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stevie-petey · 2 days ago

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track two: but youre such a tease

“Perfect,” he mouths at your ear, smile tickling the sensitive skin there. “Everything you do is perfect.” “Helps that I have a good teacher.” You shiver at the sensation, voice frailer than you’d like. “In no time you’ll be replacing me in my own band.” The shell of your ear lands in his mouth and he bites down, hard enough to force a gasp out of you, but gentle enough to leave you leaning in for more. You pull away slightly and shake your head. “No, I think I’ll stick to photography. Easier to remember where my hands go.” “As if I wouldn’t guide you through it.”

Summary: now officially the februarys concert photographer, you hit the road with them on tour. how bad can three months be stuck inside a small tour bus with steves needy hands and songs reserved only for you ?

Rating: general, some swearing, drinking, horny

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, steve is a slut (endearing), mentions of alcohol, underaged drinking, a bit smutty and mature content ahead

Words: 16.2k

Before you swing in: HAPPY CRUX DAY !! sorry this took so long i was on spring break and also battling academic demons. im back now ! hooray ! and the crux is amazing fly makes me want to collapse and i honestly envision fly for this series as well. gap tooth smile too. fly fits more for chapter 3 :) take that as you will ! anyways, i was really brave and wrote my own lyrics for this chapter so pls be kind and enjoy !

With three divorces, a multi-million record label company, and hundreds of performance legends who all owe their careers to his ear for talent: Leonard Branham is a force of nature.

He shoves papers into the band’s faces and starts rambling off legalities that you don’t even try to keep up with. All you catch, at the very tail end of one of his spiels, is that the Februarys can make only small, miniscule edits to their EP at the studio. Nothing else. Nothing new. Nothing unexpected.

“If you even think about tainting the green in your music, I’m suing you all for defamation.” Leonard warns them with a wave of his cigarette. “Minor edits to the music only. Anything bigger than my second wife and I’ll shoot you.”

While it’s unlikely the short, stout man has an actual gun, no one in the Februarys is willing to run the risk. They nod at his every word. Steve even audibly gulps as he signs along the dotted lines.

“You won’t regret this, Lenny.” You shake the man’s hand again. “No big changes. You have their word.”

Leonard’s mouth pinches in displeasure, but he doesn’t say anything. He takes his hand from yours and brings his cigarette to his mouth. It’s almost down to the filter, a nub more than anything else.

“Whatever,” he drops the nicotine onto the carpet. Rubs it in with his polished leather shoes. “Just do as I say. Ring me when it’s done so I know when to start harassing small businesses into selling your music.”

Then Leonard Branham leaves just as quickly as he appeared. The scent of cigarette smoke is the only thing left in his wake.

“Did that just happen?” Steve’s question floats through the room, not particularly aimed towards anyone.

You flick his ear to break him from his awe struck spell. “Sure did. Now you have all the time in the world to make imperceptible edits to the EP so that our pal Lenny can wrack up some misdemeanor charges.”

Years from now, when someone asks you how exactly Leonard managed to get every record store in the country to display The Februarys on their shelves and every radio station to begin rolling out the lead single, Tease, you’ll tell the person exactly what you told Steve: misdemeanor charges.

Three divorces, millions of dollars, a knack for discovering talent: Leonard Branham really is a fucking force of nature.

A month later you’re pressed against the kitchen counter. Steve’s chest lines your back and his hands rest on your waist. Dustin’s hair tickles your face and Robin’s own hands fiddle with your fingers as the impatience gnaws at her.

Will and Lucas stand against the fridge. Max hangs off her boyfriend’s shoulder and Mike paces the room. El sits to the side with Nancy, who has spent the entire hour-long wait gripping Jonathan’s leg, forcing him to sit still.

There’s food scattered throughout the apartment. Cold pizza and cans of beer and candy wrappers all on the floor. The air inside the walls is thick and warm and brimming with anticipation.

The clock on the wall flicks to 11:59PM.

“One more minute.” Steve’s fingers twitch, tightening around your body. His chest is tight and you can feel his erratic heartbeat.

A small, dented radio sits on the kitchen counter. Some unimpressive, generic bluegrass song drones through its shitty speakers, and yet the device sucks everyone in. No one dares to look away from it. In less than a minute it’ll sing the beginning chords of Tease for all of New York to hear.

“Do you think they’ll announce who we are first–”

Nancy’s hand stifles Jonathan’s words. He makes muffled complaints, tries to speak through her clasped hand, but she’s firm in her silencing.

“I’m doing this for your own good, honey.” She smiles sickly sweet at him. “If you’re talking while the song starts, Steve will kill you and Robin will bury the body.”

“And we’ll help.” MIke points to him and Max, smirking at Jonathan’s eye roll in begrudging acceptance that for the next thirty seconds, all there will be is silence.

The small hands inside your watch tick by, agonizingly slow and calculated. You can feel Steve’s eyes staring down at the wrist that his lips have grazed a million times before. Only for once he isn’t imagining kissing the skin but rather how his voice will sound through radio waves.

“And that was Margarete Joel’s Fishing on a Wire.” The nasally voice of the radio presenter cuts through the thickening silence. The clock strikes midnight. The only movement in the kitchen is the pounding of hearts. “Next up we have the, uh. The Februarys? Huh. Happy February I guess.”

“Told you your band name is stupid.” Dustin grumbles, already dodging the punch that he knows Robin will lay on him.

“Shut up!” She hisses at him, leaning even closer to the radio now.

The presenter clears his throat, excuses himself, before continuing. “My apologies, folks. Anyways, here’s the Februarys and their new song, Tease!”

And even through the shitty and dented speakers that are five years past their prime, the beginnings of Steve’s acoustic chords intermixed with Mike’s electric strings sounds as beautiful as rain and thunder on a summer day. Soft melodies colliding with harsh grandeur.

Everyone screams. Loud, unabashed, prideful and exhilarated and happy.

Nancy jumps into Jonathan’s arms and Mike throws himself at El and Lucas and Will and Dustin jump around in a circle as Max and Robin scream into each other’s faces and Dustin is cheering and your body gets thrown over Steve’s shoulder in a dizzying rush and you only have seconds to grab your camera before he’s running around the apartment in a victory lap worthy of Greek chariot racers.

“We’re on the radio!” Steve twists and turns throughout the apartment, hands securely on your legs, careful you don’t fall.

You’re giggling in his infectious glee, stomach warm and light with endless pride for a group of people you’ve only known for two months; it feels like you’ve known them all a lifetime.

They’re the closest family you’ve ever had and the rush of your love for them vibrates your body. Steve flings you around and everyone is still screaming and you’re laughing so hard that it’s almost impossible to take the photos that you want.

No one is quite in frame in any of the photos. Half of Robin’s smile in one image, parts of Max’s red hair, Jonathan’s scrunched face and Mike’s pink gums. The images end up blurry and overexposed.

Still to this day they’re your favorite pictures that you’ve ever taken.

“Mark my name into your skin,” Steve wails through the chorus, harmonizing with your uncontrolled laughter thrown over his shoulder. “Coax it inside your wrist.”

Jonathan’s fingers rap against the counter and he’s drumming along as Mike pretends to shred the guitar strings that project through the speakers. Robin’s head bounces to the beat and she’s pressing her own fingers into the countertop as if the entire world is her keyboard while Max simply sways to the music and imagines she’s playing her bass to Lucas.

An impromptu performance of the Februarys in your overheated kitchen. For one night only. Come one, come all.

El cheers and dances along. Will and Dustin try to mimic Mike’s erratic movements. Lucas and Nancy watch their lovers as if the performance is real and the warm light above them are stage lights.

As you’re trying to take a picture of Robin’s pink hair flying with every head thrust, you’re suddenly thrown onto the couch with Steve toppling right above you. The air knocks from your chest and he breathes his own into your skin.

“Tease! Tease! Tease!” He accentuates each lyric with a kiss to your face.

You choke his name out in between laughs and it only drives Steve forward. Sets his skin more on fire.

“Mark your name into my skin,” he nips your collarbone playfully and you think you hear Robin’s teasing whistles.

Everything is blinding. The lyrics, the heat of Steve’s skin. His lips. The Februarys’ eyes all on you, all on him, playing along to the performance.

“Don’t know how to resist,” Then Steve’s skin is gone and he swings you off the couch, onto your feet, spinning you around and around and around, leaving you gasping for air. “Tease! Tease! Tease!”

On the last syllable your body stills. You’re face to face with the boy in front of you. His smile is wide, cheeks a wonderful rosie, and your heart feels so full that it threatens to burst sickly sweet grenadine.

“Tease,” he whispers, as if now, finally, he’s become breathless as well. The music builds, Steve doesn’t look away. He doesn’t move, doesn’t loosen his hands from your tender flesh. Your chests brush together and you know that if you look up, if you give into the temptation, that the final notes of the song will haunt you forever.

Then the radio cuts out. The song is over. The applause begins. Childish cheering and praise for the band from their most beloved audience. The Februarys’ own cheering for their song being on the radio. For doing it together as a band, as a family.

The applause rips you back to reality. Reminds you that the performance is over. The show is done. Curtains are drawn, lights are about to go out.

Clearing your throat, you’re the one who steps away, out of his grasp, and yet it’s Steve who pulls you back in, presses a single, gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist. Coaxing his name into the skin just as he’s written into his lyrics.

“Tease,” he says, song long over, before finally letting you go.

It’s the closest you’ll ever get to an admission to the question that you’re too terrified to ask.

–

The EP does well. Better than anyone could’ve ever thought possible. Almost overnight copies of the tracks sell out. Record stores are met with a demand for more. More music from the Februarys, more EPs, more information about who the band even is.

More, more, more.

Leonard is so consumed with his financial glee that he sends a crate of liquor to the apartment with a note consisting only of, You beautiful bastards have made America love green again!

“What’s with this guy and thinking our music is green?” Robin hesitantly opens one of the liquor bottles, sniffs if, then recoils with a gag. “Holy fuck, is this what he drinks?”

