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curiositydooropened · 2 years ago

Text

Chamomile

A look at two semesters spent meeting, knowing, and pining after Steve Harrington. Slowburn, college parties, dorm rooms, a bit of unrequited Ronance, and unforgettable memories with friends.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x female!reader

Wordcount: 25,207

Warnings: slowburn, angst, hurt/comfort, pining, angst with a happy ending, unrequited Ronance, a bit of Stancy will-they won't-they, recreational drug use, underaged drinking, vomiting, sex, college parties

No tag list! xo

Masterlist

---

The first party of fall semester was a packed house, a block off-campus. It was cramped and hot, stale air from the summer unable to escape through windows painted shut and fogged over. The leaves outside had barely yellowed, but a breeze blew through the hair of passersby and swallowed the raucous laughter and music from inside. The couches were taken, dozens of students passing through the living space, ass-to-crotch, to get to the kitchen for beers or the rickety staircase for something harder. The sweet stank of marijuana wafted, filled the house with smoke, watered eyes and giggly pledges.

You were barricaded to a kitchen corner, cupping a can that had warmed an hour earlier, barely drank. Two girls from creative writing chattered at each other two feet in front of you, hips bumping yours with each person that entered the house. You nodded along, but their conversation had warmed with your beer, and your focus was out on the chaos of the party surround.

Music too loud from the other room, a dull thump in your skull, and a war-cry announced the entrance of a handful of frat boys announcing that the smallest and most handsome was going to do his inaugural keg stand to bring in the new year.

“Oh my God, we have to see this,” Carrie touched the corner of your elbow, bringing your attention back as her and Lydia abandoned you to join the whoop-and-holler group that were headed to the back yard. You watched them all through the kitchen window, screams of delight and pats on the back as the kid’s legs were thrown into the air, a singular Reebok kicked off, and the chanting had begun.

“Nancy told me to come find you,” a voice entering the kitchen stole your attention again, and you watched a couple approaching. A pretty girl, with an abundance of freckles, tugged on the arm of her handsome friend while he tossed a crushed beer can into the oversized tub garbage across the room. Three points.

“Yeah, well, Robin, why didn’t she come get me herself? That’s all I’m saying.” The boy sighed and pulled another can from the melting bucket of ice on the kitchen island.

“Well, whatever, Steve. Do you want to come or not?” The girl, Robin, took a moment selecting her own next beverage before rubbing the dirt and condensation off the top of the can with a corner of her sweater.

The boy, Steve, ran a hand through voluminous brown hair and down his face. He looked tired, like the day before this had been full of decisions he’d rather not have made. “No, I think I just need to be alone. Maybe I’ll sit outside for a bit, get some air.”

“Do you want to… go?”

He noticed you then, and heat licked up your throat having been caught eavesdropping. You flashed a weak smile and jiggled the warm beer in your can, staring down at it. “No,” he cleared his throat, and you glanced back up to meet his gaze, brown eyes and corners of his pink lips pulled up into a smile. He turned back to his friend. “No I’m alright, Robs. You go have fun.”

Robin eyed you then too, gave you the full up-down, and you swallowed under her scrutiny. Apparently, you’d satisfied the requirements, because she patted her friend on the shoulder and backed slowly out of the room. Before rounding the corner, she flashed you a bright smile and waved, and you raised your hand to wave back before she was bounding up the staircase.

“Sorry about her,” Steve smiled, popping the tab on his new can. He slurped the bubbles from the lid, a satisfying sound, and pointed your direction. “You not the keg-stand type?”

You glanced over your shoulder. A new victim had been thrown into the air, the small boy doubled over in a nearby bush. You winced, shook your head. “Maybe in my youth, but I think I’m too old for the carbonation.” You patted your stomach in sympathy.

Steve laughed, a soft sound from the back of his throat, and you noticed he’d rounded the island to stand beside you, peering out the window himself. “Sophomore year of high school, I was crowned Keg-King. The idea of it now makes me want to hurl.”

“Ooh, I’m in the presence of royalty?” You took a drink of your own beer and almost gagged at the warmth. Immediately, you dumped it headfirst into the sink.

“Well, I was dethroned,” he explained, watching your drink bubble and fizz its way down the drain. “You want a new one?” And before you could answer, he was pulling a cold one out of the bucket, wiping the drip of condensation on the thigh of his Levis.

You thanked him and you fingers brushed past his, long and freezing, as you received the can. You popped the tab and slurped the fizz if for no other reason than to occupy your hands and the flutter kicking at your stomach.

“No problem,” he clicked your cans together in a cheers and offered his empty hand. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

You introduced yourself at the exact moment the crowd of meatheads elected to return back for a victory parade. A brown haired boy rode shoulders, and everyone cheered in delight as they made their rounds.

Steve, grasp tight on your own, leaned into your space to catch your name. He was dizzying, bergamot and chamomile and warmth. He repeated your name, breath fanning your face, and you thought his grip on yours was the only thing keeping you from floating away. Someone shoved him from behind, furthering him into you, and soft lips tickled your ear lob while he asked, “Do you want to get some air?”

You swallowed, and nodded, and with your hand squeezed tightly in his own, strong but soft, you were guided through the packed house and onto the fresh air of the front stoop. Your hand ached the moment his touch left your own, and he offered for you to find a seat on the top step of the concrete slab. You leaned against a wrought iron railing, and he took the spot beside you, and you watched him for a moment as he watched the world.

“Much better,” he sighed. Dark hair, dark eyes, a smattering of freckles. From this distance, you noticed a dent in the slope of his otherwise perfect nose, a hairline scar at the corner of his lower lip, and when he turned to look at you, those perfect lips split into a shiny white smile, and it melted everything you had left keeping you upright.

You sank in between joists on the railing. “The air’s nice.” You commented, and then immediately kicked yourself. You cleared your throat and took a sip of your beer, too hoppy, with a tang of citrus. You winced, but had to admit it was better than the cheap stuff you’d been drinking before. “So, uh.. Steve, what’re you studying?”

His eyebrows raised at that, and he glanced around for a moment, as though maybe you were speaking to someone else, before realization seemed to hit. “Oh me? No. Um…” He picked at the tab on his can, suddenly bashful. “I don’t go here. I’m just here with um…” He pointed off into the house, upwards, elsewhere. “Nancy.”

“Nancy?” You thought her name was Robin.

“Yeah, Nancy Wheeler? Tiny girl, curly hair, feisty as hell.”

Your heart sunk. You nodded, now your turn to pick at the tab of your can. “Oh, I know Nancy. We have creative writing together.” Of course he was here with Nancy fucking Wheeler. She was perfect, petite, over-participated in class.

“Oh are you a journalism major too?” He sounded interested, but you supposed he was just polite.

You shook your head. “English literature.”

His brows furrowed then, a perfect crease forming between them. “Like books and stuff?”

You snorted with a nod. “Yeah, something like that.” You took another drink. This one might be easier to finish. God, a buzz would be so nice right now, take away the stale taste of rejection.

“That’s cool. What do you do with a degree like that?”

The same conversation you’d have with your ninety-year-old Nana. You winced. “I want to be a teacher.”

“Hey, that’s great!” He flashed those pearly whites again, took a drink of his own beer, shook his head like he was amazed at your career path.

You laughed dryly. “I know, kids suck, but I don’t know. I’ve always loved the classics. I feel like I’d want to teach others to enjoy them like I do.” You felt a little hot now, like you had to defend yourself.

“No, I mean it,” he shook his head. “I think that’s great. Shit, if I had an English teacher like you, I might have paid more attention and actually passed.”

You squirmed under his compliment, took another sip, stared into the middle distance.

“I’m serious. You could probably make Shakespeare a whole hell of a lot more interesting.”

You scoffed at that. “You’re not calling the Bard himself boring?”

“He is! All the wherefores and art thous? Are you kidding me, dude? Speak English!”

You shook your head, baffled at the concept, but the grin he gave you felt mischievous, teasing, sent your stomach swooping again, and you narrowed your gaze on him. “Looks like I have my first student.”

He tilted his head, looked up at you with big brown eyes through those long eyelashes, and he bumped your shoulder with his. “Guess you do.”

—

Nancy Wheeler’s dumb, perfect head was right in your way everywhere you turned. In creative writing, you’d been put into a critique group with her, and she was all encouraging smiles and genuinely good constructive criticism and it made you want to scream. In the library, she’d rented the private room the slot before you, so the exchange was met with friendly eyes of recognition and a whoops-sorry! when you’d nearly crashed overflowing backpacks. Even at the caf, she’d managed to let you skip ahead of her in line because she couldn’t decide between the meatloaf and the spaghetti, and then you watched her walk to her table with both on her plate.

She was everywhere, and had your mind not been completely taken over by Steve Harrington’s stupid perfect face, you probably wouldn’t have noticed. You’d maybe even consider Nancy one of your budding college friendships. But now, with descriptions of Steve’s soft, brown eyes pouring into every piece of creative writing and poem for every class, it was hard to see Nancy as anything other than a rival, a mortal enemy, the antithesis of yourself.

To be fair, she’d unknowingly started the war when she interrupted your dissertation on Hamlet’s soliloquy, and suddenly Steve was blind to you and all wrapped up in her perfect curls and her awkward, but polite, glances your direction. She was high and ready to go back, and Robin had found a friend that she wanted to stay late with, and Steve had to walk her back to her dorm. He apologized about a thousand times, but you understood and waved him off, probably to never see him again.

But of course, you had to be haunted by her like Hamlet’s father’s lingering ghost. Even as you entered the student union building for a study session, you heard her calling out your name.

You blinked, wondering if you’d hallucinated that, until you turned on your heel and saw her flagging you down. You stopped and waited for her to approach, and she did so with wrung hands and a kind smile.

“Hi,” she breathed.

“Hi,” you nodded, tight-lipped, wondering what this could possibly be about.

“Have you been asked to the Ruger party tonight yet?”

Ah, yes. The famous Ruger party, hosted by the co-ed dorms at the start of every year. You’d heard rumors for weeks now, talk of a glamorous theme. By invite only, this was supposed to be the hottest party of the year. Held by the school, Ruger residents were supposed to invite residents of the other dorms on campus to provide a bit of a mixer. Not provided by the school were the inevitable contraband items: alcohol, drugs, apparently wild sex. Your roommate went last year and wouldn’t shut up about it. Her new fuck buddy had invited her this time around.

You shook your head, watching the smile spread across Nancy Wheeler’s bubblegum pink glossy lips.

“Great! Would you maybe want to be my date?”

You blinked back at her. “What?”

“Well, I just didn’t want to invite a guy, and you and I are… friends, right?” She offered that smile again. “You totally don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but it should be a good time.”

“Uh…” You blinked back at her again before shaking yourself into reality. “Yeah, no, totally. I’ll come.”

