#idk just some autistic stobin u feel me

[flowercrowngods]

The click of the Zippo opening and closing is almost hypnotic, lulling Steve into that familiar satisfaction of just the right noise at just the right frequency as he watches Robin’s wrist flicking the lighter open and closed, her arms stretched above her like she’s trying to touch the ceiling. Steve’s hands are gently swaying next to hers, in the nonexistent breeze of his bedroom.

It’s one of their weird private moments; where they get to have everything being just right that would get them questioning and judgemental glances from everyone else. The tingling sensation in their arms as the blood flows down and away from their hands, leaving them heavy and floaty in a way that never fails to ground them. But there’s also a safety to this moment, a security that they just get to have this without judgment.

Just the flick of the lighter and not a word spoken for over half an hour now.

Sometimes Robin laments, How am I supposed to ever find a girlfriend when this is my version of quality time? This is just weird. I’m weird.

Maybe, but it’s fun, Steve had said once, staring at the veins in his hands while a large water bottle was balancing on his forehead.

She had sighed and snatched the water bottle from his face to plant it on hers, admitting, It is fun.

“Do you ever wonder if there’s like…” Robin interrupts their silence, the Zippo never faltering, Steve’s eyes still fixed on it like all the answers to the questions of the universe lie somewhere in the peeling black foil.

“Hm?”

“Like, a point?”

“A point?” Steve asks, still following the lighter with his eyes, even as Robin stops flicking it open and closed and starts playing with the spark wheel and stone. There’s no flame yet, though, and it looks like she’s just stroking it almost reverently.

“Yeah, like a reason that we’re still, like, doing things.”

Steve frowns, lowering one of his arms to feel the blood flowing back into his hand, the sensation warm and familiar. Like a reminder. There’s blood in your body. You’re alive.

Is there a point, though?

“No,” he says eventually.

“No?”

“No. I don’t think there’s one. We just are. Not like we can stop.”

“Well, we could,” she says, and in one second there’s nothing, just words hanging in the air. The next, there’s a flame coming from the lighter as Robin presses hard and fast enough on the spark wheel. It stays there, the little flame.

We could.

Steve says nothing, just watches the flame as the blood gets drained from his right arm once more.

“Sometimes I wanna burn down your house. And your car, too. I watch you die in there sometimes.”

“Huh?”

“Your car. Sometimes it’s just; there’s these thoughts. Or, like, scenarios, and they’re super duper real in my head, and I have to remind myself they’re not. Just makes me wanna drench it all in gasoline and just… boom.”

“Boom,” Steve says, and it’s not the reaction that he should be giving, not the reaction of a sane person — but then, sane people don’t play with their lighters in bed or listen to their best friend’s arsonist tendencies. Sane people don’t see what Steve Harrington see, they don’t do what he does. What he had to do. When what he should have done was fail some tests, drink some beers and kiss some girls.

Is there a point?

“I promise when I get a new car, I’m gonna burn this one with you, yeah?”

“Deal,” Robin says, and the little flame dies. The steady click is back, and Steve smiles a little.

“And the house.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The clicking stops, and before he knows it, Robin’s body is wrapped around his, her head resting on his chest.

“I think that makes for a good point, though,” she says eventually, and Steve perks up.

“Cuddles?”

“You.”

“Me? Isn’t that a little stupid? And scary? Like, choosing a person to be the point in general.”

She shrugs against him, reaching up to hold his hand and link their fingers in the air above them.

“Maybe, but I think most points are either stupid or scary. It’s why people talk about it so often without ever, like, really saying something. I think you can be my stupid, scary point, Steve Harrington.”

Swaying their linked hands gently above them, Steve smiles. “Then I think that makes you my stupid, scary point, Robin Buckley.”

“Deal,” she says again, and there’s less of a threat about it this time.