are thinking, but I’ll keep fucking with you because it’s the funniest thing that I can do in this stupid place.” Billy replies and then he gets underwater, while Steve stares at his big red tale covered in shimmering scales. “He has an attitude, I’ll give him that.” Hargrove says appearing from nowhere “But stay away from him. He is still a mermaid and even if he hasn’t had the time to learn the songs from other mermaids he is still capable of convincing you to kill yourself in his tank. It would not be the first time.”

Separate Ways, Harringrove, Modern AU| Rating E | Words:47,969 | 22 chapters | complete

Steve Harrington is a famous model whose life depends on his manager and (more or less) lover, Tommy Hagan. After a bar fight, he meets Officer William Hargrove, recently transferred to the NY Police Department and with a deep personal experience with a violent environment, who can clearly see the signs of domestic violence in Steve’s relationship with Tommy. Determined to help the pretty boy escape from his abusive relationship, Billy gets closer and closer to Steve.

I'm so good at telling lies (it comes from my mother's side), Steddie, Ballet AU, Omegaverse | Rating E | Words: 40,216 | 19 chapters | complete

"The first time Steve sees a ballerina it isn't a real one. It is a carillon that he sees at Malvald during the Christmas holiday. It is a blue box with a white swan and a little doll that spins around to the sound of a sweet melody. Steve has never seen something more beautiful in his life."

Steve is a male Omega who wants to study ballet at the Performing Arts Academy in New York, and who is trying to find a job that pays enough to cover his school fees. Nancy is a female Alpha, who wants to study journalism. Eddie is the youngest teacher at the New York Performing Arts Academy .

#personal fic favorites #tag game

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shipskicksandgiggles · 2 months

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Hi I’m back with another whatever these are! I haven’t been able to shake the idea of EMT in training Steve so here’s this idea

It’s no secret that Eddie and Wayne are not particularly well off, especially after all of the upside down madness. Eddie had found it nearly impossible to get a job so he did whatever he could to make ends meet, which included saving money whenever possible. This often meant that he ignored injuries and illness so that his uncle wouldn’t have to waste his hard earned money on hospital bills.

So naturally, Eddie had been ignoring an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach for several days. He refused to be a bigger financial burden than he already was to the only person in his life who’d ever actually cared about him. He continued to ignore the sensation even as it developed from discomfort to pain. It wasn’t u til the pain reached an excruciating level, radiating out from the lower right side of the man’s belly that he finally admitted to himself that he needed to do something.

Eddie certainly couldn’t go to the hospital, he wouldn’t even be able to drive himself there in this condition if he could have afforded it. So instead, the metalhead dragged himself toward the kitchen until he reached the phone. He promptly collapsed to his knees, trying to breathe through the pain that was making his vision swim and his head feel like he’d been forced underwater. He swallowed back the vomit that was crawling up his throat as he dialed the number of the one person he knew who might be able to help, Steve.

Steve, luckily, had the day off and had been able to rush over to the Munson’s trailer. He was horrified by the state that he found Eddie in and knew that this was more than just a little stomach ache…

Que Steve using his EMT knowledge and skills to not only take care of Eddie as much as he can but also to convince the other man to go to the hospital because he definitely had appendicitis and Steve definitely wouldn’t mind putting the bill on his parent’s credit card and for the love of god Eddie just get in the damn car…

I know this isn’t At All what you had in mind but I’ve been staring at this for two days because I can’t get over how much I get Eddie here but for completely different reasons

I absolutely love this, but I kind of sort of want to like. turn this into a trans!Eddie fic where he and Steve both jump to appendicitis but they get to the hospital and surprise! it’s actually an ovarian cyst which has pain in a similar area and can also cause weakness and vomiting (speaking from experience, I thought I was dying personally) but would still absolutely warrant a visit to the hospital

but I support putting the bill on the Harrington’s credit card and Steve doing everything in his power to take care of Eddie since he’s very stubborn and doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone. but he’s not an inconvenience to Steve

#ellis writes #asks #answers

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snowangeldotmp3 · 1 year

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having a stream of consciousness about some possibilities for mermaid au + other au’s bear with me it helps me think:

- surfer robin + mermaid nancy. robin has a bad wipeout. nancy saves her.

- this version of robin is my beloved very tall and lanky 6ft robin. bc she’s out in the sun she’s always freckled.

- and tattoos. robin has some tattoos and (once nancy’s able to be on land) one of nancy’s favorite activities is tracing them. robin and steve both have tattoos on their thighs (eddie’s idea. he’s the one that gave them the tattoos. this is like an idealized boardwalk situation to me, ya know?) and they’re not matching bc that’s bad luck.

- speaking of nancy. having a hard time deciding on whether she can keep her voice or not. 1.) i think it’s funny for robin to try and guess what nancy is saying with those big ole eyes + nancy’s very expressive face + hands (i think theyd try to learn sign tbh.) 2.) nancy with her voice trying to explain all the politics and intricacies of mermaid world and robin being completely enamored is near and dear to me.

- the whole mermaids kiss thing. works like true loves kiss. except SHOCKER!!! robin doesn’t believe in true love. at all. anyway mermaids kiss gives the person the ability to breathe underwater. robin is chomping at the bit to see mermaid world. there’s a whole lost in translation thing here with human vs mermaid culture (in mermaid culture they’re dating. robin is not aware of this. at all. nancy does not fully realize they aren’t dating, at least not by robins logic.)

- this one is for a different idea that spilled out of me one night but basically;

robin is a secret mermaid. she does not know this because she was raised with humans. she’s always felt different and always struggled fitting in and never knew why she was so different. she’s got scars on her ribs (where her gills should be) and she doesn’t know what they’re from. cut to her being down on the shore one day and spotting steve in the water + he knows what the scars are. (everyone EXCEPT robin is a mermaid in this au lol.) but also robin being shocked that underwater they don’t care if ur gay. robin might cry. it’s a lot. but it becomes home

#stranger things #ronance #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #steve harrington #tagging this as these things only to help me file it away for later #mermaid nancy #mermaid robin #THINKING……

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grey-sides · 2 years

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Is it possible if you do a Holly wheeler and any character interaction? It would be super cute! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Hi!! I hope this is cute enough!