“Really?” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Great! Here’s your invite. Party’s at 8, but come whenever. Theme is white out, so wear all white. I’ll see you then!”

You stared down at the piece of paper she’d shoved into your hand. Wheeler. Room 309. An olive branch, of sorts, you supposed.

—

The third floor of Ruger Hall looked identical to every floor in the all-girl’s dorm, industrial grey carpets, cinderblock walls painted with blue and white stripes, furniture ripped from a dentist’s office, but you’d never seen your floor packed with this many students. Surely, this was against fire code.

You shuffled along, short pleated skirt riding up your thighs and ass with each step, trying to reach 309 at the far end of the building. You’d managed to come off the elevators into the thick of it, and people crowded around glitter glue decorated doors, smoke pouring out. Somewhere near 305, a red solo cup had been thrust into your hand, and you managed not to spill the neon orange liquid down the front of your borrowed outfit. Your roommate lended a skirt and polo set from her tennis playing days, both of which hugged your curves more than you’d hoped.

You heard your name being called from the direction whence you came, and you turned in frustration to see Nancy Wheeler in the wide common area, flagging you down, red cup raised high above her head. With the helpful shove of a drunk athlete, you’d managed to meet her in the center of the room with a shy smile. She looked like an angel, flowing skirt and blouse and cardigan, curls pinned at the side with a pearl barrette.

“You made it!” She grinned, peering over the edge of your cup to see the contents. “Ooh, orange. What’s the flavor?” And she tipped hers to expose a deep purple.

You grimaced, shrugged, and eyed your drink warily before pouring it back. You guessed vomiting orange would be better than black. It tasted of Tang and had the kickback of vodka and regret. “Childhood,” you coughed, and she laughed that perfect, melodious laugh of hers.

“Come on,” her dainty hand gripped your forearm. “I want you to meet my friends.” And she was leading you across the crowded room to the far corner near wide campus-facing windows.

The sun had barely set, bathing everything in pastel pinks. By now, the leaves had shaken from trees, breeze blowing them across cobblestone paths and into mud puddles, the whispers of autumn on the wind. You sidled up beside one of the windows that had been cracked, thankful for the fresh air when compared to the hot and sweaty bodies surrounding you.

“Guys, this is my date,” Nancy introduced, giving your arm a tug to face her friends, and the chill rattled out of your body when you made eye contact with those sweet browns of Steve Harrington himself. He flashed you that knee-weakening smile, waggling his fingers to wave hello. You mouthed a hi.

“She lives in Stanely, right?” Nancy’s hand on your shoulder tore your attention away, and you tried to blink into focus, nodding although you didn’t hear the question. “She’s studying lit, and we have creative writing together! This is Robin, my roommate. We know each other from back home. She’s a poli sci major, and her friend uh…”

“Cathy,” Cathy greeted, extending a hand. “I’m also in Stanely, 405.”

You nodded, “602.” You chanced a glance back at Steve, he was watching you with that knowing smirk, rocking on the balls of his feet. God, he looked better than you remembered him, white tee beneath a white blazer, sleeves rolled to expose tanned forearms, acid wash Levis - a cop out you’d absolutely tease him about later, a pair of white leather boat shoes.

“And this is my uh…” Nancy flattened the belt around her waist. “This is Steve. He’s home - from home! He’s from Hawkins.” She downed her drink as Steve reached across to extend a warm handshake, your arm erupted in electricity at his touch.

“How dost thou lady fair?” He narrowed his eyes after his said it, realizing how stupid he sounded, and you hid your laughter behind your hand.

Robin and Nancy both turned to him with matched confusion. “What?”

He gestured to you and scratched at the back of his neck sheepishly. “We’ve uh… met.”

“I nearly bored him to tears forcing Shakespeare down his throat.” You explained further.

He shook his head. “I wasn’t bored.” And there was something there, in his words, that swooped your stomach.

“Okay, I’m going to need a drink,” Robin clapped her hands between you.

Steve nodded, but smiled back at you, gesturing to the cup in your hand, offering to retrieve you a new drink.

You nodded.

“What color?”

You poked your finger in the direction from whence this came. “Orange, please.” And he and Robin were off.

—

You’d managed to down four Tang and vodka’s before your bladder threatened to burst, and you shoved your way down the hall toward the bathrooms. The party had gotten impossibly more crowded, bodies on bodies, suffocatingly hot and smoky, yet somehow it hadn’t been busted. And the only color you’d managed to get on your clothes was a soft spray of Robin’s sloshed red, to which she apologized profusely and explained what a big klutz she was.

You waved her off and headed for the bathroom and nearly slipped on the bright blue tile floor when you skidded to a halt behind a line of students. It wasn’t nearly as crowded in the bathroom, a breath of stale fresh air, but the mirrors were entirely overtaken with girls reapplying blush and lipstick and plumping their cleavage.

“Cute skirt,” a girl commented, in line behind you, and you would have shied away from it if you weren’t feeling the warmth of buzz in your fingertips and the thrill of Steve Harrington in your bones.

You stuck with the group, going from door to door, floor to floor, meeting Nancy and Robin’s classmates, greeting those you recognized from your own programs, all-the-while centimeters from the warmth of Steve’s forearms. As the night went on and the party got busier, you found yourself up against him, squishing through narrow hallways with his strong and sturdy front up against your rear end, your skirt hiking high enough to hear the catch in his throat just above your left ear.

Between conversations and introductions, you noticed him leaning into you, taking an interest, asking you questions, making sure you were good on drinks. Though you realized he’d been doing the same for Nancy - Nance, as he lovingly referred to her - and Robin too. He was a bit of a mom, flitting back and forth between friends to make sure they were having fun and being safe. Now that you thought about it, you never actually saw him sip anything himself, always just catering to the group.

You finished your pee, checking that your skirt wasn’t tucked into your panties, and moved toward the counter to wash your hands and freshen up. Red splotches had stained the front of your top like a splatter of blood, enough so that the girl beside you asked if you were okay, wide-eyed and blown pupils, white powder sticking to the edge of her nose.

You smiled and waved her off before dampening the corner of a paper towel in a vain attempt to clear the mess. But it was too late, it had dyed hours ago now, and your vision had begun to blur around it anyway.

“Here,” a girl beside you offered. “No one’s going to notice the stain if you give them something else to look at.” And before you could protest, she was painting your lips with the soft end of her stick of lipgloss.

It was tacky and tasted of peaches, a friendly addition to the orange on your tongue, and you faced your reflection and licked some of it off your canine. The color suited you, peaky pink and soft, with a shimmer. You imagined Steve’s big brown eyes trailing your lips. You imagined him kissing it off of you, wondered if he liked peaches.

“Do this too,” the girl popped open the three buttons left on your top, exposing the swell of your boobs and a sliver of your baby blue bra, the lightest color you owned. “Now scoop and adjust. Make ‘em perky.” You did as you were told and she gave you the thumbs up. Your reflection wasn’t familiar, a swirl of blood and peach, and you held yourself upright on the counter to try to focus on your reflection, but you were already being hip-checked out of the way.

You’d barely been shoved back into the hallway when a new drink had been pressed into your hand, this one a vibrant turquoise. Curiosity getting the best of you, you threw it back in one gulp, wincing at the blue raspberry and the sting of an unfamiliar alcoholic base. You dropped your cup with the lot of them beginning to stack on the stained carpet and almost yelped when a strong hand gripped your waist and spun you around.

You were dizzy and warm, fingers tingling, face heating, chest-to-chest with Steve Harrington. You gripped his biceps for balance, and he kept a strong hand firmly on the crux of your back. “Hi,” you breathed, hiccuped, stumbled further into his hold.

“Whoa, you good?” He steadied you, held you upright, walked you backwards until you were sandwiched against a cool, cement wall.

“Uh huh.” You nodded, but you had to close your eyes to quell the spinning of fluorescents. Steve’s scent was just as intoxicating as whatever you’d consumed, bergamot and chamomile and the salty brine of sweat. You clutched at his lapels, licked the gloss from your lips, and hummed.

His chuckle rumbled your own chest. “Yeah, I bet.”

“Steve!” Robin called out, her arm in the air pulling your attention. “I lost Nancy.” She breathed upon her approach.

Steve looked from his friend to you and back with a sigh. “I’m going to walk her home. Look for Nance and I’ll meet back up with you guys in your room. Alright?”

Robin eyed you with a sly smile playin at the corners of her full lips. “Alright, have fun.” And you could have sworn she shouted something about protection as Steve peeled you from the wall and used his strong hands on your hips to guide you to the shaky elevator and out into the frigid autumn air.

When your teeth chattered, you heard the rustle of clothes and Steve’s jacket had been placed upon your shoulders, and he fell into step beside you, offering an arm for support. The crook of his elbow was warm and a little sticky, and his jacket was big and dizzying, damp in spots. You mumbled a thank you.

“No problem. Just let me know if you gotta hurl, okay? We’ll get off the path into one of these bushes.”

“I’m not gonna hurl.” You chuckled, although you felt further and further from planet Earth. You weren’t sure if that was the cold night air on your bare legs, or the warmth of Steve’s arm in your palms. Maybe it was all of that combined with the concoction of alcohol and the muted sounds of a party behind you as you crossed campus to the other halls.

“Are you going to be okay to walk back on your own?”

He shrugged, nodded. “Yeah, I’ve fought monsters. I’m not scared.”

“Monsters?” A shadow moved ahead, and you tucked in tighter.

“Yeah, I live in Hawkins. I’m sure you’ve heard about all of the shit we’ve dealt with.”

You had. Serial killers, a massive Earthquake, Satanic cults. A shadow moved to the right, and you gulped, suddenly feeling much more sober than you had moments earlier.

“I’m not going to let anything hurt you.” He adjusted your hand to slip into his own and squeezed. Warmth radiated through you.

You thought of him fighting cult members, broad shouldered and furrowed brow, sweat slicking his hair to his temples. You glanced up at him and noticed the deep purple line of a scar over his bicep. You resisted the urge to trace it with your finger tip.

“We all kind of went through it together. Me and Robin and um…” He let out a deep breath. “And Nance. I guess that’s why we’re so close. Shared trauma and all that bullshit.”

You weren’t sure why he was telling you all this, moonlit confessions, maybe he thought you were drunk enough you wouldn’t remember. You gave his hand an encouraging squeeze.

But before either of you could say anything else, you’d arrived at the entrance to your building. Shining glass doors and dimmed lights. A girl sat at the front desk popping her gum. You turned to face Steve, and the words spilled out before you could stop yourself. “No boys passed 8.”

Steve’s mouth pulled into the shape of an ‘O’, and he glanced over your head to the girl at the front desk. He smiled and nodded back to you. “Alright. Well, I’m glad I could walk you this far.”

You swallowed, removed his jacket from your shoulders to hand to him, a sudden awkward tension filling the space between you. The night breeze chilled your spine. “Goodnight.” You fumbled, unsure of where else to leave it, knowing immediately that you’d regret not saying more.