“Rumor has it he killed his first wife with homemade liquor.” Mike pops open his own bottle and pours himself a glass, which Nancy promptly takes away from him. He shrugs, having expected this. “Figured I’d try.”

You frown. “Wait, the guy has a dead wife?”

“Made headlines a few years back. I’m surprised you didn’t see any of it.” Jonathan takes a cautious sip from Mike’s stolen glass. You watch his face turn red, then ghostly white, before he stumbles out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.

“Who the fuck did you guys sign with?” You ask in horror, the sounds of Jonathan’s retching floating through the walls.

Robin closes the crate. She definitely isn’t making the same mistake as her bandmate. “A man who really likes green, apparently.”

Steve wanders into the living room, hair messy and shirt hanging off his shoulder. His blurry eyes take in the scene before him until they settle on the crate of liquor. He jolts awake at the sight and rushes over to Robin’s side.

“Holy shit,” he opens it up, whistling at how full it is. “You guys want any of this?”

“No.” Everyone in the kitchen says at the same time.

Steve blinks at the odd response. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” you hand him the glass that nearly killed Jonathan. “Here, try some. It’s really good.”

Robin’s mouth twitches and you have to bite your own lips to keep from smiling. Nancy and Mike are quiet, watching, as Steve, bless him, trusts you blindly.

He takes one sip. Drops the glass. Soon his retching join’s Jonathan’s.

It takes three hours before Steve is willing to talk to you again.

–

The Februarys gain a large audience faster than they can keep up with after the unexpected success of their EP. Their weekly performances at their regular venues become sold out every night. Crowds scream their name, more than ever before. Flashing lights and stuffy concert halls and crowds that would do anything for them.

Steve feeds into it. As if he was born for it.

In a way, you suppose he was.

His usual array of girls he sleeps with grows almost as quickly as his success does. Dustin says there’s a correlation there. A positive one. He’d do an equation on it if it wasn’t so goddamn obvious in the first place.

“That’s the fifth girl tonight.” Robin’s untrusting eyes never leave the girl who sits in Steve’s lap. She’s painted azure and shimmering under the dressing room’s dim lighting. The four other girls cram to be as close as possible to him, each painted their own bright colors. “His room is barely bigger than mine. Where the hell is he going to fit them all?”

You hand Robin a cloth to wipe her makeup off. The rush of the show is just beginning to exit your bloodstream. Tonight had been a good gig, a great one even, given the fact that there are currently five girls pawing at Steve’s chest. He’s still sweaty from the performance but he doesn’t bother trying to wipe the grime away. It must add to the rockstar facade that he knows the girls are here for.

“I really don’t want to think about that. We share a fucking wall.”

“Sorry, babe.” Robin scrubs her lipstick off. “If you get too traumatized, just come to my room. I promise I won’t keep you up too late.”

You snort at her overly flirtatious wink. “The day I fall into your bed is the day I fall into Steve’s.”

“So I’ll see you next week?”

“Oh, definitely.” Sarcasm stabs your voice. “Be next in line for all the girls he sleeps with. What a dream.”

Robin smears at her eyes, clumps of mascara falling out at the harshness. She looks back in the mirror and finds Steve again. His lips are wrapped around a bottle. She isn’t sure where it came from or how many he’s had since the stage lights have gone out. You watch as her disapproving frown slowly melts into concern. Uncertainty. Worry.

“You don’t…” she hesitates, swallowing back a growing wave of cold concern. “You don’t think it’s anything to worry about, right? I mean. The girls. It’s… there’s been a lot. Even for Steve’s standards.”

The girl’s worry for her friend makes you swallow back your own uncertainty. Robin looks at you through the mirror and her blue eyes look so small without their stage makeup. Fresh faced, pale pink streaks through blond hair you’ve run your fingers through during late nights together talking about art and music.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Robin.” You pinch her cheek, reddening the skin to elicit the squeaky laughter you’ve come to adore. “An EP, insane manager, and adoring fans is basically Steve’s wet dream.”

Only Robin doesn’t look convinced. You sigh, tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You guys are finally getting to live out your dreams,” she smiles at the small reminder and you kiss the crest of her cheekbone. “And Steve is enjoying every second of it. You should be enjoying every second of it.”

“I guess you’re right.”

You pretend her smile is more genuine and assured than it really is and tangle your fingers through her hair once again. Robin’s eyes close at the touch, practically melts, and you end up braiding the strands as a way to distract her.

As you braid Robin’s hair, the conversation loops over and over in your head. A lot has changed in the last few weeks, faster than you’re willing to admit. The crowds are bigger and the venues are flashier and people have even started recognizing you whenever your camera is in your hands. It’s a whirlwind, fast and loud, and Steve is right there in the crosswinds with you.

More girls, more substances, yet the moles on his face still pinch together when he smiles. He still crawls into your bed most nights to play guitar and sit quietly developing film. You’re both still doing what you love, performances and photographs.

Steve still calls you angelface. That’s as good of an indication as any that things are still the same, though maybe shinier, superficial, but the image itself is still intact.

–

A few weeks after the release of The Februarys, Robin demands that you and the others celebrate its release without the labor of smuggling underaged adolescents into a bar.

“We need to get shitfaced and not worry about possibly traumatizing the children we choose to live with for some classified reason.”

No one argues with her. Since moving in with them, you haven’t spent a night out with only Steve and the other legal-aged adults. Somehow Mike or Max or Dustin or anyone else in their group manages to tag along, and while you’ve come to adore them, you’re growing paranoid that you’ve somehow wound up on a watchlist somewhere for how many venues you’ve broken into these last few months.

That, and Lucas got lost in one of the prohibition tunnels last week and Nancy had to form a small search party.

The club Robin ends up dragging everyone to is called Webster Hall. You’ve never been, but Steve promises you a round of drinks and you’ve never said no to free liquor before. On the outskirts of the East Village and almost always surrounded by NYU students looking for easy hits, the club’s famous nightlife and live performances quickly pulls you under its tide when you stumble in.

“Holy fuck,” you gasp out, feeling your eyes widen at the overwhelming sights and sounds. On the stage performs a band you’re vaguely familiar with, recognizing their lead vocalist from gigs with the Februarys. Lights flash fluorescent red above you and the band’s vocalist screams a grand crescendo as the floor goes wild.

“Pretty intense, right?” Steve has to scream in your ear in order to be heard, though he doesn’t waste the opportunity to grab your waist and pull your chest to his. “Don’t worry angelface, you’re all mine tonight.”

And you are.

You feel safe in Steve’s embrace. He holds onto you just tight enough to remind you that he’ll go wherever you go, without any hesitation, and he’s just as much as yours are you are his.

Steve buys everyone round after round of drinks. He never strays far from you, he doesn’t allow his hand to leave your waist the entire night. The cold metal of his ring cools your flushed skin and the graze of his bracelets send pleasant stings to your flesh.

Sometime after the third round of drinks you lose Jonathan and Nancy in the crowd. He’d been wanting to get closer to the stage and she’d been wanting to get closer to him.

The fifth round you’re dancing with Robin and the press of Steve’s rings still dimples in your skin. She spins you around and around and the music soaks your body alongside the alcohol and Steve’s smile looks like liquid sex in the red lighting.

The sixth round Robin is gone and Steve’s hands are everywhere. His fingers slip between the straps of your lace bra, dig into your ribcage at the skin just at the crest of your breast. His hands slide up your stomach and pull up the thin sheer shirt that hardly covers an inch of skin.

“Someone’s touchy tonight,” your voice shakes slightly, your neck is exposed and you gasp when Steve’s lips maul it. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t consider that he’s never done this before, that he’s never kissed you quite like this. “Fuck.”

“Can you blame me?” Teeth bruise your veins, he pulls you even closer hearing your pretty sighs. He cups the lace of your bra and fingers the fabric that’s been begging him all night. “Wearin’ something like this and expecting me not to want to touch.”

His whispered praise sets your skin on fire and you know you shouldn't be doing this, but the film of alcohol that soaks through your bloodstream weakens what little denial that remains in your body. The thin lines that trace through Steve’s freckles into your pulse snap with every kiss he lays against your skin.

The seventh round of drinks and you find your spine digging into a wall, shoved into a dark corner with Steve’s teeth marring your neck. Normally so gentle and soft with you, his desperate mouth greedily bites any inch of skin it can reach and you’re weak and wanting. Putty in his hands, all you can do is cling to Steve’s shirt as his knee shoves itself between your legs.

“That’s it,” he says when your body collapses into the hardness of his knee. The deepness of his voice makes you bite back yet another moan. “That’s my girl.”

Then Steve’s fingers pinch the hardened nipples that press against your bra and any resolve you once had is gone. You’re his girl. His angelface.

“Excuse me!”

Steve’s lips are pried away from your collarbone and the cold air that replaces his lips stings. You open your eyes, unsure when you even closed them in the first place, and see a girl shoving her way between you. She’s shorter than you, her eyes darkened by streaks of black eyeshadow and liner, and the tinsel in her hair creates a cascading illuminance that leaves you wondering if she’s truly real.

“What the fuck?” Only Steve’s affronted reaction tells you that she’s very much real and that he’s very much pissed off by her interruption.

“I’m sorry,” the girl has to stand on the tips of her toes in order for her shouting to be heard by Steve. She’s completely standing in front of you now, uncaring of the fact that your thighs were only moments ago encased with his. She shows no remorse, instead clawing at his shirt to get his attention. “But are you Steve Harrington?”

Steve steps closer to you, tilting his head at the girl with curiosity and apprehension. “Yeah, why?”

“I love the Februarys!” The girl squeals and throws herself at him, too lost in her ecstasy to realize that Steve has gone entirely still. “Can I get an autograph?”

“I…” Steve’s mouth opens and closes as stares at her, unmoving. His chest doesn’t rise with breaths as the seconds pass and you watch as the disbelief on his face melts into surprise before warming into a smile.

Outside of performances, no one has ever recognized Steve enough to ask for an autograph. Now here he is, at a club surrounded by rock and jazz and music that makes his heartbeat spike and a pretty girl knows who he is and loves his music. He told you once that he was going to be a rockstar. Now he’s starting to believe that it’ll actually happen.