Steve is Holly's favorite of Nancy's friends. Jonathan is nice, but he's quiet and almost always focused on Nancy. The girls in Nancy's newspaper club usually just squeal over how cute she is and tell her that they love her dresses. Which is nice, but they treat her like a baby. And Holly isn't a baby anymore!

She's six years old, in kindergarten, and can stick her head underwater because Mr. Billy taught her how to!

She likes Mr. Billy too but he's more Steve's friend than Nancy's. Sometimes Nancy calls Mr. Billy a burnout and Holly doesn't know what that is, but it doesn't sound nice.

Mike's friends are all gross and they like to take her toys. And most everyone doesn't pay attention to Holly. Because she's little, even though she's really good at listening to people. She knows things!

Steve is different. He always treats her like she's six. A big girl, who knows lots of stuff about the world and who is going to school to learn even more.

Steve doesn't go up to Nancy's room anymore, now he sits in the living room when he comes over and sometimes he sits by Holly and helps her with a puzzle instead of hanging out with Nancy and Jonathan. Sometimes he brings Billy and they'll all have a contest to see who can hold their breaths the longest.

Steve brought over banana bread earlier, said his mom made it. He even let Holly cut her own slice, with supervision and let her spread the butter over it.

She likes Steve because he treats her like Holly and not just Nancy's little sister.

Steve's on the couch, flicking through the newspaper Dad discarded earlier, trying to not look interested in Nancy's conversation with Robin. Robin's cool too, but she doesn't have conversations with Holly like Steve does.

Holly climbs up beside him, her coloring book clutched in one hand so she can show him the newest one she did. She even colored in all the lines!

Steve puts down the newspaper, smiling at her. "Whatcha got there, Holly?"

Holly opens her book to the picture of the cat she colored in. She even gave it patches of color even though the lines didn't come drawn like that. "I colored this earlier."

Steve takes it, looks it over for a long time, nodding and humming his approval. "This is very good, Holly! You should ask Mommy to hang it up for you."

Holly thinks about all the pictures already hanging on the fridge and shakes her head, pigtails flying. "You can have it, but you have to rip it out."

Steve turns his smile to her and chuckles, nodding at the idea. "Okay, deal."

He sets the book down on the coffee table and gently tears the page out, looking at it a moment longer. He folds it up carefully and tucks it into his pocket, patting it once for safe keeping.

"I'll hang it up on my fridge, okay? And when you come swimming you'll be able to see it."

Holly nods eagerly, a bright grin on her face. Nancy has lots of friends, but Steve really is her favorite.

#arizonasophia #greye writes #harringrove #since there's a touch here #steve harrington #holly wheeler #stranger things #drabble

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chickensoupleg · 1 year

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2 random aus since I got in a mood.

Eddie living near a lake that had rumours of mermaids living in there. The lake being huge and deep, so deep that Eddie would joke it's just a mini ocean in his own backyard. He and his uncle Wayne would go fishing there all the time, and so it was a very comforting place. Especially with the mermaid rumours. Eddie even would put the 'mermaid lake' into some of his campaigns, just for fun. Sometimes it was an important feature, where he would encourage his players to visit it, or maybe even have the big bad appear there. Then suddenly the rumours come true, when he's just writing and playing songs by the lake and hears singing coming from it. He would look out to the lake and see eyes staring back at him before disappearing into the deep. Of course, nobody believes him, because sure. The rumours are popular, but it doesn't mean people actually believe anyone would actually see them. Eddie is persistent though and keeps visiting. Even if he doesn't see whatever he saw that day, he gets to be by the lake, which is just added perk. Then he sees the mermaid for real, and turns out mermaids know English. He also learns that mermaids can be dudes, even if it's far more popular for them to be female. His mermaid friend finds it hilarious, because if mermaids were only girls than how would they procreate? Like bacteria? Which, when he puts it like that, does sound kind of stupid. Anyways, he learns the mermaid is named Billy, and that he's not actually from here at all. Which, obviously, sounds insane to Eddie, because where else would he have come from? It's a lake, and as far as Eddie is aware, not connected to the ocean in the slightest. It is a sole standing body of water as far as he's aware. Billy, the prick, laughs at him. Apparently it is connected to other bodies of water, it's just not feasible by human standards. There's a hidden underground tunnel apparently, and Billy just sort of... migrated there. Accidentally. The tunnel is somehow a powerful current, and only works one way. So he's been stuck there for years. There are a handful of other mermaids in the lake, but they don't come up since they can breathe underwater just fine despite appearing human. Ergo, they never interact with humans much either. The only reason Billy even showed up was because he liked the music Eddie was playing. Which launches Eddie into a whole plethora of questions, because this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Billy only answers some of them freely, and makes Eddie work to get other answers. They grow close, and since then Eddie makes it his mission to continually visit his new friend. Billy isn't much of a nerd as Eddie is, but they connect with their shared appreciation for the metal genre, even if Eddie has to be the one to supply it. In return, Billy gives him cool shells and rocks he finds. And a crab once. Which was weird, because Eddie didn't know the lake had crabs. They get close, and maybe even a little affectionate. Who knows.

Basically just centaur Harringroveson AU. Steve is a cervitaur, Eddie is a centaur, and Billy is a bariaur. They're just vibing honestly. Maybe Eddie gets the fun time of watching Steve and Billy fight by antler/horns. And then help them because they got stuck to each other. Which happens a lot, because something in their hindbrains wants to just slam their antlers/horns against each other. Dominance, or whatever it is supposed to be. Eddie certainly isn't up for the task. Fun times when Steve casually shed his antlers. Or shed his velvet, where Eddie has to go hide because it is a gory sight. He finds it metal, but also his stomach can only take so much. Billy finds it equally as gross, but his stomach is much stronger for this. Eddie is probably like... a black thoroughbred horse. Or a mustang. Just... a runner of a guy. Steve is either a common white-tailed deer or a red deer. Just for the idea of the red deer being huge and the whole King Steve kind of idea. Billy is a rambouillet ram or a rocky mountain bighorn. Just... stocky but also has a sort of glamour to him. Of course just to make it fair everyone gets the fun perk of being centaur hybrid things. Maybe El can be a unicorn centaur, as a psychic treat. (Oh my gosh unicorn Vecna.... Dark crispy unicorn Vecna.... Flesh monster...) Also I don't think cars exist in this universe, because it would be very awkward trying to fit in one, unless they were very specifically built and long to accommodate the rest of them. Oh they'd be so long. So either it is long cars, or everyone walks everywhere. Alternatively, wagons for passengers. Just for extra fun (mostly just for me) Robin is also a cervitaur, and she jokes that she stole Steve's antlers when hers come in when Steve's falls off. She'd be a reindeer, which is why it works. It also means they can put trinkets on their antlers year round. When Steve's falls off they go right on Robin's. Fun fact, sheeps can swim. Billy is not banned from his water. However, sheep can also sink because wool is a thing. Billy has to shave. Extra treat: Demotaurs. Why not.