“Hey,” he caught you first. “Which Shakespeare were you telling me about last time? I was trying to tell my buddy, Henderson, and I got the name wrong and I couldn’t remember. Looked like a real idiot.”

“Hamlet,” you smiled.

He snapped his fingers between you. “Yes! That’s the one. Thank you.”

You nodded and lingered a few moments longer.

“So listen,” he took a step toward you. “I’m really glad I got to see you again tonight, and maybe, I don’t know. Maybe I could see you again sometime?”

Your stomach swooped, and you bit your lip, peach gloss and happiness. “Yeah I’d really like that.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

“Okay, well, great. So I’ll see you around?”

“Thanks for walking me back. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

And he watched you back into your building, not leaving his spot in front of the doors until you were safe on the elevator. And it wasn’t until you did a giddy dance on the way up that you realized you hadn’t given him your number, and by the time you unlocked your bedroom and rushed to the window, he was already gone, a shadow lost among the fallen leaves.

—

You didn’t see him again until Halloween. Your upper body was slathered in a thick, greasy layer of green body paint, black lipstick that clung to the edges of shot glasses and the rims of solo cups. Your green tights kept riding up or rolling down, and the pointed toes of your borrowed heels ached the balls of your feet. Any sitting on furniture had to be done upright, so as not to smear green over poorly upholstered furniture.

Robin, an over-the-top cowardly lion, kept reassuring you you looked amazing, but she had it easy in a pair of onesie pajamas, her ringlets bouncing lithely around the whiskers painted on her face. When you made a face, she merely passed you another shot and a lime, and down the hatch it went. A patch of green had been licked clean from your hand, salt and wax combining on your tongue.

You’d grown rather close to Nancy Wheeler and her roommate, despite the disdain you’d felt for their best friend back in Hawkins. He hadn’t called, not even once in a month and a half since he walked you back to your dorm, and you didn’t dare ask your new friends about it. You had the lingering suspicion that something was still going on with he and Nancy, but you knew it’d hurt your pride to much to ask.

Nancy, dressed in gingham, hair pulled into perfect pigtails, nursed her solo cup and flirted with one of the frat boys that lived in the massive house hosting tonight’s festivities. You were a few more blocks off-campus now, in a place that rivaled Animal House. Big swinging doors opened to a grand staircase, already littered with bodies and booze when you’d arrived around 8. The massive oaks outside had been absolutely run-through with toilet paper, and cracked eggs squished between everyone’s feet on the rounded driveway.

And God, you wished that your Wicked Witch of the West makeup was the worst of your day, but you’d all but crashed and burned in your midterm exam earlier, and the anxiety that clawed at your chest couldn’t seem to be satiated with alcohol as you had hoped.

It was all made much, much worse with the arrival of the Tin Man.

Steve approached with a wave, hands in his pockets, grey member’s only jacket hugging his broad shoulders. A big, red paper heart was safety pinned to his chest. He’d stolen it from you, you scoffed bitterly and turned to look for Cathy, the scarecrow, lost to the sea of people.

“Wow, glad you put effort in,” Robin rolled her eyes and threw her arms around her best friend in greeting.

“Hey, I’ve got the heart.” You avoided his gaze, still raking the crowd for sides of land. You were drowning out here.

“Steve!” Nancy’s soft greeting fluttered your direction, and you stepped aside to grant her entry, watching his massive hands pull around her tiny body. She raised herself on tip toe to offer him a tight squeeze. “Thanks for the effort.” She swatted at him, glossy lips pulled back into a sly smile. He looked back at her with hearts in his eyes.

You swallowed, took another step back, hoping the sea would just swallow you up before he noticed you were there.

“Steve, you remember our friend,” Robin, stupid beautiful Robin, gestured your direction.

He looked at you with reddened cheeks, offered a wave, corners of his lips upturned like a puppy caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“I need a drink.” You licked the front of your teeth and turned on an achey heel to find some God damn relief for the dryness of your throat and the sting in your eyes.

—

Spin-the-Bottle felt a bit juvenile for a group of fifteen college students, but you were buzzed enough to say fuck it and pop a squat across the circle from Robin. Steve had mumbled something under his breath, questioning whether or not it was a good idea, which only goaded you further, and he elected to remain upright, leaning against the closet doors to supervise instead of participate.

“Alright, you know the rules,” Carrie set an empty tequila bottle sideways in the center of the circle, the remnants of golden liquid spilling from the top and soaking into the rug below. “You’ve got to kiss whoever your spin lands on, boy or girl. Then that person gets a turn.”

“Or we could do Seven Minutes in Heaven,” the boy behind her, Brad, you thought, slapped a meaty hand to her ass, and she squawked, smacking at his shoulders.

You chanced a glance at the closet doors, and saw Steve pouting, brows furrowed with that wrinkle creased between them. You would have taken seven minutes alone in a closet with him a month and a half ago. Hell, you would have taken seven seconds.

You kept wondering if you should have just kissed him that night, given him a taste of that peachy pink lip gloss. Maybe then he wouldn’t have run back to Nancy, maybe then you could have held him a little tighter, felt his body against yours in the shadows of the building like you had up against that wall in Ruger. You thought about that often, the warm curve of him against you, sinewy muscles under soft, tanned skin, the purple line of scars along his bicep in the moonlight.

Your throat felt tight, and you focused your eyes back to the game. It had already begun, Carrie crawling across the circle to kiss a curly haired blond guy. He spun it to Lydia. Lydia to Brad. Brad to Nancy. Her cheeks tinged a bubble gum pink to match her lipgloss, the corners of her mouth turned up into that coy Nancy Wheeler smile, and she leaned forward to meet him in the middle.

He was a burly football type, massive hand dwarfing her petit features as he tilted his head and went in for it, tongue first. Nancy didn’t pull away, never one to back down from a challenge, and the room started to whoop and holler around her.

Just over their heads, you noticed Steve trying to look anywhere but the kissing couple, a grimace screwing up his perfect features, a sadness in his eyes as he stared up into the light fixture. Your heart sank for him.

When the two broke apart, a line of saliva between swollen lips, Nancy spun the bottle, and it wrapped the circle a few times before landing on Robin. Robin tensed, lips sucked into a tight line beneath the drawn-on lion’s nose. You glanced up at Steve who also seemed rock solid, the two of them frozen in this inexplicable panic.

“What’s the matter, babe? Never kissed a girl before?” Lydia cooed from beside Robin, giving the girl’s shoulders a little shake.

Nancy shrugged, that same demure smile playing on her perfect features. “It’s just a game, Robs.”

And with a shaky breath, Robin conceded, met her in the middle, soft cherry stained lips pressed to bubblegum gloss, sweet and tender and pure. Even you felt a little bubble of jealousy at the tenderness, wished someone would kiss you like you’d been through Hell and back together. Steve was watching them out of the corner of his eye, some dumb expression on his face, with slightly upturned lips like he was having an epiphany. You rolled your eyes and fiddled with a run in your bright green tights.

When the girls pulled apart, Robin had to be reminded it was her turn, and she fumbled the bottle clear out of the middle of the circle. It half-heartedly landed on a guy with shaggy brown hair, and she glanced Nancy’s direction before pressing a chaste, tight-lipped kiss, dodging the boy’s gropey hands.

When he spun, it landed on you. He was three seats away, to your right, and he nearly barreled over the others to reach you. Steve was watching, you could feel his gaze like a radiator, and you crawled to Shaggy Hair and let him shove his tongue down your throat. He was all grabby hands and his mouth tasted like tequila and the regret you could already feel clawing up your throat, and when you pulled away, his face was smudged with black and green, combining to make a mossy mess of his lips and nose and cheeks.

“Your makeup!” Nancy gasped, speaking the realization none of you had made in your intoxication, and shame and horror radiated through you like a freight train.

“I got something else you can turn green, baby,” Brad cupped his crotch and rocked into his hand, tongue out to receive barked laughter from the rest of the group.

Your head swam, laughter sounding miles away, and you pushed yourself to your feet and mumbled something about needing to puke before you raced out of the room. You barely heard your name being called behind you, launching yourself down the wide staircase like Cinderella at the ball. Your ankle even managed to roll in your haste, a dull ache that had you cry out when you slipped on eggy soup on the driveway.

“Hey, slow down!” A voice called out from behind you.

You walked through the grass in a vain attempt to wipe your shoes, and it gave just enough time for your pursuer to catch up with you.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve doubled over, hands on the knees of his jeans, member’s jacket ruffling around him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you grumbled, stamping a yolk into the grass near a foul smelling pile of something else. “I’m just going to walk home. Tell Robin and Nancy sorry.”

“You’re not walking alone,” he argued.

“I think I can manage,” you shot back.

“Are you limping?”

You grit your teeth around the shooting pain in your ankle, but kept on your path toward the dorms. You could manage a few blocks.

“Here, stop,” Steve caught back up to you, put his hand out in front of you. “Stop. Stop!”

You felt all of that familiar anxiety clawing its way back up, stinging behind your hairs, snowballing the lump in your throat. You tilted your head back to stare at the clouded skies, willing your tears to stay in your skull instead of trailing track marks through the hideous green paint. “I just want to go home.” You said through gritted teeth. “I want to shower and go to sleep and pretend this stupid day never happened.”

“Okay,” his voice was calm, too calm, like he was talking you off a ledge, crisis intervention. He had his hands out to you like he’d cornered a deadly predator, waiting for your strike. “Just let me walk you. Please.”

“Why? So you can tell me I’m pretty and never talk to me again?” Your words tasted venomous.

He closed his eyes, shoulders slumped. He ran a hand through his stupid, perfect hair. He offered you sad eyes, pity.

The inside of your mouth tasted like tequila and sadness and gathering bile. “That’s what I thought.” You hissed, shoving him to the side to hobble past him. He was sturdy, planted his feet, and the bulk of him made your mouth water, which you hated three times as much.

“Wait, okay, just…” He gathered himself to step in time beside you. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Whatever.”

“No, I mean it. I’ve been really busy. I’m doing classes for the police academy, and I have this new full time job, and with all of the shit going on in Hawkins…” He trailed off. You glanced his direction. He did look tired, newfound dark circles under his big, brown eyes.

“So you just thought it’d be better to leave me hanging? You could have called, told me you were busy. Or at least, told Robin or Nancy to tell me you were busy. So I wasn’t sitting around for a month and a half like an absolute idiot.”

“I know, you’re right.” He sighed. “I was going to, but I thought… I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d moved on by then.”

You swallowed, annoyed that you wanted to lean on him for support, your ankle screaming at you.

“Have you?” He tilted his head your direction. “I mean, are you seeing other guys?”

You wanted to answer ambiguously, make him wriggle in jealousy, but the bitter taste in your mouth took over and you shot back, “I could.” And you stomped your feet a little in obstinance and cried out when a pain shot up your thigh.