The girl smiles sweetly up at Steve. “Well?” She nudges her head closer to his chin and the droop of her lined eyes warn you of what’s about to happen.

You see it in the creases of his smile first. The lines mold together to fuse Steve’s lips into the cocky, self-assured smile he reserves only for performances. Then you see it in the way his warm eyes darken to a bitter dusk as he looks the girl up and down, lingering on the cleavage she presents to him.

Steve’s hand falls from your waist before landing on the girl who has taken your place and you know he’s found himself someone else to call his girl for the night.

“Anything specific you’d like me to sign?” Unashamed, his eyes drop down to her exposed chest and your throat tightens at the idea of staying in the humiliation any longer.

“I’m gonna go find Robin,” you grab at Steve, forcing him to finally remember your presence. His eyes are unfocused, he isn’t really looking at you but rather at his newfound attraction and you want to wipe that stupid fucking smirk off his face. Angry that you’re even upset in the first place, you spit out, “Don’t wait up.”

And then you’re gone, shoving through the crowd of people who seem to have someone to dance with and call their own. Behind you, despite the obscenity that is the volume of music in the small area, you still somehow manage to hear Steve’s fucking breathy laughter as you leave.

The sound only burns the open wound of the hurt you know you have no right to feel. Steve isn’t yours, even if for a few drunken moments the two of you allowed the lines to blur into something more.

That’s all it had been. A few drunken moments. Nothing else.

But the heat on your neck, leftover remnants of Steve’s pink lips, won’t leave. The heat grows warmer and warmer until your skin blisters at the sensation. You blindly stumble towards the bar with hot tears in your eyes before colliding into someone new.

He’s tall and handsome with red hair that’s shorter than Steve’s and he kisses your neck with more fervor than desperation and he’s everything you’re aching to forget. His hands are softer than Steve’s calloused ones from years of playing an instrument and he sucks the alcohol regret from your lips yet you don’t bother to ask for his name.

You’re shoved against the bar and the hard surface digs aggressively into your back, but the guy bites back your pained sounds with overly eager flicks of his tongue and your eyes close at the sensation.

He says something into the skin of your neck, but it’s impossible to hear him over the alcohol and music and sex that lingers in the air. His lips drag over your jugular, forcing your head to fall back, but as your eyes squeeze shut once again, you feel a familiar burn on your skin.

You’re being watched.

Steve’s eyes reflect the pleasure that must paint your own face. He’s watching you, eyes dark with the girl he left you for wrapped around him. She hangs off his neck, pressing messy kisses to the smooth skin that you’ve traced your fingers against, but Steve’s eyes remain only on you.

His gaze creates a burn in your core that licks at the heat already there from someone else’s lips.

You bite your lip, suppressing a moan at the idea of Steve watching you writhe in pleasure. The guy beneath you mistakenly assumes the moan is meant for him and he nips even harder at your neck. There will be a bruise tomorrow from his teeth and you know that Steve will pretend that he was the one who left the mark.

Spinning on that dizzy edge. Kissed her face and kissed her head.

Muffled singing breaks through the sound barrier between you and Steve. He never takes his eyes off of you and you can’t bear to take yours off of him. His chest heaves a moan that you’re aching to hear, to elicit yourself, to swallow, but he’s across the room wrapped around someone else and all you can do is pant against a stranger’s mouth as you watch Steve’s tongue dance in a mouth that isn’t yours.

Dreamed of all the different ways I had to make her glow.

You imagine that it’s Steve who grinds into you. That it’s him biting your collarbones and marking you as his. That it’s his voice that whispers aching words to you, telling you how beautiful you are, how he’s been waiting for you all night.

“Why are you so far away?”, she said, “Why won’t you ever know that I’m in love with you?”

Steve watches you get off with another guy, throat tightening with every moan you know he wishes he could hear, and you watch him, dripping and craving for your own release, as a girl who isn’t you gets him off.

“That I’m in love with you?”

–

Lines of people overflow out the venue’s doors a month later. Security refuses to let you and Nancy inside.

“Packed house,” the gruff man blocks the door. “No one else is allowed in.”

Nancy scoffs at him, holding up the small backstage pass that Steve had given you before the show. Your names are written on them and the silver lettering flashes in the security guard’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she shows him the pass yet again. “But we’re supposed to be at the front with the band. I’m not sure what else you need from us.”

The man shrugs, indifferent. “Not up to me. It’s the law, miss. Fire codes.”

You pick at your camera’s strap and feel impatience gnaw at your skin. The show starts any minute and you’re not even close to the barricade. Inside the venue you can hear the crowd growing louder and louder as the anticipation eats away at them. You should be in there right now, capturing the moment with your lens to encase forever in an image.

“C’mon,” your voice draws out in a whine that you aren’t necessarily proud of, but you’re desperate. You’ve never missed a show and you refuse to start now. You shove your camera in the guard’s face, “I’m the band’s photographer, and if you don’t let us in, I quite literally will lose a paycheck tonight.”

“Not my problem.”

“But–”

“Why are you ladies outside?” Leonard shoves the backdoor open, surprising both you and Nancy and the security guard as well. His eyes are hidden by the sunglasses he refuses to take off, even in the dead of night, and his frown takes in the scene before him. “Well? What the hell is going on out here?”

The security guard is the first to recover. “Sir, I can’t let them inside. The law is the law.”

“Says who?” Leonard licks the greedy smile on his face. “The law is whatever I fucking say it is. Let them inside.”

“New York’s fire code clearly states that–”

Leonard slams his hand down on the door, his rings creating an echo like a gunshot. “I don’t care! I’ll pay the damn fire marshall myself, he owes me a favor anyways.” Steve’s voice trails through the venue’s walls and Leonard shoves a fat finger towards the sound. “But you hear that? That’s the sound of you wasting my fucking money that trickles down to her,” he points at you now. “Let them in. Now.”

The veins in the security guard’s neck strain, but even he knows that it’s no use arguing with a man like Leonard. Squaring his shoulders, he steps aside and gestures for you and Nancy to walk through.

“Enjoy the show,” he says through gritted teeth.

You and Nancy quickly step inside, weary of the aggression brewing between the two men. The backdoor slams behind you and Leonard claps his hands in amusement once you’re inside. “Well, that was fun.”

“Thank you, Mr. Branham.” Nancy says, ducking her head to avoid his eyes.

“Thank my wallet by getting your asses out on that stage floor.”

Not needing to be told twice, you’re sprinting through the endless hallways behind the stage. Steve’s on the third song of the night and you’re not wasting another damn second away from him and the music.

Bursting through the stage-side entrance, you shove past the drunken audience and jump over the fence barricade, right into the small strip of security meant only for you and Nancy. Front and center, Steve finds you and smiles, settling your uneven heartbeat.

Nancy accompanies you eventually, but you’re too lost in the performance to notice. The crowd is electric tonight and Robin’s excited giggles get caught in the mic and you’re in love with the life that has fallen into your hands.

After the show you meet up with the band backstage like normal. They greet you and Nancy with eager conversation to relive each second of the gig—a tradition now that you both adore. Mike talks Nancy’s ear off and Steve’s gripping your waist the second he sees you.

“You were late tonight, angelface,” he pouts into your hairline, kissing it to tell you that he isn’t upset, more worried that something may have happened. “I missed you.”

You stroke his cheek to erase the frown that makes his delicate features even more devastating. “Sorry, rosie. Had some problems with security.”

“Even with the passes?” Robin jabs at the lanyard around your neck. “What’s the point of these things, then?”

“They can only do so much against overcrowding of adoring fans.” Nancy tells her. “You guys are threatening fire codes, now.”

“Are we still bitching about the law?” Leonard’s cigarette smoke enters the room before he does.

Steve’s posture straightens the moment he sees him. “Mr. Branham, sir, what are you doing here?”

“What, I can’t check up on my investment?”

Max glares at him. “We have a name, you know.”

“I know, little red. Ease up,” Leonard takes a drag and blows the smoke up at the ceiling. “Anyways, fire codes are such a fucking waste of money. Back in my day, fires were admirable.”

Jonathan clears his throat, uncomfortable with the man’s presence. “Sir, with all due respect, we would prefer not to be a fire hazard.”

“Boring.”

“I… I’m sorry?”

Leonard sighs. “No, I suppose it’s my fault. I’m old and slow now, should’ve booked you guys a tour sooner.”

Lightning silence strikes the room. It happens quickly, violently, leaving only bodies stunned in perpetual stillness.

“Did you…” Robin gulps at the air, her pale skin nearly translucent. “Did you just say ‘tour’?”

“Of course I did.” Leonard seems to realize that he’s left everyone paralyzed and looks around. “What? Did you guys think you’d just drop an EP and call it a day?”

“No!” Steve’s quick to step in, not wanting the man to think they never considered the possibility, that they aren’t ready for the possibility. “No, it’s just… This is all happening so fast, sir.”

“And?”

“It’s been a month, Lenny.” You’re less polite. “They can’t just pack up and abandon their old lives that quickly.”

Behind Leonard’s sunglasses you can feel his unhappy gaze burning your skin. Everyone else in the room holds their breath, not wanting to agree with you too quickly, but not also not wanting to say that you’re wrong, either.

It all feels like too much too soon. They only barely have gotten used to the attention brought by their EP. They interact with fans. They perform shows as if they’ve been doing so for years. They work themselves to the bone to please the demand that they’ve always dreamed of.

But their ears still ring after every show. Some nights the strain of the lights pound a migraine into Robin’s skull. Mike and Max struggle to keep up with their assignments on top of lyrics and notes and chords. Jonathan’s bruised fingers prevent him from using his hand most days. Steve’s chapped lips drip blood down his chin.

The Februarys are still adjusting to the life they’ve been pistol whipped into, smiling at the bruises and marks, but a tour was never something on their mind.

“But they will.” Leonard eventually says. “They’ll do anything for their tour.”