#stranger things #stranger things 4 #steve harrington #robin buckley #eddie munson #billy hargrove #platonic with a capital p #harringroveson #mungrove #eddie parades around with steve's old antlers for fun #eddie's internet history: is it weird to hang up my boyfriends antlers on the wall like a prize #sad idea: billy was polled as a kid because his dad decided he didn't need them (and therefore couldn't protect himself)#this version he gets to keep them because it makes him 'manly' which billy's fine with #eddie feeds billy fish scraps every time he fishes because hey why not #one year there was a fishing competition in the lake and billy helped eddie cheat #he would swim around and catch a decent sized fish and after a reasonable amount of time passed he'd hook the fish and tug on the line #once jason thought he saw eddie mingling with a strange man in the lake and tried to say eddie was fraternizing with the devil #which frankly was weird because what if that was just a regular man jason #jason is just generally off-put by eddie in general though especially with his music taste #eddie introduces chrissy to billy and they hit it off immediately #and then billy introduces her to heather (fellow mermaid) and now they're all besties #centaurs come in all shapes and forms like cats/rhinos/dogs/cows/goats/etc. they got four legs? use them #a guy can be a frog centaur... as a treat #the possibilities are endless #weird thought: if billy produces wool does that mean people can use it #because theoretically its usable like any sheep wool would be #so does that mean people can... make yarn out of billy #steve has a pillow stuffed with billy's wool and its a comfort object when he's away #max being another horned/antlered centaur and she and billy literally butt heads #eddie teasingly calls billy 'billy goat' even though he's not a goat

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starkstruck27 · 1 year

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Harringrove Week Day 7

🎂🎈🎉Happy Birthday, Billy!!🎉🎈🎂

Prompt(s): 5+1, It's My Party by Lesley Gore

Dialogue Challenge: "You don't know what you put me through."

Word Count: 7,856

Tw(s): Implied/referenced child abuse, Minor injuries

The first time it happened, it didn’t mean anything.

It was more of an obligation than anything, just a part of Billy’s job. It was July 7th, 1984, and the day was one of the hottest of the summer so far. The pool was extremely crowded, and unfortunately for him, Billy had to work that day, so there he sat, atop his lifeguard chair, trying to keep an eye on about three hundred children, teenagers and adults to make sure no one got hurt. Perfect way to spend an already miserable afternoon.

About halfway through his shift was when it happened. He was about to switch out with Heather and return to the sweet, sweet air-conditioned interior of his car for his lunch break when a large splash sounded on the deep end of the pool. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t worry him. There was a diving board at that end, and most of the people in town knew not to go off of it if they didn’t know how to swim, especially when Billy was working. But what got his attention was the screams that came from the same direction just after the splash.

Billy vaguely recognized the kid that ran frantically over to him as one of Max’s friends, the one with black hair and too much attitude for a kid his age. He couldn’t remember the kid’s name, but he didn’t need to right now, not when the kid was practically screeching at him to get his ass in the water.

Billy didn’t need to be told twice. He blew his whistle as hard as he could and tossed his sunglasses aside, then jumped into the pool, making a few younger kids screech as the splash crested over them in a wave. He swam underwater to the deep end of the pool, found whoever it was that had fallen in, and yanked them up to the surface, where Heather was already waiting with something to prop their head up. She and Billy worked together to get the guy laid flat on the pavement, and Billy began doing chest compressions on him while Heather tried to herd back the crowd of spectators. It was only now that Billy realized whose life he was saving, and he wasn’t sure whether he started pushing harder on his chest because he was scared for him or if he was just trying to break one of his ribs.

“What happened?” Billy asked the group of kids Max was friends with. She and the rest of them had come to the pool that day just like everyone else, but while she tried to help Heather keep everyone back, the other kids just crowded around Billy, practically sobbing their eyes out.

“He was going to get a drink of water, he said he was thirsty, and then he just… He just fell over!” The kid with no front teeth said. “Oh my God, if Steve dies, I’ll never forgive myself! I should’ve noticed he wasn’t alright, holy shit!”

“Kid, he’s not gonna die. Now shut up and calm down so I can do my job,” Billy said, shooting the kid a sharp glare. He nodded quickly and tried to swallow his cries, and Billy was able to better focus on keeping Harrington alive. The chest compressions weren’t working, though, and he knew what he had to do next. Christ, Heather was never going to let him live this down.

Billy wanted to scream like everyone else had been doing when he made a decision and stopped pressing on Harrington’s chest, instead using his hands to pinch his nose shut and sealing his mouth over the other boy’s. He squeezed his eyes shut as he breathed into his mouth, then let himself up and continued to push on his chest, hoping that by not looking at him, he could trick himself into thinking it was literally anybody else.

“C’mon, man, don’t you quit on me,” he muttered under his breath, about to go in again to help him breathe, but just then, Steve began to sputter and cough up water.

Billy helped him sit up and began to pound on his back to help him get the water out of his system, almost holding him up to keep him from toppling back into the pool. He wrapped a towel around his shoulders like a security blanket and Heather handed him a cold bottle of water, which Billy opened for him and helped him drink.

“There you go, Harrington, drink up. You okay?” Billy said, holding him up still as he drank some water.