“Shit, are you okay?”

“No,” you growled, gripping at his broad shoulder to take the weight off your foot. The right side of your body throbbed and you smeared green paint onto the windbreaker fabric of his jacket.

“Here,” he swung an arm around your waist, allowing your body weight to lean into his, and he slowly walked you to nearby bench to sit and rest for a moment. He kneeled before you, heart on his chest crumpled and tinged green around the edge. He pulled your foot into his hand and you watched as nimble fingers undid the laces of your boot and he pulled it off your heel with a pop.

Your ankle was swollen, wrapped in green nylon and throbbing, and you winced as Steve took it into his warm hands. He cupped your calf and used your foot to roll a tight circle, and you clawed at his forearm to get him to stop.

“I don’t think it’s broken, but we’ll need to get you some ice.” He looked so pretty from down there, forehead etched in worry, brown eyes big and beautiful staring up at you, corner of his jaw smudged with green. “I’m going to get my car. Promise me you won’t move?”

You nodded slowly, all of the words lost to the recesses of your mind.

He pushed off from the bench and backed away. “Stay. Here.”

—

Nothing smelled more like Steve Harrington than his car, bergamot and chamomile and a bit of stale coffee that had been sitting in a thermos in his cupholders. The seats were warm, floor mats impeccably clean, and you were suddenly acutely aware of the green body paint covering your upper half. You sat stick straight, didn’t bother to put your seatbelt on, as he put the car in the gear and raced the handful of blocks to your building.

He had to park in the lot out the back entrance, risking a ticket without a permit, and he rushed to the passenger’s side to help you out, again letting you sink your weight into him. Your right boot dangled from his grasp.

The back desk girl buzzed you in, but was sure to remind you that no boys were allowed after 8pm.

“She sprained her ankle, okay?” Steve argued, gesturing to your foot hovering between you. “So unless you have a wheelchair behind that desk, I’m going to take her up and get her some ice. It’ll take ten minutes tops, I promise. And then you can come up with a cattle prod to kick me out.”

The girl glared at him, before slapping a clipboard onto the countertop between you. “Sign in here.”

Steve grumbled and signed his name and your room number and hauled you to the elevator to make the slow crawl up six floors.

Luckily, you were the first door on the right, and you managed to fish your key from the underside of you left boob without Steve’s assistance. He actually stared unblinking at the fluorescents down the hall while you grabbed it, and when you pushed open the little door your face heated with the sudden awareness that Steve Harrington was about to see your dorm room, the place you slept, the soft purple of your duvet.

You flushed at the mess of clothes piled at the foot of your bed, discarded after your midterms and before you slipped into this flowing black dress.

Steve made no notice of it, or if he did, he said nothing, sampling asking for ice.

“Common room’s down the hall,” you gestured the right direction, and he left you propped against your bed in search for supplies.

You took the silence to kick your clothes under your bed and cross the room to the tiny sink and splotchy mirror, and Dear God, were you a wreck. Green had smudged off in awkward places, exposing dyed mossy skin below. The black and green around your lips had mixed to a disgusting grey, and streaks of sweat and tears had pulled at the oily material in lines down your face. You grimaced and reached for your bath towel, turning the faucet to hot.

Cold cream mixed with emerald into a deep lather of sage that you managed to whisk away with a hot wash cloth, getting most of the grime from your face, your neck, your shoulders and arms. It remained in the crevices of you, the creases of your ears, the dip of your collarbone, but your mind had fuzzed with alcohol and your body sagged in exhaustion.

“Hey,” Steve wrapped his knuckles against your doorframe and shook a rag packed with ice. “Get off your feet.”

You couldn’t help but smile, discarding your towel against the sink while swampy water circled the drain, and you limped back to your side of the room. Your bed looked inviting, purple covers squishy and soft. You stopped as the flounce of your dress hit the duvet. “Can you um… turn around? I need to get changed.”

You couldn’t meet his eye, instead watching his Adam’s apple bob before he turned on his heel, pushed your bedroom door until the latched clicked closed. You heard the rustle of ice in the bad, felt the shift of his weight bouncing the floor.

Your tights came down first, impossibly slow. You had to lean on the bed to peel them from your swollen limb, and you sucked air through your teeth at the sight of it. All mottle and bruised, thick. You’d really done a number on it. Maybe it was broken.

You’d managed to right yourself long enough to slip on a pair of shorts, but when you made for the zipper of your dress, the pit of your stomach sank. It was too low to reach from above, too high from below. Your roommate had zipped it for you. You cursed under your breath and squeezed your eyes closed. “Steve? Could you um… help?”

He didn’t respond, but moments later you felt the brush of your hair off your neck, goosebumps tingling the exposed skin of your shoulders. Your stomach swooped, and you felt yourself gripping the soft duvet for support. His warm hands met the hook and eye of your dress, and you felt nimble fingertips along the column of your spine, all the way to the base, where the soft flesh of you met the waistband of your shorts.

You shrugged the straps down, remembering the heat of him against your back at that party, strong hands digging into the meat of your hips, keeping you firmly against him as you waded through bodies. You remembered the catch of his breath against the shell of your ear. You remembered the way he looked at you under the floodlights when he walked you home. You remembered the skip in Nancy’s step in class the following Monday.

You swallowed, shimmied out of your dress and reached for the nearest, dirtiest t-shirt. The band members of Queen stared back at you, faces haunted with shadow. You slipped it on over your head and lifted yourself into your bed.

Steve had turned around again, one of his knees bouncing. The ice had started to puddle in the rag, dripping water to your floor.

“All safe,” you commented, betrayed by the squeak in your voice, and he turned on his heel to offer you a weak smile, pressing the cold compress to your swollen ankle.

“Sorry,” he mumbled to your wince of indignation.

“What’s going on with you and Nancy?” The words spilled out before you could stop them.

He didn’t look at you, adjusted your blankets to hold up the ice at just the right angle. You were propped up under an old teddy bear, something that would have mortified you if not for the tenderness of his touch, the avoidance of his gaze.

“Are you like… together?” The words got caught there against the lump in your throat.

He shrugged, ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Do you love her?”

He looked at you then, sad brown eyes and furrowed brow, and you knew.

You nodded, bit back tears of hurt, of rejection, gestured to your leg. “Thanks for taking me home, and the ice and all that.”

Your name spilled from his lips so soft you barely heard it, and you forced a smile, all teeth and no charm.

“I think you’re ten minutes might be up. I hear front desk girl warming up her cattle prod.”

He didn’t smile back, let the tension become unbearable.

“I’m serious, Steve. Thank you. I’ll be alright. Go make sure our girls get home safe, please. That Brad guy worries me.”

Again, your name, just above a whisper.

“It’s okay.” You reached out to take his fingertips between yours, an instant mistake. You squeezed his hand and nodded toward the door. “Happy Halloween.” And with a sigh, a hand through his hair, and the softest trace of a smile on those perfect lips, Steve Harrington had slipped out your door and back into the night.

—

You genuinely didn’t know what had possessed you to agree to attend the Buckley Family Thanksgiving. Maybe it was because your family lived too far to travel for Thanksgiving and Christmas, or maybe it was those sparkling blue Buckley eyes, the ones that had convinced you to wear the stupid green makeup also convinced you to road trip back to Hawkins with her and Nancy. You should have known. The first one ended in disaster, why not go two for two?

Robin’s family home was smaller than you expected, her bedroom no bigger than a little closet space, with slanted ceilings covered in movie posters and memorabilia that made everything feel a bit more cramped. She shoved your suitcase into a corner before grabbing your wrist and pulling your back down the rickety staircase to the bustling kitchen.

It smelled like a home on the holidays, turkey in the oven, rolls cooling in baskets. Robin’s mom shuffled around the tight space with sweat slicking her hair to her temples, oven mits rarely leaving her hands. Her apron was more stained and flour coated than anything else, the vintage pattern beneath barely visible.

“Rob, honey, set the table?”

“When’s Rosie getting in?”

Robin’s older sister, Rose, was flying in from Paris for the holidays. She was quite a few years older, managed to get a scholarship to study abroad. You couldn’t tell if Robin idolized or loathed her sister, but you supposed that’s just how sibling relationships worked.

“Any minute. Dad’s bringing cranberries on his way home from work. You want a glass of water, dear?” Mrs. Buckley offered.

“Oh, no thanks.” You smiled and lifted some mismatched ceramic from Robin’s hands to help her set the table.

The tablecloth was worn, holes darned in places with multicolored thread, but you supposed that was the charm of the Buckley home. Nothing matched, not even the chairs around the dining table. And the walls of the house were littered with handprinted portraits and postcards from Paris and a myriad of art forms. Abstract sculptures lined shelves, reminding you that Mrs. Buckley was a high school ceramics teacher. Mr. Buckley managed the local grocery store, which was why he’d be required to work the morning of Thanksgiving.

“You said Steve was going to be late?” Mrs. Buckley asked, and you nearly dropped all of the plates to the table below. You blinked at each setting, counted the chairs, did the mental math. Four Buckleys, you, and one extra. Your mouth went dry.

“Yeah, I think we’re his third or fourth of the day? Hendersons, Wheelers, Hoppers, maybe? Then us.”

“Busy boy,” Mrs. Buckley whistled. “Well, good. He won’t miss my pumpkin pie.”

“I think that’s why he scheduled us last.” Robin agreed.

“Well, best for last. Makes sense.”

You knew in that moment, setting a wide-rimmed plate at the final place at the table, that no matter how good Mrs. Buckley’s cooking was, you weren’t going to enjoy a moment of Thanksgiving dinner, the panic sinking into your stomach and clamming the palms of your hands.

—

Rose Buckley was as beautiful as her sister, and you couldn’t decide if you idolized her or loathed her. You were leaning toward the latter at the beginning of dinner, when every word out of the girl’s mouth was in French. Chattering back and forth with her polyglot family, a tiny bit of which you caught with your remedial high school French.

Halfway through the main course, when Mr. Buckley was shoveling another heaping serving of mashed potatoes onto your plate, Rose learned you were an English literature student and proceeded to ramble on and on about visiting and kissing Oscar Wilde’s grave and of Victor Hugo. You couldn’t decide if she was bragging or if you were in on it.

You hated her the most when pumpkin pie was thinly sliced onto your plate and piled with a dollop of whipped cream. You were regretting the decision to wear jeans, your button pressing into your bloated navel. The tryptophan had started to warm you from inside, lulling you slowly to sleep until familiar chatter when the front door open and Steve Harrington spilled inside, shaking out of his damp Member’s only jacket.

“Stevie!” Rose screeched from beside you, and you gripped the fork in your hand so hard it nearly bent.

Mrs. Buckley stood from her spot to receive a bouquet of wilting flowers, pressing wine drunk kisses to the young boy’s face over and over until Robin groaned, “Mom, let him breathe.” And the woman ushered him into the cramped space of their dining room.