Touring would mean Mike and Max dropping out of college entirely. It’d mean leaving Dustin alone in an apartment at only eighteen after swearing to his mother that they’d take care of him. It’d mean Nancy and Jonathan committing to the distance, separating from one another because she won’t be able to follow with a job in New York. More girls, more attention, and more alcohol accessible to Steve’s already deluged lifestyle. Longer days and nights for Robin’s already exhausted body. Trusting that your own career will be safe in the hands of a band that’s still learning, stumbling alongside you.

A tour would mean change. A lot of change. Rapid and staccato and unforgiving if they’re not careful.

But Steve looks around at his bandmates. He studies their faces, having memorized the hidden crevices of their emotions etched onto them when he was only a teenager with dreams that they all shared. They’re looking at him, too. They all know what their answer will be.

“We will.” Steve finally responds. His usual boyish glee is somber. When he swallows, it’s almost as if he swallows down the naivety. “We’ll do it.”

Leonard smiles. He knew what their response would be.

“Then I guess I’ll start making some calls.”

–

Later that night Robin lays in your bed, inhabiting the space normally reserved for Steve, only he’s in the room next door with a thudding headboard and drunk feminine giggles.

You have one of your old records playing in a vain attempt to drown out the noise. Robin offered to go to her room, but you have film that you need to develop and you’ve rigged the lighting in your space to best suit its chemicals and Robin doesn’t want to leave you alone.

A harsh slam against your wall shakes your desk and the developer mix for the film almost spills. “Shit!”

“Do you think that’ll follow us on tour?” Robin scrunches her face, watching as you manage to salvage the mixture and spare your desk its harsh chemicals. “Because I really fucking hope not.”

“Steve will be in a new city practically every night. Of course it’ll follow you on tour.”

Something about your response upsets Robin. She bites her lip and closes her eyes, as if trying to wash away whatever it is that causes her displeasure.

“Talk to me, Rob.” You abandon the film and lean over the girl. “I’m here.”

“His drinking is getting worse,” she whispers, ashamed of the words that build in her throat for release. “And the girls don’t fucking help.”

You suck in a breath. “We talked about this, Robin. Steve’s just enjoying himself.”

“And what happens when we go on tour? What, do we just allow him to overindulge and hope he doesn’t hurt himself? He’s fucking drunk on fame already. He doesn’t need more.”

“He’ll be fine,” you promise her, though you both hear the apprehension in your words. “I mean, he’s Steve. He can handle a little more.”

“Okay, fine, Steve can handle it,” Robin sits up, shoves her face into yours, “but can you?”

You flinch away. “I-what?”

Robin stares at you, long and hard, the clench in her jaw only releasing when she finally decides on what to say. “We’ll be locked inside a tour bus for weeks on end. Nowhere to go to escape Steve’s descent into biblical lust and gluttony that you inevitably feed into whenever you fucking smile at him.”

She sees right through you. “Will you be able to handle it?”

Your throat tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? Because the way I see it, the two of you have been dancing around each other the moment Steve set his carnivore eyes on you. Which is fine! I want you guys to be happy together! But Steve’s going through girls faster than I can count and he’s drinking more and you’re hiding in my room most nights pretending it doesn’t have any effect on you.”

The words come spilling out of Robin’s mouth in a rapid succession that makes you wonder just how long she’s kept it all in for. How long she’s seen through the lines and boundaries that you thought were only visible to you and Steve.

“Y/N, what I’m trying to say is that I’m scared this tour will drown you,” Robin’s soft hands wrap around yours. “I’m worried about Steve, I always am, but I’m also worried about you.”

“And I’m telling you not to worry about me,” your interlocked fingers twist together, but Robin doesn’t let you pull away. “I promise I’ll be fine. Steve and I…” there are no words to describe the gummy tenderness that coats your relationship with the man.

“I refuse to be a hookup, okay?” You find Robin’s eyes and hold her gaze. This is the only thing you’re sure of when it comes to Steve. He may leave your mouth craving his. The dizzying heat that accompanies his lips may leave you wanting. But you know, above all else, that the heat cannot ignite the wick that he’s soaked through with his fingers.

There will not be a match for the flames.

“I won’t be another girl that Steve sleeps with.”

“That’s what scares me,” Robin’s sad smile extinguishes any fight you have left. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, her touch lingers on your cheek. “How stubborn you are and how lonely Steve is.”

Sobering words for addicted thoughts.

One day you’ll look back and wonder when Steve’s loneliness stifled the stubbornness.

The rest of the month passes in its usual haze, only now between performances and rehearsals, any remaining free time is spent making phone calls and storing items into boxes. With Leonard’s terrifying connections, he manages to plan an entire tour within a few weeks. It takes Steve’s begging and Max’s threats to get him to agree to allowing the band a month of breathing room before the first city.

Nancy is left to call her parents to inform them of Mike’s decision to drop out of college. Steve calls for Max while you and Robin are tasked with breaking the news to Dustin’s mom about your three month absence.

None of the parents are happy at the start of the phone call, but with some convincing, they slowly accept that this is something inevitable.

“I can’t believe you’re abandoning me.” Dustin throws a stack of Robin’s keyboard cables into an empty box.

Steve flicks the kid’s hat. “We’re coming back, doofus.”

“Yeah, in three months.”

“As if you aren’t excited to finally get rid of us,” Robin snorts. She hands him some of her extra sheet music, “can you toss these in my rehearsal bag?”

Dustin rolls his eyes but takes the papers from her and puts them where she’s asked. He sits in the center of Robin’s now neat and empty room and lets out a low whistle. “This is depressing. I never thought I’d miss your mess.”

You knock your shoulder against his, hoping to lessen the sting of seeing his friends getting ready to leave him. “I’m sure Lucas will find a way to wreck the room.”

Dustin’s mom, Claudia, had only agreed to you leaving as long as Lucas moved into the vacant apartment. Seeing as how the kid lives in shitty student housing, he’d been quick to accept the offer. He moves into Robin’s room the day you leave for tour, so Dustin won’t be on his own for too long.

“If my room smells like sweaty basketball shoes when I get back, I’m telling Max that it was Lucas who broke her last bass.” Robin threatens, pointing a guitar pick at Dustin. “You got that?”

“Why are you threatening me?”

“To deliver my message, oh small one.”

Dustin grimaces at the nickname and you chuckle, leaning against the kid. “Won’t you miss us, Dusty?”

“Please get evicted sooner.”

Everyone laughs and the once cold room warms at the noise. No one says it, but you’ll miss living together, just the four of you, across the hall from one another with the outside world forgotten.

The night before it’s time to leave, Dustin and Nancy rope the others into throwing the Februarys a surprise going away party.

Lucas is in charge of decorations, placing messy blue and purple streamers throughout the apartment. A misshapen, crooked inflatable disco ball hangs from the ceiling and spins at a comedically slow pace. El bakes cookies shaped like italicized F’s and Will helps her with the icing.

Nancy supplies the alcohol and Dustin is tasked with distracting you and the band members for the three hours it takes them to set up.

“I still don’t understand why we had to help you deliver soldering tools in the goddamn rain.” Steve flings the front door open, but in his struggle to undo his umbrella, he doesn’t notice the apartment’s decorated state.

Max follows right behind him, shaking her wet hair out. “I don’t understand why we had to all go.”

“Maurice needed my help.” Dustin herds the rest of the band inside, shielding them from seeing anything else.

Mike scoffs. “Who the hell names their kid Maurice? That’s such a stupid name,” he walks inside, brushing past Dustin and falls against the couch, rests his head back, and then says, “why is there a disco ball in your apartment?”

Robin looks up. “What disco–”

“Surprise!” Nancy and the others come out from their hiding spots. You think they say more, but Steve’s startled scream drowns it out.

Jonathan sweeps Nancy into his arms, laughing despite his drenched state. “What’s all this?”

“Did you think we’d let you guys go without one last party?” Lucas shoves party hats on everyone’s head. He places a particularly pink one on Max and winks, blowing her a kiss when she blushes.

The wire of your cone hat snaps around your chin and you smile at the sting. You look around the apartment in disbelief and love. “You guys really did all this?”

“I baked cookies.” El nods, proud, and Mike kisses her head fondly.

Will licks sugar off his fingers. “I iced them.”

“I’m guessing you were in charge of distracting us?” Steve narrows his eyes at Dustin, shivering in his damp shirt. He had you hiking through Manhattan during a literal storm.

“Yup!”

You hold Steve back from rounding off on the kid, sliding your hands around his waist and trapping him in your embrace. Plucking a hat from Lucas, you push it into Steve’s mess of hair and kiss his cheek. “Care for a dance?”

Steve spins you before you can even finish the question.

The night is spent licking icing off of sugary cookies and chasing it with whatever liquor concoction Robin comes up with. Music blasts from the radio and the boxes that litter the floor go ignored. No one wants to acknowledge that come tomorrow, you’ll be separated from one another.

For now, you sing along with El and challenge Will to a drunken drawing contest and show Dustin how to work the aperture on your camera and capture Lucas’ wide grin as Max kisses his shoulder and Nancy shares the last of the cookies with you.

Laughter and reminiscent joy. That’s how the last night is spent in the apartment.

–

According to Leonard, he chooses fifteen cities and twenty performances for the Februarys’ first tour because it’s “enough to please the demand but not enough to jeopardize the divorce settlement in case it tanks”.

He’s strategic in his planning. Each venue is big enough for an excited crowd but small enough to guarantee a sold out house. The cities selected have younger demographics and populated tourist attractions to ensure a draw in.

Leonard Branham spares no expense for the Februarys’ first ever tour.

Except for the tour bus itself.

“It’s… definitely travel sized.” You stare at the vehicle before you, wincing at its compact size. While you hadn’t been expecting a grand vehicle, you had at least thought there’d be room to breathe.

Robin drops her head in her hands. “We’re gonna kill each other.”

You want to argue with her, but when Steve excitedly ushers everyone inside to tour the bus, you see that there’s even less room inside. A line of bunk beds on both sides, six total, with a kitchenette smushed to the side accompanied by a pathetic pull out couch and a fridge so small it can only hold five items.