“Yeah,” Steve replied as he was able to gain control of himself, “Yeah, I’m okay now. Thanks for, y’know, not letting me die.”

“It’s my job, Harrington,” Billy said, standing up finally, his knees aching from kneeling on the pavement for so long. “Honestly, I should’ve let you die, face the consequences of your own stupidity. It’s the hottest day of the year, why did you wait to drink water until you were about to fall over?”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve said, his voice rough and raw, “Where do you think I was going when I fell, you asshole?”

“I know that’s where you were going, your charges told me. Still, what I’m saying is, they all have water bottles, I saw you handing them out earlier, so why don't you have one? You gotta take care of yourself, too. Next time bring some water for yourself. I don’t want to have to save your ass again,” Billy replied. Then he walked away, leaving Steve with an incredulous look on his face in favor of drying himself off and relaxing in his car for the rest of his lunch break.

The second time it happened, it was less accidental.

In fact, it was almost voluntary. It was Tina’s annual halloween party, this year being hosted on October 29th. Billy had managed to get out of the house for a night and decided to attend, if for no other reason than to get absolutely smashed. So he found an old wire halo and a pair of feathery wings from one of Max’s old costumes, pulled his hair back a little, grabbed a new pack of smokes, and left the house, roaring down the streets of Hawkins on his way to Tina’s house.

When he got there, the party was already in full swing. Music pouring out of every window, kids already stumbling out on the lawn to throw up in the rose bushes, and toilet paper providing decoration for the trees devoid of their leaves all helped to make up the festive atmosphere, as well as screams and shouts from inside the house. Billy was honestly surprised that there hadn’t been any noise complaints shutting the place down yet, but hey, he wasn’t complaining.

It was unseasonably warm for October, even at night, and because of that, Billy decided to leave the white sweatshirt he was planning on wearing in his car, leaving him in just his white tank top and dark blue jeans, as well as his signature boots. He got out of his car and locked the doors, then donned the halo and wings as he walked up to the door, and checked to make sure the back was still on his cross earring. He liked this one, he didn’t want to lose it.

It didn’t take long for Billy to find the kitchen, and in turn, the liquor. He didn’t even try to pace himself, just drank whatever he could get his hands on, until he was barely able to see straight. He decided to take a little break then, not wanting to puke like the little freshman and sophomore kids had been doing all night, and instead lit up a cigarette to keep his mouth occupied.

He’d sobered up a little after a smoke and a half, and that was when he saw him, a literal handsome devil off on the other side of the room, chatting with some people. He couldn’t quite tell who it was, but he could tell he was pretty. He had dark hair with plastic devil horns sticking up from it, pale skin painted with red blush, and he was wearing a black sweater and matching pants, as well as a long, wine red cape tied around his beautiful neck. Billy wanted to bite him on that neck and see if he could untie the cape with nothing but his tongue. He wanted to see if he could make his skin turn the same color red as the blush. And with his inhibitions long gone by now, chased away by the alcohol, he decided to just go for it.

He sauntered over to the guy, still puffing on his smoke, taking one long drag as the people the guy had been talking with left to go somewhere else, leaving him alone. He stood in front of the guy, blew the smoke in his face, and with as little slurring of his words as he could manage, said, “How’s it going, Pretty Boy?”

“I was a lot better before you blew smoke directly into my eyes,” the guy said, wrinkling his adorable nose and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Aw, I’m sorry, handsome. Why don’t you let me make it up to you?” Billy said, stubbing his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray and reaching forward to hook his fingers in the collar of the guy’s shirt.

“And just how would you do that?” The guy asked, a sly smile now on his face as he leaned forward towards Billy. He seemed to be just as drunk as Billy was, if not a little more so, and Billy began to feel a little giddy as he led the guy down a hallway, looking for the first available space where they could be alone.

It happened to be a closet. Billy led whoever the handsome devil was inside the closet by his shirt and shut the door, not even bothering to look for any kind of lightswitch. Instead, he pulled him in close until their bodies were flush against each other, biting his lip as a chuckle clawed his way up out of his throat. The guy was taller than him, and he liked that. Billy was a sucker for guys who were bigger than him, even if he would never admit it.

“You’re pretty naughty for an angel,” the guy said, and Billy could practically feel his grin pressed to his cheek.

“That’s cuz I’m not an angel anymore since I fell for you,” Billy replied, finally getting his hands on the guy’s skin after putting them up under his shirt. That was when the guy kissed him, hard and hungry, like he was a man starved and Billy was a ten-course meal. He hadn’t even been kissing him for a full four seconds when he shoved his tongue down Billy’s throat and reached behind him to grope Billy’s ass through his jeans. At that moment, Billy felt like he was actually in heaven.

And after that, he couldn’t remember anything.

Billy woke up the next day sometime in the late morning, still in the same closet as last night, but with a pair of devil horns on his head rather than a halo. He felt queasy as soon as he opened his eyes, and it only got worse as he sat up and eventually stood, leaning most of his body weight on the door frame. Eventually he got up the strength to walk out of the room, finding a few others passed out on couches, in guest rooms, the floor and even on the front lawn, but he didn’t pay them any mind aside from making sure he didn’t step on them on his way to the bathroom.

He opened the medicine cabinet when he got there and found an almost empty bottle of Tylenol, and swallowed two down dry before turning on the tap and drinking some water. He felt like absolute shit, and when he looked in the mirror, he found that his face certainly didn’t hide that fact. There were dark spots under his eyes, he was paler than normal, and there were red marks all over his neck. Suddenly he remembered the devil guy from the night before, and the sick feeling returned at full force when he remembered his face. It was blurry, but he was almost positive that it was Steve Harrington under all that makeup and those stupid clothes.

Well, shit. This was not good. But there was nothing Billy could do about it now, so he splashed some more water on his face, made sure he had everything he came with (except the halo, but he could guess where that ended up), and left the house to head for his own.

The third time it was nowhere close to an accident.

They could have very easily told everyone else at that stupid party that they didn’t want to do it, and with a little good-natured ribbing, that would’ve been the end of it. But they didn’t, and it wasn’t and now Billy was at home, lying in bed with his window open and a cigarette between his lips, trying desperately to figure out where it all went wrong.