Steve shook Mr. Buckley’s hand and ruffled Robin’s hair before Rose patted the seat beside her, directly across from you, and said, “Sit here, Stevie.” Her voice oozed charisma and charm, that bimbo lilt of all the girls you hated in high school. You stabbed at the crust of your pie, swirling it in whipped cream to avoid looking at him as he found his seat across from you.

“How were your other Thanksgivings?” Robin asked, mouthful of delicious pie, energy in the room rejuvenated by the newcomer’s entrance.

He thanked Mrs. Buckley as she shoved a massive slice in front of him, and he glanced up at you from overtop his pile of whipped cream. You avoided his gaze immediately. “They were um… good. You know how hard it is to deny food from Mrs. Henderson? Or Karen Wheeler? I’m stuffed.”

“And how is Nancy?” Mrs. Buckley’s slurred giggle held a world of implications, and this time, when you ventured a glance Steve’s direction, he narrowly avoided your gaze, looking instead to Robin for some kind of assistance.

Robin squirmed from beside you, staring at her plate as though pie was the most interesting thing in the entire world. You noticed the tips of her ears were bright pink. Something unspoken hung there, between your comrades. You sunk further into your chair, embarrassment clawing at your ribcage.

“She’s good,” Steve offered, shoveling his mouth full of pie to avoid further questioning.

“If only our Robin could find a man half as handsome and as sweet as you,” Mrs. Buckley reached to pinch Robin’s freckled cheek, and her eyes widened once again Steve’s direction.

You felt like even more of an outcast, secrets held between best friends but kept from you. You looked to Rose for help, camaraderie, but even she was staring at Steve, eyes half-lidded with some kind of food-coma-filled lust, and you pushed back from the table, halting conversation.

“May I be excused? I need to use the restroom.”

“Of course, dear, no need to ask,” Mr. Buckley scooted his chair a few moe inches to allow you to pass, and you bee-lined it down the hall.

Stopping with your hand atop the bathroom door knob, you heard Steve politely ask about Paris and the beginning of Rose’s ramblings. With a sigh, you passed the bathroom and elbowed your way out into the Buckley’s small fenced yard. It had begun to rain, soft droplets hitting your cheekbones and the top of your head, and your slumped shoulders as you took a few deep breaths. You squeezed your eyes closed and sat on the back stoop to ground yourself. It was only three more days, three more days and you’d be back in your dorm room under comfortable cushions, listening to the moans and groans of your roommate and her boyfriend. You groaned into your hands.

—

You weren’t sure how long you’d been out there. Enough for the rain to subside, and the deep autumn chill to hang in the air, frosting your breath and tingling your toes. The creak of the storm door behind you signaled someone’s arrival, and you didn’t have to turn around to know exactly who it was. His sneakers squeaked on the cracked concrete, and he made to sit beside you.

“How’s your ankle?” He elbowed you, passing over a chocolate chip cookie.

You sighed, broke it in half, a peace offering. “Fine now. I was bed-ridden that whole weekend. Couldn’t shower until the Monday morning.”

“Thought I saw some green,” he poked at the edge of your ear, and you slapped your hand to it in horror. His perfect lips split into a wide grin then, all white teeth and teasing brown eyes. “Got ya.”

You growled before breaking your cookie in half again and taking a bite. It was the perfect amount of gooey, brown sugar and chocolate chunks. You savored it for a minute, let the silence linger between you.

“How’s school?”

“So how are you?” You said simultaneously. You both ducked your heads in a laugh, and he took a bite of his cookie.

“M’good,” he responded, mouthful. He moaned a little around the cookie, savoring the melt-in-his-mouth, and you felt your face heat, ducking to look at your remaining piece.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” you explained. “Here, I mean.”

“Yeah, Robin’s family enjoy taking in strays. Have you met Franklin yet?” The orange tabby. He was curled on Robin’s bed when you’d arrived. He looked like he’d rather sleep than do much else, except maybe eat lasagna. He was nearly the size of her bed.

“And you’re a stray?”

He shrugged. “My parents are gone a lot. She doesn’t like me being alone on holidays.”

You frowned at the layers pulled back, picking at the toe of your sneaker, let your eyes focus on the drying wet stain of the step below you. “Didn’t you go to Nancy’s?”

“We’re all really close.” And it had been explained to you a thousand times, and it didn’t hurt any less. When Nancy and Robin talked about Hawkins and you were forced to listen, Nancy’s tender fingertips holding yours as she painted your nails lavender to match your bedsheets. Or when you’d all rented a study room at the library, and you pretended to read while they muttered in hushed tones about some girl’s wheelchair or another kid’s apparent crush on Nancy’s brother, and it all made for a concoction that left you out. Out of the picture, out of the group.

You would have wondered what made you cling on so tight if it weren’t for the warm presence beside you, all bergamot and chamomile, a sturdy wall of human posted just close enough that you could feel the brush of his forearm with every inhale, and it was dizzying.

“Hey, so I don’t know if they told you, but I’m having a bit of a get-together at mine tomorrow.”

Great, another party. You eyed him warily.

“It’s going to be very casual. Just a handful of us. Jonathan has this friend who does like mushrooms and shit. He’s apparently bringing something fun.”

“Aren’t you a cop?” You raised an eyebrow, glancing over your shoulder to make sure none of the Buckleys could hear your conversation.

“In training,” he reassured you, a twinkle in his brown eyes. He looked pretty like this, honeyed under the Buckleys’ back porch light. His hair was longer than you’d seen it last, curling at the base of his neck, the highlights having faded and grown out. He had a bit of stubble now too, the whisper of a mustache on his upper lip, and a goatee below, just at the conjunction of his scar. He had a few scars on his face, actually, that you hadn’t quite noticed, the ghost of trauma etched into otherwise perfect features.

“So you’ll come, right?” He blinked back at you, warm breath fanning your face. “I mean, you don’t have to you know, do any drugs or anything, but I’d like you to be there.” He said the word drugs at a low whisper, acknowledging it was contraband, and it made your stomach swoop.

You vaguely remembered Robin telling you about sharing psychedelics with Steve, the comedown less than ideal. You wondered if this was something they did often. You wondered if they talked about you. “Does Robin know?”

He furrowed his brows at that, the soft crease forming between them. “About?”

You felt your face heat, picked at your shoe again. “My big fat crush on you.” The confession felt raw in your throat. He knew, you knew he knew, but you weren’t sure you’d ever actually admitted it aloud to yourself before, to anyone.

He chuckled, bumped your elbow with his. You glanced back up at him to catch a proud smile, the reddening of his cheeks and neck. He shrugged, shook his head. “I didn’t tell her.”

“Okay.”

But as you were crawling under the covers that night, Franklin mewling in irritation that you moved him from his favorite spot, Robin whispered your name from her spot on the floor.

You hummed and sunk into her sheets, rosemary and vanilla and Robin.

“Steve’s really excited for you to come over tomorrow.” She croaked, her voice lilted with that all-knowing rasp. “You know there’s nothing going on between us, right? Platonic with a capital P.” And your heart fluttered a little as you rolled over, allowing the tryptophan to work its magic and lull you both to sleep.

—

The Harrington’s home couldn’t have been more polar opposites from the Buckleys. It was all wide open spaces and furniture sets. The rec room smelled of potpourri and everything displayed on tables and shelving units looked like it’d been imported from Italy. An L-shaped couch framed a gold coffee table and sat across from the largest entertainment center you’d ever seen in your life. Massive television and bigger speakers adorning each side, cassette and record player all-in-one. It was intimidating, a little unexpected, a little underwhelming.

There were bits of Steve too, you supposed, images of soft faces in soccer uniforms and basketball uniforms and swim team uniforms, all professionally taken, scattered along the walls of the entrance hall as they should be, proof a child lived there at some point, and he’d accomplished a few things worth being proud of. But it was nothing like Robin’s, not mosaic of polaroid photos pasted to the backs of bookshelves, no handmade plaster sculptures. Void of family or home or warmth.

But you supposed Steve found warmth elsewhere. As you piled inside, and were offered something to drink - water, tea, coffee, orange juice, vodka? - you were introduced to a motley crew of characters you never expected to find in a home like this. As if you and Robin didn’t stick out enough under the facade of perfect suburban America, Nancy introduced you to Her Jonathan.

Very much along the same veins of Her Steve, her relationship to the boy remained muddled, but Jonathan offered his hand in a weak shake with kind eyes and a soft smile. He was quiet and sweet and charming, slumped shoulders and small framed. His clothes were baggy and every inch of him reeked of marijuana. He introduced you to his friend, Argyle, from California.

Argyle had the longest hair you’d seen on anyone, ever, and he gave you an unwanted hug. The antithesis of Jonathan, in neon colors and patterns, he offered you bright smiles, called you ‘dude’ one too many times.

“Are we ready to ride this crazy train, my dudes?” Argyle offered, pulling a large bag of something herbal from his pocket.

“Speaking of crazy train,” Robin interrupted, pulling a water bottle from her lips. “Is Eddie coming?”

Steve shrugged against the countertop, stared at his feet. “You invited him, right?”

“Yes, of course, Steve. But you know how he gets.” Robin groaned and made for the phone, pulling the receiver to her ear before stamping in a series of numbers.

“Who’s Eddie?” You asked, eyeing Robin with interest. You’d never heard of Eddie before. Maybe the girl had a secret Hawkins boyfriend she wasn’t telling you about. Maybe that’s why she specified the platonic nature of her relationship with Steve.

Steve waved it off with a grimace. “He’s just this guy.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s a vampire,” Argyle muttered, continuing the process of set up.

You snorted. “A vampire?”

Steve shook his head, eyed Nancy and Jonathan over your shoulder. “He’s just like… he’s kind of a weirdo, okay? The Earthquake really um… fucked him up.”

“Fucked who up?” A stranger’s voice carried into the room, and everyone jumped in surprise. You turned on your heel to face a… well you supposed a metalhead would be a good way to describe him. A mess of curled hair mopped his face, and he carried chains and clothespins all over black leather clothing. You understood the vampire reference. If anyone stuck out in the Harrington’s basement, it was him.

“Who’re you?” He asked, brown eyes wide, smile even wider, finger outstretched your direction. “Who’s she?”

“A friend from school,” Robin offered, slamming the phone back down on its hook.

Eddie smiled at you before grabbing your hand and extending his slender body into a deep bow. “The pleasure is all mine, milady.” And you snorted to Steve’s groan behind you. Robin came by and slapped your hand out of his.

“No touching.” She scoffed, and found a seat cross legged in front of the giant television.

“We’ll see,” Eddie pinched his lips together in scrutiny, eyes trailing up and down your body, before winking at something over your shoulder. “Harrington. Shall we get started?”