While everyone stands to the side and wonders how the hell you’ll survive the close proximity for three straight months, Steve is bouncing off the walls.

“This is insane!” He strokes the mini-fridge as if it’s some mythical creature.

“This feels like sleepaway camp,” Max sniffs at one of the bunk beds in disdain, gagging. “Holy shit, it smells like sleepaway camp.”

“I call top bunk!” Mike jumps onto the nearest bed he finds and lands with a thud so terrifying you fear for a moment that he’s broken the bus entirely. The landing knocks all the air out of his body and he rolls to the side, wheezing. “Fuck that hurt.”

“Careful!” You run over to the boy, who’s about to roll completely off the small twin sized mattress. “Dude, you’re way too tall for that lanky body of yours.”

“Hurts,” he slaps you away, clutching at his back. “God, I’m gonna die.”

“Guess I’m with him, then.” Jonathan steps between you and places his things on the bed beneath Mike’s. “Nancy gives me one job and five minutes in her brother already gets hurt.”

Robin throws her things onto the top bunk on the other wall, head narrowly avoiding hitting the low ceiling. “I call Max for my bunkmate!”

Max shrugs at this, setting her bag down at the bunk beneath the girl’s. “As long as I’m not with Mike, I don’t care where I sleep.”

You cross your arms, hurt that Robin chose Max over you. “Well, what about me?”

“You’re bunking with me, angelface,” Steve drags you to the end of the bus, already all over you. “I called dibs on you the second I found out we were getting a tour bus.”

“It’s true.” Robin pokes her head out from her bunk. “Fucker ran into my room at like three in the morning to announce it and everything. He wouldn’t stop talking. It was really annoying.”

Your face burns at the idea of Steve being so excited to share a bunk with you that he woke his best friend up in the middle of the night to tell her.

“What can I say? I know what I want.” Steve throws you onto the bottom bed and crawls on top of you, collapsing once he’s situated himself. He curls around your body and sighs happily. “I can get used to this.”

“You do realize there’s an entire top bunk that I can sleep in, right?”

“We both know you’ll be crawling into my bed every night.” You pinch his side and Steve squirms away, laughing, but he doesn’t leave. Not entirely. Instead he sits up, looks down at you with soft eyes, and brushes the pad of his thumb against your jaw. “I promise I’ll be the best bunkmate. I’ll even let you have all the blankets.”

A large part of you knows that you should tell Steve no. You should grab your bag and place it on the empty bed above you because in the small space you can feel all of Steve against you. This will only create yet another blurred line between you, but his body is warm and the weight of it kisses your ribcage.

Will you be able to handle it?

Robin’s words taunt you.

For months now Steve has been driving you insane. His lips against your neck still paint your veins. How hot he felt beneath you that night at the club and the way his eyes darkened when you moaned someone else’s name. How the next morning he greeted you with soft humming and gentle touches that left you reeling.

Now Steve’s chest lays against yours and the bridge of his nose skims the base of your neck. The metal of his nose ring soothes the blistering flesh. There is no room for you to escape to. No walkman to drown out the screaming of your desire.

“Tell me about the first city we’re going to.” You poke Steve’s cheek to get his attention away from your sensitive neck. It’s all you can do to keep from melting into him.

Luckily Steve takes the bait and unwinds his body from yours, exhilarated to talk about what he loves the most, music, and you want to revel in his love for it as well to escape the other love that lingers in your bones.

And as Steve’s eyes light up as he describes the setlist and venues and chord sequences you wonder how you’ll ever make it out alive.

Fifteen cities. Three months. A short amount of time to bite your teeth and bear the weight of this excess within you and Steve’s ever delicate skin; but It’s only fifteen cities. You’ll be fine.

A lot can happen in fifteen cities.

–

It takes a total of twelve hours before you’re considering jumping out the moving vehicle.

The first night on the bus is fine. Jonathan and Mike pass out before you’ve even left the state of New York while Max reads some comics in her bed. Steve has his head in your lap, not once letting go of you since the bus’ engine roared to life, and Robin crawls into the spare bed and challenges the two of you to a game of poker.

She throws the deck of cards in front of you and you don’t miss the way her eyebrows furrow when she sees Steve’s hands wrapped around your thighs.

“Extra touchy.” She whispers into your ear the minute Steve is distracted with his cards.

“It’s only for tonight,” you whisper back, scared that you’ll be overheard. “Just play your king already.”

Robin gives you a tight lipped smile, calling your bluff in more ways than one, and plays the cards in her hand.

Only Steve’s enamored affection with you doesn’t lessen the next day. If anything, he only gets worse.

He wakes you up with frenzied kisses and tickles your sides to brighten his early day. He follows you into the small bathroom, hangs off your side as you brew some coffee with the shitty machine left in the bus. If you sit on the pullout couch, he sits on top of you. If you want to lay in bed to rest your eyes, he’s already wrapping you into his chest.

It’s as if living with you hasn’t been enough for Steve. Now, with less square feet than a hotel bathroom, he’s inhaling all of you at a pace that threatens to choke you.

By hour twenty, you’re hunched over a map desperately trying to find any goddamn roadside attraction to escape to. You need fresh air that isn’t exhaled from Steve’s sugar-sweet lips.

“Why don’t we stop by the Delaware Water Gap area?” You’ve spread the map out on the small, tilted table for the rest of the band to look at. After hours of driving, everyone is anxious to get off the crammed bus as well. “It’s only a fifteen minute detour. Can’t hurt to take a look.”

“Is it a park?” Max squints at the paper.

You nod. “It’s big enough for us all to spread out. Honestly, for the next three months, I think it’ll be best if we try and stop at whatever parks or attractions we pass. Stretch our legs, ignore one another for a blissful thirty minutes.”

“Count me in,” Robin twists her neck, cracking it obscenely. “I feel like I’ve aged fifty years since leaving New York.”

“Parks are nice.” Jonathan agrees, nodding.

“I’m gonna piss in every place we stop at.”

Steve flick Mike’s head. “Shut up and go tell the bus driver to stop at Delaware Gap.”

By the time you get to the park, the midday sun peeks out from behind the mountains. The early May weather casts a dewy glow around the greenery. The trees stand tall and vibrant and the scent of wildflowers satiate the yearning in your chest for something tender.

“Not bad, Y/N. This place is fucking magical.” Robin pats your back, then turns to Max. “Care to frolic in some fields with me?”

The younger girl purses her lips, uncertain, but before she can say anything Robin is already grabbing her hand to chase her though the vast hills and landscapes.

“Don’t go too far! We’re leaving in thirty minutes!” Steve calls after them.

Robin’s quip is fast. “Whatever you say, dad!”

You laugh at the remark and Steve can only shake his head, hiding his own amusement. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards an open field. “C’mon, let’s go before Mike pisses everywhere.”

Mike sticks his middle finger up, which Jonathan promptly shoves down. “Please don’t make me call Nancy.”

“You’re such an annoying snitch.”

Their arguing fades in the distance the further Steve takes you. The field itself is empty despite the beautiful weather. Clouded skies with a hint of sunlight to warm your cold skin and the melodic buzz of bumblebees lazily flying past. Towards the edge of the green-laid field is a riverbank of lazuli water that bubbles and splashes and Steve finds a rock for the two of you to listen to its harmony.

You sit and listen to the water rushing past for a while together, enjoying the serenity of the moment without anyone else. Your bodies next to one another and the water splashing your faves.

Eventually Steve pulls you into his lap. He’s brought his guitar with him and uses the instrument to push your back into his chest. His hands hold yours, outlining your fingers with the strings, helping you form the right patterns to play the beginnings of Tease.

“Now place your finger here,” he pushes your ring finger down alongside your middle. “Good, now do you remember how you get the sound to come out?”

“Like this?” With your other hand your thumb grazes the strings at the hollowed center. Remembering Steve’s gentle instructions, you’re careful with the motion, soft, and you’re rewarded with a clear, beautiful sound.

Steve kisses your shoulder and cheers. “That’s my girl! God, you’re a natural. Do you remember how to play D?”

Your pinky falls to what you hope is the right string. “This one?”

“Play it and see, angelface.”

You stick your tongue out at Steve for his lack of help, though you know he really is trying to teach you how to play the guitar. Learning the instrument had been his idea. He insisted you needed something to do during the endless downtime you’ll have between shows and you’ve never been good at telling him no.

That, and Steve is a surprisingly good teacher. He’s patient with you and explains the intricate notes and hand placements in a way that eases the complexities. He doesn’t rush you, he never gets upset when your finger catches on a lone string, and he always showers you in praise for every correct chord.

Steve’s expectant and encouraging smile prompts you to press your fingers down, strum at the tension, and fill the empty space in the chord of D.

“Perfect,” he mouths at your ear, smile tickling the sensitive skin there. “Everything you do is perfect.”

“Helps that I have a good teacher.” You shiver at the sensation, voice frailer than you’d like.

“In no time you’ll be replacing me in my own band.” The shell of your ear lands in his mouth and he bites down, hard enough to force a gasp out of you, but gentle enough to leave you leaning in for more.

You pull away slightly and shake your head. “No, I think I’ll stick to photography. Easier to remember where my hands go.”

“As if I wouldn’t guide you through it.”

The shift in Steve’s features mirrors the shift in the breeze around you. A sudden heat cuts through the once pleasant cold and festers between you. Yet underneath the heat of his gaze and the warmth of the air is a sickly sweet tinge of something more.

More more more.

“And how would you guide my hands?” Your raw throat cracks at the edges of your words. You leave your back against him. It feels safer this way to speak.

Only Steve unwraps himself from you, crawls on his knees to face you. “Well,” he says, hungry eyes on you. “I’d place your hands here,” he grabs you, settles your left hand upon his chest. “And here,” your other cups his face, the stubble rough on your fingertips.

“And your hands?” The sigh dissipates in the air.

“Mine,” he whispers, “Would go here.” Heavy hands cup your own face, holding you as if you’re made of glass, heating the crystal with their molten tenderness.