He supposed that it probably started going downhill right after he accepted the invitation to Carol Perkins’s stupid fucking Christmas Party. It wasn’t going to be a rager with people from all over town just walking in and out as they pleased, like Tina’s parties always were. There would still be alcohol and there would still be weed and there would still be about forty or fifty horny teenagers running around and pretending that their actions had no consequences, but it would be a lot more laid back than most of the other parties were. So Billy decided to go, because why the hell not?

The party was held on December 12th that year, during the one week of December that Carol could throw a party without her parents finding out. They were out of town for a while, and would only be back the week before Christmas to pick up Carol and whisk her away to wherever rich people spent their Christmases. Probably the Bahamas or somewhere. So Carol had the house stocked full of food, weed and booze as soon as people started showing up around 8:00, and soon, the party was under way.

Billy showed up fashionably late, as usual, and that may have been his first mistake. Carol’s house was not in a cul-de-sac like Tina’s was, and unlike the other girl, she did not allow people to park on her lawn, so finding a parking space was like trying to find a shark on the beach. Not impossible, but damn close to it. Eventually though, he found a spot and made his way up to the house.

When he got inside, the first thing Billy noticed was that the majority of people attending were already drunk. It wasn’t an overwhelming majority, but for every sober person, there were probably two and a half wasted ones, and that included the party’s hostess. Carol threw open the door when Billy knocked on it and nearly fell face first into his chest, but she managed to keep her balance by grabbing the doorknob. Her face broke into a huge smile as she finally realized who exactly she was looking at, and she led him inside and out of the winter chill just as the snow began to fall.

“Make yourself at home!” She shouted as she led him through the house. The music wasn’t loud enough for Billy to be able to justify her being that loud, but he knew he did stupid stuff like that when he was drunk, too.

“Like shoving your tongue down Steve Harrington’s throat the last time you were at a party,” his brain helpfully supplied, and in that thought was his second mistake.

Billy swore to himself that he was going to forget that party ever happened, or at least that part of it, but his stupid memory didn’t seem to want to let it go. Ever since the night of that party, anytime Billy saw Steve kissing a girl while at school, or anytime he tried to get with one himself, his mind would immediately take him back to that closet, and the way he’d felt more himself then in that moment than he had the entire time he’d been in Hawkins. Eventually, he just gave up on trying to get with anybody, and he began keeping his head down in the halls in an attempt to avoid seeing Steve at all. It was certainly doing wonders for his ego to know that Steve Harrington of all people had been the one to turn him into somewhat of a wallflower.

“Anyway,” Carol continued, stopping abruptly in the middle of the living room and causing Billy to almost crash into her, “There’s food and drinks in the kitchen, uh, don’t mess with the sound system, basement’s off limits… Oh! And I don’t care if you go upstairs, but my room and my parent’s room is off limits. Other than that, have fun!”

“Sure,” Billy said, deciding to make a beeline for the kitchen as soon as he could, “Thanks, Carol.”

And with that, Carol left him to his own devices, and in turn caused Billy to make his third mistake. As soon as he was by himself, Billy went straight for the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten in hours and he wanted something to drink, so obviously, he rushed over as quickly as he could.

There weren't a whole lot of options when it came to the food, since Carol wasn’t much of a cook. However, there were store-bought cookies and cupcakes, bags of chips and dip, vegetable and fruit platters, and little candies strewn out all over the table. Billy helped himself to a plate, and was munching on a slice of mango from the fruit platter when he saw Harrington come in with a girl on his arm.

Billy didn’t know the girl that well, only that her name was Rosalie and that she liked to pretend that she was a witch. She was always picking up random rocks when they were outside during gym class and stuffing them into her shorts pockets, claiming that they had special powers, and she would pick flowers and hang them upside down in her locker, claiming that the combination of blooms would cast a spell to protect her things from ever getting stolen. Billy was tempted to break into her locker just to prove her wrong one of these days. But what really burned him up upon seeing her with Harrington was the fact that he would go for someone as crazy as her and that Billy would have to watch it end in either heartbreak or Harrington starting to believe in the magic rocks, too.

As soon as Billy saw them enter the kitchen, he wasn’t hungry anymore. He tossed the remaining chips, dip and half-eaten cookie on his plate into the garbage and went straight for the coolers full of drinks instead. He didn’t want to get plastered tonight, especially since he absolutely had to drive himself home, but getting a decent buzz going would make the whole situation a little bit easier to breathe in. So he got himself a beer and drank it as fast as he could, then popped open another one and took his time to sip it slowly. Then he moved to get the fuck out of that goddamn kitchen.

This was his fourth, and arguably worst, mistake. Apparently, after dropping his girl off in the kitchen, Harrington had wandered off somewhere else, and was only now returning to her side, just as Billy was leaving. He bumped into him as they both attempted to fit through the doorway, and Billy could already feel the pit forming in his stomach.

“Watch where you’re going, Harrington,” he grumbled as they bumped, turning around to level the other boy with the same harsh glare he’d used on the kid at the pool months earlier, right before he technically kissed Steve Harrington for the first time.

And just like that, they were in a staring match. It had only lasted a second, maybe two, and Billy was all set to relent and just shrug it off when suddenly, he heard Carol shriek in delight.

“Oooh! Billy and Steve are standing under the mistletoe!” She crooned in a sing-song voice, pointing at them and effectively grabbing the attention of everybody in the house within a 50 foot radius. Billy looked up to the doorframe and, sure enough, he and Steve were standing directly below a sprig of the cursed plant. He wanted so badly to take the damn thing and shove it right down Carol’s throat, and the feeling only increased as she started up a chant, everyone at the party soon joining in repeating ‘Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!’.

Billy knew there was no way out of this. Looking at Steve, he knew that he knew it, too. Especially since his girl Rosalie had even joined in the chant. So, with a sigh, a roll of his eyes, and the sound of the little devil and angel on his shoulders screaming for him to just do it and to run away screaming at the same time, Billy decided to just bite the bullet and, in turn, made his final mistake.