—

Whatever you’d consumed tasted of the Earth, and the taste of soil and grass lingered between your molars for ages. It felt like years, sitting around, making small talk, getting to know the tiny group, eavesdropping while they checked in with each other’s lives. Eddie was the babysitter, swearing off drugs after his encounter with the Earthquake. You weren’t sure what happened, but the gnarled purple of scars littered his jaw, his throat, his forearms. Argyle was enjoying his first semester at a community college out west. Jonathan studied photography at NYU.

There were soft moments between them too, moments that clung panic at the base of your throat, reminding you of how much of an outsider you were. Jonathan made some comment about seeing rats on the subway, and a shutter ran through him. Nancy reached her hand across to squeeze his fingertips. Robin rubbed circles between Steve’s shoulder blades.

Out of nowhere, Argyle started talking about this girl with superpowers, and that time she blew up a helicopter. He’d clearly done too many drugs. You were starting to regret your decision, watching in horror as the blades of the chopper spiraled out of control and came crashing to the ground. It was terrifying, this clawing, gnawing feeling of panic inside of you, seeing the scars on Eddie’s throat, on Steve’s bicep, the soft, silky fabric of Mrs. Harrington’s sofa, the rich, milky white of shag carpet, like a meadow of lamb’s wool.

And it hit. Eddie called it a Cuddle Puddle, pooling you all in a circle, heads on each other’s laps. He’d moved the coffee table out of the way to make room for you all, and the reflection of the lights against the gold table glinted and glittered and swam in your vision.

“Robin?” Nancy mumbled, somewhere far off. Robin hummed a reply. “Will you play with my hair?”

Jonathan and Argyle were giggling in their own corner, and your own laughter bubbled out of you. The popcorned ceiling came to life, a scene of sheep parading through a field of green, jumping fences and baaing, and you could feel their wool between your fingertips. It was warm and inviting and smelled of bergamot and chamomile and potpourri.

Warm fingers entangled with your own. Your legs were propped up on the sofa, toes wiggled in your socks, and the steady warmth of Steve Harrington sidled up beside you, head pressed to your ribcage, fingers tangling yours. He brought both of your hands up then, ghost fingertips over his face with giggles and squinted eyes, until he rested your grasp in his hair.

It was soft, but sticky with product, and you could feel every follicle against the atoms between your knuckles. You ran your fingers through it again and again, like soft, brown blades of grass in the meadow, and you felt the heavy pressure of Steve’s face curling into you, cradled by your thighs. His breath was warm against the skin of your chest and neck, a blanket of sparkles that pinged off every inch of you.

You looked down at him, barely visible beneath the valley of your breasts, and he was smiling, blissed out and pupils wide. His hands trailed little paths down your forearms, alighting every inch of you.

The room span around you, a technicolor of lights, and you weren’t sure if it’d always been like that or if it was you, you creating a disco of colors against the walls from every bit of you that had sprung open at Steve’s nimble touch. You allowed your eyes to slip closed, your fingers massaging his scalp, his hands trailing every bit of exposed skin he could find, and you slowly sunk deeper into the squishy meadow of shag carpet, falling deeper and deeper to the low rumble of Steve’s moans against your navel.

You’d never been so hungry in your life. Chugging Harrington Tap Water out of the most delicate glass you’d ever seen, your stomach rumbled almost to the point of nausea, almost. Nancy and Robin sat on either side of you, quiet, tired, sipping their own waters while Steve and Eddie ran upstairs to raid the Harrington’s pantry. Argyle used the white phone on the wall to order about four pizzas, from the sound of it, and you honestly weren’t sure that’d be enough.

“Alright, buttheads,” Eddie announced his presence, holding up several bags of snack food. Steve stood beside him, inches taller, already fisting into a bag of pretzels. “Soup’s on.”

A bag of tortilla chips was tossed into your lap, and you ripped it open to devour the salty goodness. You wanted something else with it. Salsa maybe? No. Nacho cheese. Your mouth watered at the idea of drippy, gloopy nacho cheese, and you just imagined it was on each bite, shoveling the chips into your mouth.

The group around you was silent, save for the crunching of chips and crackers and the rustling of bags. You wished you had cake, like birthday cake. That sounded amazing.

“So everyone feeling good?” Eddie asked, plopping himself next to Robin. He threw a hand over her shoulder, and she collapsed into him, shoveling popcorn into her mouth.

There was a chorus of grumbles as a response. The comedown definitely wasn’t as fun as the high. Like consciousness was slipping back in, although you were acutely aware of every second. You ventured a glance Steve’s direction and noticed he was watching you. Lazily chomping on his pretzels, one cheek puffed up like a chipmunk, the corners of his mouth turned up into a soft smile. You smiled back and chomped down on a particularly crunchy chip.

“What do we do now?” Nancy asked, ever the busybody. Can’t sit still for more than ten minutes, and you were sure you’d all been there for hours.

It was already dark outside, sliding glass doors glowing a soft blue from the deck. It was raining too, a pitter patter of droplets against the glass, splashing at the waters of the pool.

“Now’s the orgy,” Eddie offered, and Robin groaned, swatting his arm away. They were cute.

The group chuckled, tired, and you glanced back at Steve. His eyes were trailing up your body, taking you in, half-lidded. It caught your breath in your throat, sunk you further into the couch. When he landed on your face, he licked his lips, you swallowed.

“Fast Times?” Jonathan offered, lifting a case-less VHS from atop the VCR. The group around you mumbled a chorus of agreement, and he stuck it in, but your gaze remained glued onto Steve Harrington and his on you.

—

You couldn’t sleep. The shag carpet was comfortable enough, but you’d napped too much that day, and something had kept you tossing and turning throughout the night. Maybe it was Jonathan’s snores from across the room. Maybe it was the swift kick the ribs you’d received from Robin, when an apparent nightmare had her raspy voice mumbling and moaning.

You propped yourself against the couch with a sigh, trying to focus on the pitter of rain against the concrete patio outside, but the noises of sleep around the room were making you anxious and antsy and frustrated. So with lithe movements, you slipped the blanket around yourself and tiptoed out of the room and up the flight of stairs.

Steve’s house felt more empty in the dark, like a massive hole where a family should be, and you ached at it, running your fingertips over the blemish-less upholstery of an untouched sofa. This had to be the formal living room, the sitting room, a place where guests sat on corporate holidays and drank beer and ate finger sandwiches. Where a play was put on about a nuclear family. Now you thought you understood what Steve meant when he said he was a stray.

A large glass window carried out over the backyard, and you watched the sway of water with each fall of rain. It splashed over the sides, staining the concrete a deep grey. A large fence surrounded the yard, and a forest lay just beyond, cold and dark and dead. You felt sadness here, emptiness, the whole town radiated it. As though tragedy left its mark on the Earth, a hole opening up to swallow the remnants of happiness.

Your eyes prickled with emotion, a lump stuck in your throat, and you fingertips pressed prints into the perfect glass.

“Hey, you okay?” A deep voice startled you, and you spun to see the silhouette of Steve climbing the last two stairs, all mussed hair and broad shoulders.

“Yeah, sorry,” you croaked, quickly wiping the tears from the corners of your eyes. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither,” he mumbled, crossing to look out the window beside you. “You want some tea?”

Chamomile, floral and sweet, with a dollop of honey. You cupped your mug and breathed in the steam and sighed. Steve sipped at his own, leaning against the countertop beside you, the hood light from the stove casting a warm glow over his soft features. Sleep crusted his eyes, hair stood on end from when you’d run your fingers through it.

“Sorry about earlier,” he spoke softly, a low rumble of sleepy sounds. You ducked your head to pull his focus. He watched you carefully. “I mean, I’m sorry if I crossed some sort of line.”

“You didn’t,” You reassured, placing a hand to his forearm. “I had a good time.”

He smiled softly, eyes widened to glass over again, unfocused while he thought about the day you’d had. Finally, his brows furrowed. “I think I saw Robin and Nancy kiss.”

You snorted, but it reminded you of a question that had lingered all day. “Are Robin and Eddie like… a thing?”

Steve stared at you incredulously. “Robin and Eddie? No. No way. Robin likes…” And then he stopped himself, as though he’d gone too far, and when you leaned in for him to finish, he cleared his throat and shook his head. “Eddie isn’t her type.” And he sipped his tea as to close the book on that discussion.

You drank too, pondered his words. You’d observed so much closeness today, so much comraderie. Again, if you weren’t so high, you would have probably felt like an outsider looking in. There was something hardened about your friends, like this hole in the Earth had sucked them up and spat them back out. They all had scars and wounds, and they knew much more about each other than you probably ever would. You supposed Steve was right, shared trauma had pushed the motley crew together, stoners and metalheads and jocks and princesses and band geeks, all under one roof, laughing and reminiscing and bonded for life.

Emotion stung in your throat again and you cleared it, feeling ridiculous. You were jealous, jealous of what they had, almost wishing you’d endured something that chaotic so you could be apart of them, have what they have. Not just with anyone though, with each other. The more you sunk into them, the more you wanted to be around them, like this magnetism pulling you in, making you love them.

“You okay?” Steve asked, setting down his mug.

“Yeah,” you sniffled, wiping away tears again. You hadn’t realized you’d actually been crying. “Sorry.”

“Shit,” he pulled your mug from your own hands and discarded it on the counter before pulling you into him. Strong, sturdy body, all warmth and sleep and bergamot and chamomile, and you felt yourself melt into him, clutching at his back and sobbing into the breadth of his warm chest.

You were crying out of embarrassment at crying, feeling the patch of his t-shirt damp from your tears and the steam leaving your lips with each gasped breath.

A large hand rubbed the expanse of your back, squeezing you tighter into him, and he mumbled into your hair. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

He took deep breaths, the rise and fall of his chest against your face, and you tried to match your sobs to it. Inhale, exhale, inhale exhale, until you felt your eyes grow heavy and your hands go limp with exhaustion.

“Comedown’s a bitch sometimes, huh?”

You laughed at that, happy for the break of tension, and you pulled away. “Sorry.” You mopped at the snot on your nose with the back of your hand, tried to tame the hair sticking to your temples.

“Don’t be.” He chuckled.

You stared at the damp spot on his chest, sticking his t-shirt to his skin. Something fell between you then, a heavy static in the air as you watched the rise and fall of his chest, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. But then he was moving closer, a hand at your hip to guide you back against the counter, thumbprint finding the bone just under your t-shirt.

His other hand moved your hair from your shoulder, swept it behind you, and you dared yourself to look up at him from under your lashes. He was watching your mouth, Adam’s apple bobbing, eyelids heavy. He looked at you like he hadn’t eaten in days and you were a ripe peach, soft at the edges and sticky sweet in the middle.

He cupped your face and you leaned into his warm touch, savoring the brush of his thumb against your bottom lip.

“Can I kiss you?” His voice was low, a gravel of sounds that vibrated his chest against your own.

You swallowed and nodded.