The guitar lays forgotten between your bodies. “Steve…”

In the palm of his hands nothing else exists. You’re weightless, falling forward, bracing for impact that will only devastate you. Steve leans into the fall, his body relaxes, unabashed. His nose dips down and his lips exhale upon your own and just before the collision of the inevitable, you turn your head, force his lips to graze the apple of your cheek.

That’s what scares me.

The words smear the edges of Steve’s hurt confusion on his face when he pulls back to look at you

“Y/N…?” The crack in his voice, shameful. The flex of his aching hands on the cheek his kiss crash landed into.

How stubborn you are and how lonely Steve is.

“Hey!” Robin’s shout echoes over the roar of the water, over the chasm that divides what once was and what could’ve been. “Lovebirds, we’re leaving!”

Hands fall from your face and suddenly you’re cold again. The heat vanishes. The only air left is the withheld sigh that lingers in your lungs.

“C’mon,” Steve grabs his guitar, offers to help you stand up. “That’s our cue.”

His voice is the same as it was before. Neutral, teasing. No evidence of the vulnerability only moments ago that laced it. The way Steve’s body moves doesn’t reflect the hurt that flecks his eyes that he refuses to place on you.

Releasing the sigh stuck in your throat, your hand finds his and he pulls you back up, back to the before. The reality.

Neither of you speak the entire walk back to the tour bus. Your footsteps leave marks in the grass beneath you and Steve’s guitar thuds softly against his side.

The kiss that almost was hovers like a lonely ghost.

–

Hours later you’re in a venue somewhere deep in Pennsylvania. A bit run down, paint chips flick off its mauve walls. The venue isn’t the most glamorous place for the Februarys’ first performance on tour. A sold out show and an audience that packs itself in front of its stage, however, more than makes up for it.

It’s also just nice not having to illegally smuggle Max and Mike into the twenty-one only venue.

“Has anyone seen my jacket? Bright red, real trenchcoat vibes in a Bowie way?” Robin runs around the dressing room, her tattered tie half-way tucked into the hem of her pants. Her hair hangs in her face, strands messily meshed together with a nearly dangerous amount of pearled pins. “I swear I packed it!”

The iridescence of the pearls catches in the light and you quickly take a picture, the blues and pinks nestled in her framed hair. “Did you check your bag?”

“Yes!” She runs past you and throws open one of Steve’s suitcases. “I swear, if that fucker tried stealing it again I will kill him–”

Max undoes the first few buttons of her collared shirt and two twin braids frame her face. “Can you look for my vest while you’re at it? I think Steve is just trying to hide all our shit from us because he’s too cheap to buy his own.”

“The rich kid is a thief. Can he be any more stereotypical?”

Steve sits at the mirror and glares at them both. “At least pretend to consider that I’m a decent person.”

“No time. Need my jacket.”

Robin runs off and you spot Jonathan fumbling with a pair of deep brown cowboy boots. You zoom your lens in, laughing under your breath. “Howdy, partner.”

“Nancy said I should try out a new look.” He blushes, shifting away from the camera. “Is the sweater too much?”

“I think it’s just the right amount of southern charm and obnoxious drummer.” You reassure him.

Mike, however, doesn’t spare Jonathan the same kindness. “Who the fuck wears a sweater at a rock concert?”

“You’re wearing a janitor’s suit, dude.” Max throws a cord at him.

“It’s a work shirt,” Mike scoffs. “Not a janitor’s suit.”

“You look like a mechanic.”

“That’s the look I’m going for. At least I don’t look like a lesbian bartender.”

The two go back and forth in their insults and you smile at the familiarity of it. Pennsylvania venues don’t carry the same charm as the ones you’ve grown fond of in New York. There’s hardly any graffiti on the walls or messages left from past performers. No luck wished to the others or curses thrown to the public.

You sit at the mirror next to Steve. The tension between you lingers, but you do your best to ignore it by facing the others to try and catch any moments to photograph. Max finds her vest, its black contrast harsh against the white of her shirt, and when she flashes you a pleased smile, it’s captured onto film.

Robin pops up behind the girl and jumps onto her back for a photo, only the weight startles Max and they fall to the ground, squealing, and your camera follows their every movement.

“Why did you do that?” Max rolls onto her side, laughing hysterically.

Robin laughs just as hard. “For Y/N’s art!”

Their limbs tangle together on the carpeted floor, but before you can raise the viewfinder to your eye, a hand lands on your wrist. You flinch away, looking up to find Steve holding up a thick silver bracelet and a shy smile.

“Can you, uh. Help me?” He motions towards his own wrist. “Forgot how hard it is to put this shit on.”

“Of course.” You set your camera down and take the bracelet from him, draping it against his slim wrist. He hisses at the contact. The cold metal must sting. “Sorry,” you murmur.

He shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

The soft reassurance echoes something else unspoken. Is he telling you not to apologize for what happened earlier? That he isn’t upset with you for pulling away? A part of you wants to believe that there’s more to his words than just a minuscule parting for an apology.

Words claw at your throat, pleas and explanations, but the only three that come out are, “I’m still sorry.”

“Y/N,” the hand that isn’t encased in yours comes up to your face, landing the same way it did in the field. His eyes fix on you with downturned lips. You’re not used to seeing him this way. Serious, weak, simultaneously foreign on his normally carefree face. “Why did you pull away?”

And he isn’t asking for an explanation to be cruel or imply that you owe him anything. Steve doesn’t ask you because he wants to tease you or scorn what you’ve done. He asks you with vulnerability, with an openness that startles you.

Even though it shouldn’t, the question still catches at your ribcage. He’s always managed to surprise you.

Your silence eats away at the lines that tie you to each other. Steve watches you in the mirror, patient as he was when he was teaching you the guitar, features soft and quietly expectant.

Just as they did the first time you spoke them to Robin, the words burn your tongue on their way out. “I won’t be just another girl you sleep with.”

Minutes before Steve’s very first show on his very first tour.

He doesn’t react. Not how you expect him to, at least. He stares into the mirror, face stoic, jaw clenched. Something seems to settle over him, then. With every passing second of silence grows something else. Something darker.

Unsure what to say, your fingers trace over the veins in Steve’s wrist. Maybe you do it to warm the metal that’s been placed upon it. Maybe you do it because you’re not quite ready to give this pleasure up yet.

Steve swallows. Nods. “You’re doing it wrong.”

You look at him, surprised he’s even said anything at all. “What?”

“To warm the skin,” he takes his hand from yours, grabbing your own hand instead. He opens your palm, traces the lines within it with the tip of his nail, before slowly, ever so slowly, his hand encircles your wrist, turns it so the flesh underneath is exposed. “You do this.”

He kisses the vulnerable skin. A sacred vow that he’s written about.

And then Steve’s carefree and charismatic smile is back. Your hand gets dropped. As if nothing has happened. But when he winks at you in the mirror, makes a whole show of it, deep down you know he can only look at your reflection because he isn’t quite ready to face the version of you next to him.

The change is disorienting. The performance is bitter; Steve doesn’t falter in the dizzying bitterness like you do.

Instead he spins to his bandmates, cheering. “Who’s ready for our first show of the tour?”

Robin and the others scream right back, clapping and prodding each other on. Steve’s smile is wide and manic. His own clapping enthusiastic. “Why don’t we all take a shot before we go on?”

Mike dives for the bottle of vodka left on the table courtesy of the venue. The bottle sloshes around as he beckons for the others to join him. Jonathan snatches it from the kid’s hands with the roll of his eyes and takes over pouring the drinks one by one.

The scene before you is perfectly curated for your profession. The lighting bright enough for everyone to be visible. The Februarys smile at one another, youthful and vibrant, yet your shaking fingers struggle to get them all in frame.

When you look back at the photos one day, you’ll notice Steve’s pained smile blurred into the image.

“Just us!” He shouts, glass raised, beginning the pre-show ritual meant only for them.

“Just us!” The Februarys echo.

The vodka drips down Steve’s neck. His lips glisten. He exhales the fiery afterburn of the liquor and quickly throws his arms over his bandmates. Their heads brush together in the huddle of their bodies and the pounding of your heart reverberates Steve’s “showtime!”

Despite everything, the Februarys’ first show is fucking fantastic. What Pennsylvania lacks in style, the crowd screaming back every lyric fills the void. Purple lighting floods the stage interspersed with white and pink and hints of blue in the smoke.

Unlike their original four songs and handful of covers, the setlist of songs from The Februarys are energetic and fast and edges on overwhelming.

Steve screams into the mic every chance he gets. Robin pounds her keys to Jonathan’s crescendos and Mike screeches chords through his electric guitar alongside Max’s rounded bass.

The audience feeds into the band’s raw and tenacious joy. Bodies sway to the music and bounce off of each other in the deeper parts of the chaos. Their reactions are enamorating to watch, and while you’re lonely without Nancy’s grounding presence, you distract yourself with learning how to elicit reactions from the crowd yourself.

You figure out how to get the crowd to cheer for you, to look through your lens and shout their praise for the band on stage and into your camera. The photos come out livelier, intimate, a snapshot of the unfiltered devotion for this one night only. The attention you get from the crowd, though small, is exhilaratingly reeling.

Yet it’s only a taste of the rush that Steve must feel; you wonder how he’s able to handle the full bottle of it.

“Pennsylvania, it’s fucking scorching in here!” Sweat drips from Steve’s face and onto the sheer black shirt that adorns his torso. The fabric clings to his soaked body, its sheer interlace offers hints of the chest underneath and glows in the stage’s light.

People scream back their agreements. The venue’s temperature is hot enough that the glass of your lens has started to fog, though the band’s final song ends and still they demand another. The unbearable heat only ignites the desire for more.

“Excuse my appearance,” Steve runs a hand through his damp hair, silver bracelet catching in the light. His perfectly rosie face breaks into a smile. “Is my face really red?”

Even though you know the question is directed at the crowd, you still nod, still feel the need to respond to his every word. The crowd, however, says what you can’t, shouting that he is indeed red.