Billy leaned forward and put one of his hands on Steve’s cheek before he kissed him, hoping that the gesture would allow him to keep at least a little bit of his dignity. He closed his eyes and just gave Harrington a quick peck on the lips, kissing him for just long enough to satisfy the crowd of people around them and not a second longer. He didn’t let himself enjoy the taste of Steve’s lips, and he didn’t let himself relish in the tiny noise Harrington made when they parted, either. Instead, he pulled back, tossed a cheeky wink in Harrington’s general direction, and made a big show of walking triumphantly into the living room, drinking as he went. But the feeling of the cold metal can couldn’t chase away the feeling of Steve’s warm lips on his.

Billy didn’t stay too long after that. It seemed that anywhere he looked, anywhere he listened, he either saw or heard someone talking about the kiss or about Harrington, and he was frankly getting tired of it. He made the rounds one more time once his beer was gone, thanked Carol for having him, and then left with some bullshit excuse of a stomach ache tailing him out the door.

The fourth time it wasn’t actually Billy who’d started it.

It was February 14th, Billy’s least favorite day of the year, and of course, that meant that Hawkins High was a cesspool of PDAs, chocolates, flower petals and hearts. He couldn’t walk two feet without seeing a couple either making out or clinging to each other like it was their last day on Earth, and every five seconds there was another delighted shriek from a girl as her boyfriend presented her with whatever gift he’d chosen to give her.

Billy thought it was all just a crock of shit. Why did these people make such a big deal out of everything that they did normally just because it happened to be a certain date? Granted, he may have been a little biased on the matter. He hadn’t had a Valentine since he was eleven years old, and even then it only lasted about two days before the school bullies beat him and the other boy to a bloody pulp for being queer. After that, Logan had wanted nothing to do with him, and he tore up the card Billy had made him right in front of his face before leaving him a crying, heartbroken mess in the schoolyard. So yeah, Billy kind of despised this holiday.

But of course, that didn’t mean he could escape it. He had to suffer through the ordeal and just suck it up until he could go home, eat a half gallon of peanut butter ripple ice cream, cry and eventually fall asleep. It was a solid, foolproof plan for getting through the day.

But by lunch time, his patience was really wearing thin. Just as he was getting up to throw away his empty tray, Eddie Munson took it upon himself to inadvertently rub it in his face, since he plugged in an amplifier, stood up on his lunch table, and started playing a song he wrote for his girlfriend, Chrissy. It was a sweet song and he capped it off by handing her a big bouquet of black and red roses before kissing her sweetly to the oohs and ahhs of the rest of the student body. And it made Billy want to throw up the entire tray of food that he’d just eaten.

The cafeteria felt suffocating after that, and Billy didn’t like it. He couldn’t stand being around that much endearment, and the fact that it was now making him physically ill was probably not good. So he grabbed his backpack and walked out of the cafeteria, heading for the nearest bathroom to try and clear his head.

He finally found an empty one and proceeded to splash some cold water on his face as soon as the door closed behind him. He was tired, and he wanted to go home, but he knew they’d call home if he skipped any classes, and he didn’t want to risk it.

“Just three more hours,” he whispered to his reflection as he rubbed at his eyes with more cold water, “Three more hours and then you get to go home.”

Billy stayed leaned over the bathroom sink for almost a minute more, his head resting against the mirror and his eyes closed as he tried to prepare himself to go back out to the cafeteria. There were only a few minutes left in the lunch period, so he debated going to the library to pick up a new book instead, but he never got the chance to make the decision, because as he dried off his face and shouldered his backpack, he heard the door to the bathroom open again.

He turned around and immediately wanted to bang his head against the mirror as he saw who stood before him. Steve Harrington just had to pick this particular bathroom, didn’t he? Billy couldn’t catch a fucking break.

“You feeling alright, Hargrove?” Steve asked with a mischievous smirk on his face. Billy didn’t like that look. A look like that could only lead to trouble.

“What do you care, Harrington?” He spat back, trying to gain some sort of upper hand, “Shouldn’t you be shoving your hand down your girl’s pants right about now? What’s her name this week, huh? Lorraine, Lydia, something like that?”

“Actually, you were close. It’s Lola,” Steve replied, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping closer to Billy. He wasn’t blocking the door anymore, but he was still between it and Billy, meaning that the other boy had no way out unless he tried to flush himself down the toilet. Though, that honestly seemed like a better option than whatever it was Harrington was planning on doing right now.

“Right, Lola. Heard that girl’s a bit of a slut for you. So why you’re in here checking on me when you could be off having a quickie with her before the bell rings, I’ll never know,” Billy said, trying to hide his nerves. Maybe he wasn’t such a fan of guys being bigger than him after all.

“She’s too much of a freak to be able to have a quickie with when we actually have to get back to normal afterwards. She likes to leave marks, and not only the kind that are visible to the general public,” Steve said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he bit his bottom lip. Billy hated that he didn’t hate that face.

“Still doesn’t answer why you’re in here telling me about it instead of doing literally anything else,” Billy said, crossing his own arms as Steve took one more step closer, trapping him between himself and the paper towel dispenser. He laughed a little bit, and dropped his hands to his sides.

And then, he shut himself up by taking Billy’s face in his hands and leaning down to kiss him. It wasn’t like any other kiss they’d shared before. Where the others were rough or desperate or devoid of any emotion at all, this one held everything Billy feared and craved all at once, and every word he didn’t know how to say. It made his heart flutter and his stomach swoop, and he was sure he even stopped breathing for a minute. Steve’s hands on his face felt like a brand, or maybe it was just the fiery flush that was inevitably leaving Billy as red as the paper hearts pasted all over the hallways.

And then just as quickly as it had started, it was over. Steve stepped back and released Billy from his hold, his smile genuine and his voice soft as he walked out, saying, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Billy.”

Billy didn’t know what he was supposed to take away from that. Hell, he could barely wrap his head around the fact that it had even happened. He still wasn’t going to cut class and risk going home to an angry father when he could barely get his wits about him as it was, but he was most definitely going to eat the entire gallon of peanut butter ripple as soon as he got home.

The fifth time it happened, it almost made Billy cry.