Painstakingly slow, he leaned down, brushed that imperfect nose against your own, and you allowed your eyes to flutter closed as his lips pressed softly to your own.

You moaned, an involuntary hiccup that spilled out before you could stop it, and Steve ran with it, pushing you harder into the kitchen cabinets, rolling his pelvis into yours as he licked into your mouth. Both hands came to grip your hips and with one heave, you were lifted onto linoleum countertops, the tea mug clinking behind you.

Your hands found his hair, as soft as you remembered, and he whined under your touch. His hands were frantic against you, all thighs and hips, and he slipped them up your shirt to the bare skin of your ribcage, and you broke apart to breathe while his fingertips ghosted the underside of your breasts.

You were both touch starved and wanting, a chemical reaction that exploded the second your lips touched, and there was no turning back, no slowing down. He was all kneading hands and love bites along the column of your throat, and you were peachy pink, soft and pliant. You sunk into him, relaxed, hands soft on his neck, wide shoulders, down the scarred and puckered skin on his triceps, finger lithe and slow, trailing the patterns carved there.

He was on fire, skin boiled against yours like chamomile tea, warming you with the rumble of each moan out of him against your neck, your collarbone. His mouth was hot, wet crescents across your chest. His hands were furnaces, ghosting every bit of pebbled skin.

Then he was gone. A rush of cold air replaced the warmth, and your eyes flew open to see Nancy climbing the staircase.

“Steve?” She halted when she saw you. You felt the hem of your t-shirt fall back to your waist.

Steve popped himself on the opposite counter. His shoulders were heaving. He ran a hand through his mussed hair.

“Sorry,” Nancy mumbled, face stunned, interest peaked as she looked back and forth between you. Her bubblegum lips pursed. “I thought I heard a noise.”

Steve wiped the saliva from his lips and shook his head, pulling a mug from the cupboard above. “We were just having tea, Nance. Couldn’t sleep. You want some?”

And that familiar heartache settled itself back into you, the hole of misery that was Hawkins, Indiana, had sucked you up too.

—

Mid-January brought a snowstorm. The night before classes started touched everything in a blanket of white, made for treacherous roadways and sidewalks. Campus was a ghost town. Your morning classes were half-empty, students waiting for the sun to melt the snow.

You’d met Robin at the caf, shared hot chocolates and discussed Christmas break. You enjoyed time at home with family, devouring your holiday reading criteria. Robin nearly murdered her sister. She also had spent a lot of the break practicing for her driver’s test.

“Eddie says ‘hi’, by the way,” Robin had a hand gripping your elbow, the only thing keeping her upright on your walk to her dorm room. Even the grip on her combat boots didn’t stand a chance against the clumsiness of Robin Buckley verses a thick sheet of ice. “He also said he’s been tending to your flock? Said you’d know what that meant.”

You didn’t, but you laughed and shrugged. “Tell him hi back.”

“Will do.”

Were there no other messages? You swallowed back the bitter taste in your mouth. You knew there wouldn’t be. You knew Steve wouldn’t have told Robin about that night, because you hadn’t. And he wouldn’t have offered any greetings or holidays wishes if Nancy kept him waiting in the wings.

“So did anything exciting happen over New Years? I’m talking binge-drinking, tattoos, sex with strangers?” Robin offered, face bursting into a grin, eyebrows waggled.

You chuckled and shook your head, pulling her carefully across a wet spot in the pavement. “There are no strangers in my hometown,” you clarified, trying to push out the lingering thoughts of Steve pressing you against his counter, of his rough, strong hands lifting you to wrap around him, of his fingers printing your skin beneath your shirt.

“But binge-drinking and tattoos?”

“If you count champagne with Mom as the ball dropped and scribbling notes in the margins, then sure, Robs.” You laughed.

Ruger Hall brought a burst of welcome warmth the moment you opened the doors and slipped into the elevator. It was almost warm enough to strip your layers, almost, but you knew you wouldn’t be staying long. You were just retrieving Nancy for class. Robin, however, began to strip stocking cap and scarf, unzipping her large overcoat before she even stepped out onto her floor.

“Well, maybe you can find a stranger to have sex with at the mixer this weekend. Make it a trifecta.”

The doors had all been decorated with new glittery names, similarly to your own residence hall. The RAs were good about welcoming the students back. Robin pulled her key out to unlock the one that read hers and Nancy’s names, and you waited in the hall for her to step inside.

“Oh God,” she whined. “Steve, if you’re going to hang out in my room, at least put some clothes on. Have some decency!”

You stopped in your tracks, inches from the open doorway.

“Okay, Jesus, Robin. I’m getting there.” His voice was raspy, full of sleep, and you didn’t have to be a genius to realize that he’d been in there with Nancy. Perfect Nancy Wheeler, the girl he’s in love with, the girl with shared trauma, the whole thing tying him to you in the first place.

You shook yourself out of it and took a step inside, just in time to see him pulling a t-shirt over his head. You saw the tanned skin of his back, purple puckered scars trailing his shoulder blades, and the side of his abdomen gnarled with the same purple flesh.

Nancy greeted you, bright smile and bubblegum lips. She was ready for the day, slipping into her boots and jacket. Her hair was perfectly pinned back.

“Hey,” you cleared your throat. “You ready?” You felt uneasy, hopeful that the girls couldn’t feel the static emanating off of you, couldn’t feel the anxious pull at your lungs.

Steve turned to face you, and you saw the enflamed black ring of a bruise around his eye, and a cut splitting the center of his lip.

“Holy shit, what happened to you?” You fought the urge to cross to him, to place cool hands on the enflamed skin, to kiss the pain away.

“Oh this?” He breathed a wry laugh. “I’ve had worse.”

Robin nodded, made a sound of agreement.

You frowned at them both. “Well what happened?”

He shook his head, ran a hand through his soft hair, offered you a smile. It pulled at the scab on his lip, and he winced, lapping at the blood that had begun to spill. Nancy offered him a tissue. You took a step forward on instinct. He waved you off. “Just had a bad day at work.”

“Right, because he’s a cop!” Robin snapped her fingers, and you noticed Nancy shoot her a dirty look.

“We should get to class.” You felt a gentle hand on your elbow.

You watched Steve for a moment longer, shoulders slumped, a sadness in his eyes. Pity, maybe? For you, for the outsider, the one they couldn’t trust with their stupid secrets. The tissue stained a deep red in his hands.

“Steve,” Nancy disrupted your thoughts. “Drive safe please. See you later, Robs.”

“Bye,” Robin smiled, as though nothing had happened, as though Steve wasn’t there, bleeding in her dorm room. You gave him one last look, received with forlorn, before you turned and followed Nancy back onto the elevator.

—

It’d been three days. The snow had mostly melted, making for slushy sidewalks and soaked hems of jeans, and you hadn’t been able to focus on any of your assignments or note taking, just thinking about that stupid black eye on that stupid boy, and wondering if you’d ever get answers. To be honest, it was driving you a bit insane.

So, when you and Robin and Nancy found your little corner of the library to hole up in, and after they’d pulled their books and notes from their bags and gotten comfortable, you took a deep breath and asked.

“What the hell happened to Steve?”

They exchanged a glance under their hair, thought you were blind.

“What do you mean?” Robin played stupid.

“His black eye, who hit him? What happened?”

Nancy shrugged, doodled hearts into the margins of her notes. “He had an altercation at work. Apparently they were chasing down this… car thief, and Steve got to him first and the guy just hit him. He’s fine though, you don’t have to worry.”

“Bullshit.” Your heart was racing. Robin said your name, soft, rasped, like a parent calming a child. “No. It’s bullshit. All of it. And I’m just sick of being in the dark.”

“It’s not bullshit.” Nancy seethed. “It’s just complicated…”

“Hawkins shit.” Robin offered, as though that would explain it all away.

You nodded and started to pack your things. “It’s always Hawkins shit, isn’t it? Look, I get it, okay? I get that you guys had a bunch of horrible things happy to you. And I get you don’t want to talk about it! Really, I do! I absolutely don’t think you need to just spill your trauma to anyone that asks, but like, have you ever considered that it’s really difficult to be your friend sometimes?”

They looked at each other then, shared something. Again, a private moment between the two of them. As if you weren’t standing there, begging for answers.

“See? Like that!” You shoved your notebook into your bag.

Robin said your name again, placed a hand on your textbook before you could pick it up.

“Robin, you know I consider you one of my best friends. I’m so grateful you brought me home for Thanksgiving. I feel like I can tell you anything, and it just hurts that you don’t feel the same way. I constantly feel like you dodge my questions. If we talk about boys or anything having to do with Hawkins you just fucking change the subject!”

She flattened at that, retreated her hand. She swallowed and glanced at Nancy.

Nancy sat ready for an attack, always on the defense, perfect pink lips pursed, hand stopped doodling.

“Nancy Wheeler,” you shook your head, trying to fight back the tears you felt forming at your lash line. You shoved your text book into your bag. “You know, I feel like you and I have a lot in common. Always feeling the need to be perfect, making everyone happy. Strong and sturdy on the outside, but maybe our insides are a bit of a mess.”

She just stared at you, unmoving, unwavered by your words.

“You have two men, at least two great, sweet, kind men chomping at the bit for you, begging for any form of attention. And neither one of them have enough balls to just cut ties and let themselves loose.”

She blinked at that, swallowed. Robin stared back and forth, waiting for a reaction.

“And I’m not blaming you for that, or judging you, or whatever the hell else. I guess I’m just saying it because I’m… jealous.” You threw your hands in the air. “I’m fucking jealous of you, Nancy. I idolize you, and I guess maybe I feel like I’m on the line a little bit too. I’m chomping at the bit to be your friend, and you’re only giving me half of who you really are.”

Another crack in her resolve, her eyes flitted to the paper beneath her, pen ink boring a hole into the top sheet.

The three of you sat in silence for a moment, stewed. You waited for them to say something, anything to keep you around, and when they didn’t, when all you received were Robin’s big, beautiful puppy dog eyes, you threw your backpack on your back and opened the door. You stopped before you left, pausing in the threshold before you turned around and looked at Nancy.

“I um… I’m not saying this to be like a bitch or whatever,” you sighed, closed your eyes. “I just wanted to let you know that Steve and I made out, that night at his house. Just… if you guys are together, I wanted you to know.” You shrugged and walked out, anger releasing from your shoulders, frustration left behind as all of your truths seeped out.

—

Spring settled on campus in bright greens and daffodils, and you managed to survive this set of midterms moments before you were let out for Spring Break, and when you returned, you focused on your school work and shook off any risidual hurt of the friendships made in your first semester of college.

Everyone was meant to have those friends, you told yourself, watching Nancy and Robin laugh with one another in the caf or the student union building, or at any party where your paths crossed. The friends that carry you through firsts, your inaugural college experiences. And then you could split paths, make new friends, forge your own way through your studies, find clubs to attend, go see shows put on by the drama club, go to sport’s games.