“I’m red?” Steve mocks disbelief. He knows that he’s red. He hears your whispered nickname for him every time he closes his eyes. He has the photo from the first night you ever called him rosie hidden away in wallet; only for him to see.

More screams and amused cat-calling and Steve’s gruff chuckle drawls on. “You know, an angelface once told me that I get all rosie when I perform. She even calls me ‘rosie’ now. Isn’t she sweet?”

Hearing the name fall from Steve’s performing lips strikes into every overwhelmed cell in your body.

“Now, she doesn’t know this, but I figured that for our last song I’d perform her name for me tonight.”

Rosie.

“I’ve had this song written for a long, long time.” Steve looks directly at you now. Down the barrel of your loaded camera. “Are you ready?”

Jonathan’s knowing wink is the only warning you receive before his drumsticks count down. And then he pounds on the drums and Robin’s keys ring in the air, her laughter hinting at something more. Mike whistles and Max blows you a kiss. Their reactions tell you everything you already know.

They all knew what Steve’s closing song would be.

An unreleased song dedicated to rosie.

And it’s a fucking beautiful song. Bashful with youth interlaced in its harmonies that resemble lullabies you grew up on. Raw, innocent and overwhelming naivety that clashes with a bitter tension in its chords.

Rock-a-bye-posie?

No, maybe it’s ring-around-my-baby?

Or could it be rosie and falling down with you?

Rosie pink light creeps onto the stage, its saturation an exact match of the shade you long ago fell in love with.

The melodic strain of Steve’s voice infiltrates your senses, hijacks your body, leaves you with only the knowledge of your name and how he loves to whisper it when you’re alone. Your camera rests forgotten at your side; there will be no photos of this performance.

He stalks across the stage towards you. No mercy, no sympathy for the onslaught of lyrics that chip at the cracks of a foundation built on hasty stilts.

Mixed up all inside my head the rush of lullaby blues.

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

Or could it be forever rosie?

Steve will be your rosie for as long as he allows it��forever, if you’re lucky. The shade of pink will always be a reminder of the boy. The scent of roses will one day leave marks in the grenadine heart of yours.

Rosie closes the show. The final note cuts to the finish and all lights go out.

Screaming. Endless screaming. A thunder in the too small venue that rattles the walls.

But you don’t register any of it. The cheering falls deaf on your ears. Body humming with the need to touch and kiss and soak your love into another’s like an itch, you’re jumping over the barricade before the Februarys have even left the stage.

Backstage you search every hallway for him. Pushing past curtains, stumbling over wires and giant lights, swiping past confused security guards, you search for him everywhere.

Steve finds you first. Of course he finds you first.

He collides into you. You’re in his arms and he’s spinning you around and around. A ring around its rosie. Your rosie. Flushed face, sweaty and whole. No one else exists in this world of yours.

Your feet find the ground and Steve’s earthy scent hovers over you. Hands on your waist. Eyes on your lips. His own lips lowering down, edging closer and closer, until his hot breath touches your skin.

A mirror image of hours before in a field with river water.

Only this time you don’t pull away. You don’t bite at the hand caressing your ribcage.

Close enough to feel the heat that radiates off of them, Steve’s lips whisper against your own, “Can’t just be another girl I sleep with, right?”

And then he’s gone. Pulling away entirely, tearing apart from you to deal with the wake of the wanting left behind and the words that ice your skin.

Head spinning, you stumble back, grasp at the air that’s been forced from your lungs. You’re disoriented and confused and Steve, unable to hurt you, brings the lips that were cruelly taken from you to your forehead.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” his lips linger, soft, as if apologizing for the body they’re attached to. “I hope you enjoyed the show.”

“Steve–” But the lump in your throat catches at the desperation in your veins.

It isn’t enough.

“Harrington!” Steve rips away from you, head turning to the source of his name, and finds a security guard with a hoard of girls being held back. “Want me to let them into your dressing room?”

You watch the overly saturated, performance ready smile return to Steve’s face. He straightens his shirt out, fixes his hair, before nodding at the guard.

“Send ‘em my way.” He leaves.

Not once does he look back at you.

The dressing room’s door opens and Steve lets the girls in. The door gets left open. You can hear the rest of the band talking to each other inside. An unintentional, painful reminder that your job tonight isn’t done.

Left for want and nothing, you swallow down the hurt that stings your tongue. You grab your camera, inhale once, twice, cutting a smile into your glass face, and then walk into the dressing room to take the pictures you get paid for.

–

The rest of the tour follows this way.

Hours, days, weeks, and eventually months pass like an exhaled gumdrop breath. Sweet, satiating, but the jagged candy leaves cuts inside your cheek that fester if you pick at them.

Every night Steve dedicates Rosie to you. Every night he says something different into the mic. Every night the words are meant for only you to understand.

“Winter in New York was lonely until I packed up some boxes.”

“She plasters my photos all over her walls and I write her songs she’ll never hear.”

“Who knew the face of an angel could stand someone like me?”

All for you, yet the second the lights go out Steve falls into someone else’s arms. A new girl in every city. Robin doesn’t wait for you to say you told her so; you don’t want to claim the prize of being right.

During the day Steve’s yours, wrapped around you with an easy smile. He still calls you angelface and he’s still rosie. The suggestive comments and teasing flirting doesn’t diminish or lessen. You play into it just as much as Steve does, each of you holding onto what little familiarity that’s left between you. A back and forth with no chance of a winner.

Nothing changes, not visibly, at least, but an unease saws at the strings you’ve attached to one another and everyone holds their breath.

Then the nights come and you lose Steve again. He stumbles into the bus smelling of alcohol and women more often than not. No one knows where he goes. No one wants to ask. No one wants to be the one who brings the growing concern into the light.

Instead the Februarys focus on their tour, on enjoying the sights of new cities and bleak roadside attractions and the knowledge that they’ve somehow made something tangible with their water-colored dreams.

They throw the excess fear into writing their first real album. Full length, explorative, narratives not yet written down. Bigger than their EP, bigger than anything they’ve ever done before. Though the fast progression feels natural to them now. Familiar.

The tour bus fills with the arguments you heard in your apartment all those lifetimes ago. Robin’s poetic lyricism clashing with Mike’s metaphors and Steve’s unfleshed melodrama.

“For the last time, El’s eyes being ‘marooned embers soaked in coattails of whiskey’ makes no fucking sense.”

“The line has layers! It’s symbolic of being love drunk with someone’s brown eyes while her eyes are literally brown!”

“Wheeler, stop talking before Robin leaves you at the next rest stop.”

Only now their arguments are interspersed with Jonathan’s own sensitive songwriting and Max’s clever play on words.

“What if instead of ‘soaked in coattails of whiskey’ we change it to ‘soaked in cocktailed whiskey’?”

“I think that’s beautiful, Max.”

And hearing the Februarys’ arguments, seeing the entanglement of their vastly different minds coming together to create something honest, beautiful, reminds you that the brighter, less heavy aspects of touring still exist.

During their fifth show Mike comes up with the idea of creating new dares every performance. Stage diving, launching water at the crowd, racing across the stage mid-show every time the key of E is played.

One night Max dares Steve to shove his mic in his mouth and for an entire song it’s stuck in the hinges of his jaw and Robin has to push him backstage to get it out. Nothing else has topped that dare since.

“I really thought I could get it out,” Steve complains later that night. “Jesus, I thought I was gonna die.”

You brush his hair from his face. “Would’ve been a really embarrassing way to die.”

“Thanks, Y/N.”

“I only get paid to photograph you. Nothing in my checks cover being nice.”

As much as you enjoy watching the dares on stage, your favorite part of tour is traveling around the country with the band. They grow closer than ever before in the hectic blur that has become their life.

Lazy writing sessions in national parks. Wandering around cities they’ve never heard of together. Bizarre roadside restaurants that serve possum. Passing giant semi trucks on the interstate and pissing off their drivers by demanding them to honk their horns every chance they get.

And you’re a part of it all. Following the Februarys blindly wherever they take you, camera always aimed at their shining faces.

Playful memories with Mike and Max, helping them pull pranks on the older band members. Moments with Jonathan when there’s no one else in the bus, just the two of you, reminiscent of your college days. Sleepovers in Robin’s bunk and shared whispered giggles.

And Steve. Always Steve.

One night, about halfway through the tour, he crawls into your bunk. You’ve long since stopped sleeping in his bed on the bus, the smell of everything you try to ignore kept you awake for nights on end. You finally had to leave.

You’re not sure what time it is when Steve crawls back to you. The performance tonight was livelier than usual with an even larger crowd of girls waiting for him at the stage door. You’ve learned to pack your things up in the bathroom to avoid watching him leave with them.

Only tonight when Steve wakes your sleeping body up, he smells of rainwater and green earth. No traces of metal alcohol or floral perfume linger beneath his scent.

He wakes you with butterfly kisses to the skin he dreams about, moving closer when you don’t pull away. Instead, you open yourself to Steve, grabbing at his shirt to pull him into your bed, and he falls asleep as the boy that you know, deep down, he truly is.

Kind and gentle.

Rosie and wonderful.

–

Leonard didn’t believe the band when they told him they were from Indiana. According to Max, he hadn’t even known that the state existed until they asked to perform close to Hawkins.

“I don’t understand how he’s made so much money if he doesn’t even know all fifty states.”

“To be fair, I also try to forget that Indiana exists.” Robin tells Max.

“Yeah, but at least you have a reason to.”

You look at the two of them in concern. “Do none of you have a happy homelife?”

Max snorts. “Why do you think we formed a band in the first place?”

“Not a very reassuring answer.”

In the end, Leonard books them a performance in Indianapolis. Two hours from Hawkins, it’s the closest he’s willing to get to their rundown hometown, and no one complains about the distance. It’s better that way, just outside of Hawkins without ever really stepping back inside.

As you’re all getting ready at the venue, conveniently located at the heart of Indianapolis, the door to the dressing room swings open and reveals a mess of curly hair and a gummy smile.