It was March 28th, the day before his birthday, and he should’ve known that would put his dad in a bad mood, but he didn’t think about it. He was just trying to organize his bookshelf, to clean it up so that he could find his books more easily and not have to hunt around for them when he wanted to read them. And he was so close to being done, to just finally getting it perfect, when he knocked one of his hardbacks over onto the floor.

The thud it made wasn’t very loud, but it was a big enough sound to alert his father, who came storming into the room right then, already pissed off.

By the end of the ordeal, the entire bookshelf was knocked over, all the books were scattered on the floor, and Billy was covered in cuts and bruises, sprinting to his car as soon as he found the opportunity. It was late, just a little after ten, and he should’ve just gone to bed instead of running, but he didn’t want Neil to be able to come back for another round, so he left.

At first, he just drove around town, trying to figure out what to do. He didn’t know where to go, so he just drove, figuring he’d end up somewhere safe eventually.

He found himself parking in front of the only house he recognized on the dead-end street he wound up on. He’d dropped Max off here enough times, and he knew that there was only ever one person at home, so it was probably the safest option. The fewer people who saw him like this, the better.

So that’s how he found himself on Steve Harrinton’s doorstep, ringing his doorbell and shuffling his feet on the welcome mat as he waited for him to open the door. His car was parked in the driveway, so Billy knew he was home, and now all he had to do was wait.

“Billy? What are you doing- oh,” Steve said as he opened the door, his expression immediately turning to concern as he saw the blood crusting on Billy’s face.

“You gonna let me in or what, Harrington?” Billy asked as he stood there, tempted to bite his lip, but he tried to fight back the urge, since he knew it would only bring more pain, and he was feeling more than enough of that already.

“Yeah, sure. C’mon in,” Steve said, standing aside and holding the door open for him, “What happened to you?”

“Got in a fight. Don’t worry about it, though. You should see the other guy,” Billy said, hoping that would be enough of an explanation.

“Uh huh. And how did you end up here?” Steve asked, shutting the door and walking towards the kitchen. Billy didn’t know what else to do but follow.

“Needed someone to help patch me up, but Max is at a sleepover and the folks are out of town,” Billy lied, shrugging, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Steve nodded, not saying much else as he dug around in one of the cabinets for a first aid kit. Billy just stood there awkwardly, hands in his pockets, and watched him. He looked so cuddly, dressed in only a white t-shirt with tiny spaghetti stains on it and green flannel pajama pants. His hair was still as pretty as ever, if only a little more unruly, and he had the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow sprouting on his jaw. He was so effortlessly handsome, Billy was almost jealous.

“So,” Steve said as he finally found the kit and motioned for Billy to sit down at the kitchen table, “You wanna tell me who it was that jacked your face up?”

“Not really,” Billy replied, sitting as instructed and trying to keep his leg from bouncing.

“Well, if not who, then you wanna tell me why they did it?” Steve continued to push, taking out some antiseptic wipes and starting to clean up Billy’s face.

“I pissed ‘em off, that’s why,” Billy replied, wincing a little at the sting as Steve cleared the blood away from a cut.

“And how did you do that?” Steve asked, putting the wipes down now that all the blood was gone and picking up a box of band-aids as Billy shrugged and looked away.

“It doesn’t matter. And why do you care so much, anyway? It’s not like you’d risk that pretty face of yours to go back to whoever it was and defend my honor or whatever, so what does it matter?” Billy asked, glaring at Steve. And yeah, he knew he was being a bit of an asshole, but right now, he didn’t care.

“It matters because you showed up to my house bloody and battered and I think I at least deserve to know why. And who knows, maybe if I knew something else about it, I might even be able to help fix it,” Steve said, his voice still as even as ever. He didn’t sound upset at Billy being so snarky to him, and for some reason, that made a pit form in Billy’s stomach.

“Fix it, huh?” Billy scoffed, “What are you gonna do? Kiss all my boo-boos and make them feel better?”

“Is that what you want me to do?” Steve asked in return, his fingers stilling for a second over the band-aid he’d just smoothed out over Billy’s eyebrow. He seemed to be waiting for something, and Billy didn’t know what to tell him. Any and all fight he’d had left in him was drained away after the question had been asked, and he found that maybe that was what he wanted. Still, he couldn’t find the words to voice it, so instead, he just shrugged.

“Whatever,” he said, and he expected that to be the end of it. And it probably would have been if he was with anybody else. But this was Steve, and this was after everything they’d been through already, so he couldn’t say that he was surprised when Steve leaned down and placed a gentle kiss over his eyebrow, on top of the band-aid he’d just smoothed down.

And all at once, Billy was fighting back tears. He just couldn’t handle being treated so kindly by the boy he’d been crushing on for ages, being kissed by him without the excuse of saving his life or being too drunk or pleasing a room full of people. It was just the two of them, both sober as a judge, trying to figure out whatever was happening between them without actually saying any words.

“I’m gonna get you some painkillers and microwave you some food, then I want you to go to sleep. There’s a guest room upstairs you can stay in,” Steve said, pulling Billy out of his mind. He walked away for a moment and returned with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin in his hand, giving both to Billy before leaving again. He returned a few minutes later with a large plate of spaghetti and a fork, setting both down in front of the other boy and taking his jacket from him, hanging it up on the hooks by the door.

Billy wasn’t very hungry right now. He wasn’t very anything. All he knew for sure was that he very much wanted to cry. But he didn’t want to do that while Steve was within earshot, and he didn’t want to seem rude or ungrateful, so he decided to save the crying until he was alone in that guest room and to just eat whatever was on his plate. The quicker he could do that, the quicker he could try to put the whole thing behind him.

The next time that it happened, it was absolutely terrifying.

It had only been a few hours since Billy had shown up on Harrington’s doorstep, but no matter how hard he’d tried, he couldn’t sleep. The clock on the bedside table told him that it was almost two AM, which meant two things.

One, it was his 18th birthday.

Two, he’d been in Steve’s house, crying and unable to quiet his thoughts for almost four hours.

He had been lying in the too soft bed in the guest room for almost the entirety of that time, trying and failing to sort out the feelings in his head and heart, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He either needed to fall asleep within the next two seconds or high-tail it the fuck outta there, because even being in the same building as Steve was going to drive him out of his mind.

But neither of those things happened. He didn’t fall asleep, and he didn’t leave, either. He felt like a ghost, like he was tied to the house, even when he felt he didn’t really belong there. So he laid on the bed, tired and confused, for a little while longer.

Eventually, he sat up in the bed, rubbing a hand over his face and trying to gain control of himself. He had cried himself out a little while ago, and his back was aching from both the bruises left there by his father and the marshmallow-like mattress. He needed to at least get up and walk around a little, and maybe pacing would help him clear his head. He certainly hoped so, because he was tired of thinking. All he’d been able to think about was Steve, how sweet and gentle he was, how much he seemed to care about everyone and everything, how much he wanted Steve to hold him and kiss him and tell him everything would be okay. Yeah, he definitely needed to clear his head.

Only, when Billy finally stood up and began to pace around the room, it didn’t help. The room was a pretty big one for a guest room, but it still felt like it was closing in on him the longer Billy walked around. It felt like the walls were closing in until he was trying to walk around a cardboard box, and he just needed to get out of there.

Billy opened the door to the hallway and stepped out into it, looking up and down the hallway as if it were a busy street he was trying to cross. In a way, it almost felt like one, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if a cement truck or something came flying down the hall to flatten him like a pancake. But no such truck came, and Billy was able to breathe. But apparently, oxygen fuelled stupid decisions, because before Billy could even realize what he was doing, he was standing in front of Steve’s bedroom door and rapping on it lightly with his knuckles, his heart racing and his brain sprinting to try and catch up with his body.

By the time it got to where it needed to be, though, Steve was already standing before him in the doorway.

“Billy? Are you alright?” Steve mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes and running his hand through his hair. Billy wished he could’ve done that part for him.

“Yes, I-I mean, no… I don’t know, I just…” Billy was floundering. He made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a whine, and he wanted to strangle himself. Why couldn’t he just be normal around Steve? Why did he always have to go all stupid?

“Billy, hey, it’s okay,” Steve said, reaching out and putting a warm, gentle hand on his shoulder, “Just take your time.”

Billy swallowed thickly, and was rewarded with another round of tears gathering up in his eyes. He didn’t know what he was doing right now. Steve was too good for him, and yet Billy was prepared to make a complete ass out of himself in front of him anyway. But if that was going to be the end result anyway, why couldn’t he just say what was on his mind and get it over with? Why weren’t the words coming to him? Why couldn’t he figure out what to say?

“You don’t know what you put me through,” he was finally able to force out, his eyes wide as he tried to stop himself from looking away. He’d had to bottle these emotions up for far too long, and now that he was finally getting them out, he was going to do it right.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked, his pretty brown eyes sparkling in the glow of the little hallway light.

“I mean that… that you’ve been driving me out of my mind for months and I don’t know if you’re doing it on purpose just to fuck with me or if you’re just clueless or what, but I need to know what it is, because I’m losing my mind over you and I don’t know how to deal with that,” Billy said, hating how small he felt next to Steve right now. He felt as if he were Jack and Steve were the giant at the top of the beanstalk.

“I don’t…” Steve shook his head a little, “I don’t understand.”

“Please don’t play dumb with me right now, Steve,” Billy was on the verge of begging on his knees, “Ever since last summer, we’ve technically kissed a total of five different times, and after each one, neither of us said anything about it. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it and ever since what happened on Valentine’s day, I’m willing to bet you haven’t either. So please, for the sake of my sanity, if all of that meant nothing to you, just tell me and I’ll leave you alone and never bother you again. But if there was even a shred of truth to what I just said, please just tell me so that I can at least stop thinking about it so fucking much and just get some sleep.”

Neither of them said anything more for what felt like an eternity. Billy felt like he was about to explode, like he could crawl out of his skin, like he was being crushed under the weight of Steve’s pointed stare. He felt like a bug under a microscope, like he was being pinned into place to be studied by something bigger than him that he couldn’t even begin to understand. And Steve just continued to stare at him, like Billy had spoken to him in a foreign language and he was trying to figure out how to tell him he didn’t get it. Billy was terrified of what that look could possibly mean.

“I didn’t know…” Steve started, pausing for a moment to clear his throat, “I didn’t know that you felt that way about it. Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“What was I supposed to say, Steve?” Billy asked, hearing the quiver in his own voice, “Was I supposed to just blurt it out like it was nothing? Was I supposed to just casually mention that I think I’m in love with you, and that scares me more than anything else ever has?”

And that was when it happened. Steve didn’t even wait for the words to be fully out of Billy’s mouth before he lunged forward and kissed them off his lips, swallowing them away to dissolve in his stomach acid where they couldn’t affect them anymore. In that way, he was protecting Billy, and himself, from anything that could possibly make them unsure of themselves as they finally got what they’d wanted for so long.

Billy didn’t know if his stomach was turning from the fear that he was still feeling after just blurting out everything he’d wanted to say or if it was from the sugary sweetness that Steve was forcing into him with every second their lips stayed pressed together. He didn’t know if he liked the feeling or hated it, or if he ever wanted it to end. All he knew was that right here, right now, he was happy. He was with Steve, and he hadn’t been rejected, and he was happy.

The kiss didn’t last for nearly as long as Billy wished it would have, but when he looked into Steve’s eyes, he didn’t care. They were still sparkling, though this time it was with adoration rather than confusion.

"Sorry I drove you nuts for a few months," Steve smiled, biting at his bottom lip.

"As long as I get to have you now, I don't give a damn," Billy replied, brushing some hair out of Steve's face.

"Oh, baby, you've definitely got me for as long as you want me. As long as I get to have you, too," Steve said, tossing his arms around Billy's neck.

"Honey, you're never gonna be able to get rid of me now," Billy replied, planting a kiss on Steve's nose.

"In that case, what do you say we go lay down and cuddle? I'm tired," Steve said, glancing back into his room. Billy nodded eagerly and let Steve lead him back into the room. After all, who was he to refuse an offer like that?

#HarringroveWeek #billy hargrove #steve harrington #harringrove #billy hargrove x steve harrington #stranger things

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