“Did you assholes miss us?” Dustin’s nasally and endearing voice fills the room almost as fast as you engulf him in a hug.

“You’re here!” You squeeze the kid tight, gasping in surprise when you see Will and the others beaming in the doorway. “Holy shit!”

Mike throws himself at a bashful El while Max and Lucas wrestle each other to the ground. Jonathan isn’t any better, pulling at the belt loops of Nancy’s shorts and covering her tiny body with his.

Still holding onto Dustin, you watch the reunion between all the lovers with Steve and Robin standing beside you.

“They’re disgusting.” Robin snorts, no edge to her comment. “I hate it.”

Steve yanks you from Dustin’s arms and drapes his own over you, holding you close to his chest. “Fucking vile, if you ask me.”

“You’re literally swaddling Y/N like a baby,” Dustin frowns, motioning towards Steve’s clingy hold of you. “Are you two seriously still not together?”

“God,” Robin rubs at her temples. “Don’t bring that shitshow up. You’ll give Steve a fucking aneurysm.”

An uncharacteristic shyness shadows Steve’s expression. He drops his arm, covering an embarrassed cough with it instead. Unable to help it, you laugh at his scandalized reaction.

“Need some water, rosie?” You playfully pout, swatting at his back. “You don’t sound so good there.”

“Fuck all of you,” he chokes out.

Dustin cackles. “I think you only want to do that with one of us, Steve. Do you want us to guess who?”

“I’d rather fucking die.”

Taking pity on him, you shield Steve from the teasing and lead him towards a concealed corner of the room. Everyone else is busy catching up, but you can still feel Dustin’s eyes following and Robin’s unwilling acceptance.

You bite the inside of your cheek, ignoring them.

The surprise arrival of your friends disrupts the monotonous routine of the dressing room in an infectious way.

El braids tinsel into Max’s hair and the two girls spend almost all their time gossiping about what their boyfriends had been up to while apart. You take a picture of the glittered strands wrapped around El’s fingers.

Robin and Nancy fret over Jonathan’s appearance, the two of them throwing shirt after shirt at him and demanding he wear anything other than thick sweaters or ratty t-shirts. Jonathan doesn’t bat an eye at any of it, however, and the content smile on his face paints your film.

Mike and Lucas arm wrestle as Dustin and Will referee. The roar of their laughter and the strain of their biceps filter through the image in a boyish, endearing way.

“I really missed them,” Steve hooks his chin on your shoulder, standing behind you, watching the familial scene unfold. You can feel his own smile brush against your ear. “I knew I’d miss them, but having them here tonight…”

“Finally feels like home?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “I guess it does.”

And there he is again, kind and gentle. Rosie and wonderful.

That night, the Februarys perform for their family. They ignore the demands of the unknown fans and strangers who shout their praise. None of it matters to them when they look at their loved ones beside you, crammed together in the security barrier, all cheering even louder for them.

Steve ends the concert with Rosie and you don’t realize that none of the others know the contents of the song until Nancy elbows your side and Dustin rolls his eyes. Will, Lucas, and El try to hide their snickers, but you still somehow hear them over the music anyways.

You press your face to your camera’s viewfinder and pretend you’re too engrossed in the action to spare yourself the embarrassment of their knowing looks.

After the show Nancy tells the band that she and the kids are staying in a hotel a few blocks away for the night. Five minutes later, you cling onto Steve’s back as he charges through the streets of Indianapolis with the rest following.

The small hotel room can barely fit everyone inside, but none of you care. Drinks get opened. Lucas fishes out a deck of cards to play and the room fills with chaos and jokes and teasing and remembrances of the times before.

“Steve got a mic stuck in his mouth like an idiot.” Max throws a spade down. “That's red, everyone drink!”

Beer fills your mouth and Will nearly chokes on his. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Max slipped in someone’s vomit last week.” Is all Steve says.

“You swore you wouldn’t tell anyone about that!” Max flings a beer tab at him.

“Promises can be slippery, Mayfield.”

You snort into your drink and Steve smiles at the sound. He leans down to the exposed collarbone, revealed to him by a slip of your t-shirt, and kisses the skin there. Unashamed of the group’s eyes on him, he mouths and needles at the flesh.

“Can you at least kiss the back of my neck?” You twist away, wrestling your camera trapped between his chest and yours. “I want to take pictures of everyone.”

Someone snorts, the sound resembling Jonathan’s disbelieving one, but you don’t spare them a glace. You tug at Steve’s shirt and try to force him behind you. “Steve!”

Reluctant, he pulls away long enough to crawl to the base of your neck, right where the small strands of hair meet your spine, and resumes his kisses.

“Happy now?” He mumbles into your skin.

You don’t bother responding, instead aiming your camera at the others. Only when your lens focuses, their amused, almost baffled, faces cut into the frame.

“What?” You ask them, alcohol making your mouth move before your brain can stop it.

Dustin scoffs. “Not dating, right?”

“Max, can you place your card next to the beer tab? I think the shapes would look interesting together.”

“You can’t ignore us, Y/N.”

“Sure I can,” you smile. “Now, who’s ready for another drink?”

The topic gets left alone for a while. More drinks follow. Max continues the cards and the drinking game slowly turns into a tortuous one the longer Steve sucks at your sensitive skin. At first he’s easy enough to ignore, but when he finds a spot just at the crest of your spine that leaves you gasping, he’s relentless.

“Y/N!” The flick of Robin’s fingers stings just enough to force your attention back. “It’s your turn to draw, if you can handle not melting into Steve’s arms for five seconds.”

“I–”

“She’s busy.” You’re picked up into the air and thrown onto your feet by Steve, who steadies your confused footing by gripping your waist. “Sorry, guys.”

And then you’re being dragged away from jeers and poorly hidden entertained booing by the others. None of them are upset. In all honesty, they’re more surprised Steve lasted as long as he did.

Sticky July air washes over you. Outside the streetlights shine down on Steve’s quick footsteps chasing after your drunken giggling. He’s running after you and you’re begging him to follow and in the dark of the night it’s just you and him in a city that doesn’t feel real.

Drunk and in love Steve’s hands snatch at your body and you’re spinning round and round and round. No weight, no strings, only his touch and your breathless adoration.

He’s singing a song that you don’t recognize but you don’t ask him what is because you never want him to stop. His voice circles around you and his fingers dig into your flesh as if he’s carved it himself. Maybe he has. Maybe he’s carved you to fit into the pieces of himself just as much as you’ve carved him into yourself.

The dizzy love-drunk head rush catches at your foot, trips your body into a fall that Steve catches. He breaks the fall with the brush of his nose against yours, like magnets your lips push and pull apart, never quite landing, never quite settling.

But Steve needs more.

He stills the sway of your body, stops the vibrato of his singing. He looks down at your lips. Dark brown eyes catch on the parted lips that wordlessly beg him for more, begs for the same thing he craves.

The laughter in your chest quiets. Its remnants stick in your throat at the angle of Steve’s head, dipped low, leaning in.

And then he stops at the precipice of your lips. His dark eyes flicker back up to yours, he sees the resolve in them that betrays the pleading of your mouth. Sobering, sombering. Mourning.

He pulls away.

“You’re such a tease,” Steve can’t do to you what he wants. All you ask from him is to not get hurt and he won’t allow himself to hurt you, either. “Let’s go home, okay?”

He grabs your hand.

The very same hand that insists on holding him at arm’s length when all he wants to do is dance.

When you get back to the hotel, everyone has fallen asleep. The floor of the room is littered with sleeping limbs and bodies pressed against one another. Wordlessly, Steve finds a small corner to slot himself into, rests your head on his chest, and you fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Sometime during the night Jonathan takes a photo of the two of you asleep. The polaroid ends up tucked into the ceiling of Steve’s bed in the bus, held up by the wires of your mattress above his.

Neither of the men talk about it.

–

Eight cities and ten shows remain. The tour rapidly approaches its end.

Leonard Branham only speeds things up.

“If tickets continue to sell as quickly as my son sold his soul, I might even consider officially signing the Februarys.” The payphone crackles. Everyone crowds into the phone booth, terrified of losing the shitty reception and Leonard’s ominous words. “I mean, Christ. If you tickle my ass right, you guys could get an actual album out of me!”

An album.

That’s all they’ve ever wanted.

“Mr. Branham, that would be incredible–” Steve’s praise quickly gets cut off.

“That is, on one condition.”

“Anything, sir.” He means it. The band would do anything if it means they can write the album they’ve been ingesting since they were kids.

Leonard’s steel sharp words come out piercing. “Don’t fuck up.”

The temperature in the stuffy phone booth drops.

“I-I don’t think I understand, sir–”

“Don’t fuck up.” Leonard repeats himself. “Don’t get someone pregnant. Don’t get your ass too stoned to perform. Don’t sound like squealing kittens. I’m not wasting my fucking money on a bunch of kids who can’t wipe their own asses.”

All that ever seems to follow Leonard Branham’s conversations with the band is stunned silence. Only this time the silence is wilted, clutched chests and twisting stomachs of dread.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Terror. The dark cloud of it seizes at them. You can see it on their pale faces and stifled breathing.

“I said,” Leonard’s impatience picks at the wound he’s stabbed into their guts. “Do I make myself clear?”

Steve licks his dry lips, exhaling, “Yes, Mr. Branham.”

“Good.” He hangs up. Doesn’t wait for them to say anything else.

The dial tone shuts off, a deafened finality to it. The gravity of the situation chokes at the band. Despite the exhaustion of performing and constant travel, touring has never once felt like a burden to them.

Writing together, dreaming up an album that defines who they are, the lyrics they want to leave behind in the world, has never felt like a chore. Everything has always come easy. Even in their most defeated and anxious states, never before has their entire future looked back at them in terror.

One slip up, one mistake, and they’re gone.

They were just kids messing around until then.

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#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #rockstar!steve harrington #stranger things fic #m's writing #i got so sad writing this thats how u know ur in for a rough time when my own angst is making me weepy #ANYWAYS CRUX !!!! WOOOOOOO !!!!!

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