And you did it all. You found yourself spending more time with Carrie and Lydia. They took you shopping for new, cute clothes, and found you that peachy pink lipgloss you’d been wanting. In creative writing, you’d switched critique groups to be with them. They drug you to a myriad of frat parties, and had almost convinced you to join a sorority with them next year. Almost, but not quite. You fell into a new routine, kissed a few boys, tried some more drugs, convinced yourself to live life like an average college student.

It was a random Friday before a long weekend in April, Easter weekend, someone reminded you, and classes let out early for people to hitch rides home. You’d elected to stay and get your final prepared. Your mom mailed you a basket, the chocolate bunny melted in the post. You were excited to curl into your pillow and read some Dickens and enjoy a quiet night in your dorm room alone when Carrie came wrapping against your glittered name.

“Get up, please,” she tugged at your forearm. Lydia found a bookmark on your side table and marked your spot.

You groaned. “What now?”

“They’re doing a toga night at Siggy’s, and we really don’t want you to miss out.”

You sighed into your hands. “Toga night? In April?”

“Don’t be boring.” Lydia scoffed, tugging your sheet out from under you. “Besides, it’s Easter, and Jesus wore togas. Or something.”

You rolled your eyes but found yourself, several hours later, wrapped in a purple bedsheet, absolutely covered in glitter, with gold laurels in your hair. The massive house that had hosted Halloween now hosted a surprisingly large amount of toga-wearers. Greek Gods and Goddesses alike, floating the halls and chugging wine coolers like they were out on Mount Olympus.

You were three or four cups in, you weren’t sure, when Lydia poured clear liquid into the shiny base of your cup and said, “Bottoms up!” And you did at instructed, gagging at the stinging after taste at the back of your throat.

“Jesus Christ,” you coughed. “Was that rubbing alcohol?”

She shrugged and took her own shot. “Everclear, bottle says.” And then it was passed on to someone down the line.

The music was too loud to hear small conversations, so mostly you just bobbed around in different areas of the house. The same room held a particularly raunchy game of spin-the-bottle. Another room exploded in a plume of smoke as soon as you opened the door, sweet and stinky. As you neared the kitchen to pick grapes off the vine at the charcuterie board, you saw a dude’s full ass hole as he was tipped upside down to do a keg stand.

“Disgusting,” Carrie groaned, grabbing a few grapes for herself.

“Apparently you aren’t a man unless you go commando,” a girl beside you rolled her eyes.

“Should we tally up the number of dicks we see tonight? Whoever gets the least wins.” Lydia snorted.

“No kidding.” You mumbled, sipping another fruity concoction and fingering some sticky blocks of cheese.

A man in teal caught your eye from across the wide room. He was also cringing at his view of the keg stander, and when he glanced just past him, his lips spread into a soft smile. You smiled back, returning his wave with one of your own.

“Oooh, she’s found her first prey of the night.” Carrie jabbed at your ribs.

“Shut up.” You mumbled, nodding his direction. “Either one of you know that guy?”

He was broad shouldered, with shaggy brown hair, and a lovely flirtatious smile.

“Never seen him in my life. I could ask Brad?”

You shook your head and popped one more cheese cube in your mouth, and before you could wrack up the courage to cross the small kitchen and talk to him, Lydia was waving someone over.

“Nancy! Nancy, hey!”

Your heart sunk, your confidence with it, and you turned to see Nancy Wheeler steadily approach. She was dressed in white, with little accents of pink and blue, and heart stickers framed her perfect blue eyes. She smiled politely, looking beautiful, and offered a shy wave.

“You look fabulous,” Lydia gave the princess a hug and a kiss on the cheek, clearly too intoxicated for these interactions, but Nancy received the compliment well, as she always did, and leaned past you for a grape.

“Are you by yourself?” Carrie asked.

“Am I ever?” Nancy gave her a knowing look, and you peered over her head for a sign of her sidekick. Robin wasn’t in the immediate vicinity. Maybe she’d gotten pulled into a room to play some dastardly game. Nancy caught your gaze, offered a shy smile. “How’re you?”

“She’s working on Handome Stranger number one.” Lydia answered for you.

Nancy raised her eyebrows and looked over her shoulder at the dark haired kid, still watching. She nodded, squished a grape between her molars. “Toby.”

“Toby?” You grimaced at the name.

She laughed, that perfect sweet laugh of hers. Your heart ached for it. “I wouldn’t. My friend Malia, you know from Layout? She said he went down on her for like an hour, and she fell asleep.”

You glanced back up at him. Plump lips, tongue between his teeth in a smile, you shrugged. “I could use a nap.” And you all laughed at that. You downed the rest of your drink, feeling the buzz start to warm your cheeks, tingle your fingers. You were much more tolerant than you used to be.

A soft hand to your arm startled you. Nancy looked back at you with a soft smile. “It’s good to see you.”

You nodded, popped a last juicy grape in your mouth, and said, “Yeah, Nance. You too.”

—

The room blurred around you. You were on your fifteenth dick, or was it sixteenth? Lydia and Carrie had already beaten you. Apparently their trick was to keep their eyes pointed to the ceiling, but the lights were too bright and the music was too loud, and when a dude whipped out their dick, it was hard not to look, okay?

You swayed lazily to some soft song, bodies swaying around you. Robin was behind you, her hand on your waist, head on your shoulder, the sweet warmth of rosemary and vanilla swaying to the music with you. This was nice, you decided. You could commit to this sort of friendship. Weekends only, parties only, drunk only. There were no hurt feelings and no shared secrets but your own, giggles and hand holding and pursed lipped rebellion.

Nancy bounced to an unnatural beat. It was nice to see her bad at something. She swung your arm and wiped wine off the corner of her mouth, perfect teeth stained berry red. Carrie and Lydia cackled on either side of her, falling over one another. Your girls all together, the camaraderie of feminism and all that.

Tears stung in your eyes, and you felt yourself falter against Robin. She caught you though, she’d always be there to catch you. You spun in her arms, surprised at the strength of her, the sturdiness to her build that teetered, but didn’t crumble under your weight. You curled your fingers in her frizzy hair and stared into those big, blue eyes.

“You okay?” She breathed, warmth fanning your face. Her cheeks were red, bright red, and from this angle you could see every still freckle, a constellation of perfection across her sweet little face.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered. It was difficult to say, the words felt thick in your mouth, synapses not connecting somewhere.

“It’s okay,” she breathed, squeezing your middle with both hands.

You recalled the Halloween party, watching her soft lips connect with Nancy’s, and you glanced down at them, pillowy pink and wine drunk. You licked your lips and stumbled a few steps backwards. Robin couldn’t catch you this time, and she called out as you crashed into some guy in a toga, groping at the garment to remain upright and tearing it down with you. Seventeen.

Whether from the embarrassment or the dancing lights, you weren’t sure, but you’d managed to cross the massive foyer just as the bile began clawing its way up your throat, and you collapsed on both knees just on the edge of the grass to empty the contents of your stomach.

Your head swam, stomach upset, spitting remnants from your mouth on fire. Your eyes watered and you gasped for breath until a warm hand came to pat your back in assistance. You shrugged them off when the second round made its way up.

Your girls rushed to your side, Nancy’s cold fingers gathering your hair and pressing to the sweaty back of your neck, a relief against the fire and misery coming out, and you sobbed for a few breaths, squeezing your eyes tight to counteract the spins.

“Jesus, what did she drink?” A male voiced asked, familiar, warm.

“What didn’t we drink?” Carrie responded with a hiccup.

You moaned and used the flap of your toga to wipe the corners of your mouth.

“You okay?” Robin asked from beside you, soft hands, rosemary and vanilla.

You allowed your friends to help you up, swaying on unsteady footing, and as you took a wobbled step, you were caught by strong hands, forearms, broad shoulders. You squinted your eyes open to see not one, but three Steve Harringtons, perfect hair and perfect brows. You groaned. “Why are you always here?”

—

Light filtered in through a nearby window, too bright and too warm and very much unwelcome. You felt sticky, ran through. Your brain pulsed in your skull to some unknown beat, and your throat screamed in agony, raw and dry. You groped for the glass of water on your bedside table, wincing as it went down, room temperature but refreshing.

You remembered fragments from the night before, glitter and pink lips and flashed penises and mostly retching and heaving and cursing the Greeks for ever wearing togas and drinking wine. Your nausea had subsided in your slumber, thankfully, but it left you hungry and weak. Your breath didn’t taste as rank as you expected, and when you set your empty cup back to your table you noticed your discarded toothbrush and a mug half-full of tea.

Bringing it to your nostrils, you smelled chamomile, stale and floral and comforting. You tried to remember making it. The puke bucket beside you had been washed and replaced. You couldn’t remember doing that either. But the blind self gratitude quickly subsided when you felt a shift beside you in bed.

Your bed was tiny, a twin, raised up on small risers to accommodate your storage (mostly books), and although you’d shared it once or twice, you don’t think you’d ever forgotten that someone was in it with you. You froze momentarily, pretended to be asleep, and desperately scrambled for recognition before the person relaxed, and you threw your eyes open again to look for clues.

Your roommate had gone home for the weekend, so her bed remained empty just across from you, green bedding tossed into a pile, a few things forgotten that should have been packed. Your toga was discarded on the floor, soft purple and crusted over. You wore an oversized t-shirt now, your favorite with Queen, but you’d forgone bottoms. You vaguely remembered there being no time for pants as you were soon doubled over again.

Your bunkmate grumbled something inaudible, and you snapped upright beside them. Steve Harrington lay beside you, arms crossed over his chest, fully clothed and pinned to the wall, on top of the covers, a perfect gentleman. He couldn’t have been comfortable, wedged into the crease between wall and bed, mouth hanging open just-so, brows knit in worry. He was still in his Levis, for Christ’s sake.

You swallowed and poked at his elbow. “Steve,” you hissed. After no response, you gave him a little jostle, jumping when he startled awake.

“What?” He looked around, bleary eyed and dazed. “S’everything okay? How’re you feeling?” He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, blinking down at the time on his watch.

“I’m okay,” you nodded. Just you know, shocked, rattled, horrified, confused, the usual.

“Good,” he closed his eyes for another moment, relaxing back into the space beside your pillow before he peaked one eye open again to look at you. “D’you sleep okay?”

You nodded, playing with a pill in the duvet’s material. “Steve?”

He hummed a response, closing his eye again, arms crossed over his chest once more.

“Why’re you in my bed?”

He jumped at that, sat upright, looked around. “Oh, shit. Sorry.” He made it roll of near your feet, and you stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.

“It’s fine. You’re fine,” you rushed. “I’m just… I don’t remember, and nothing happened, right?”

“No,” he scrubbed at his eyes again. “No, of course not. You um… you couldn’t sleep, asked me if I’d come up.” He pointed to the desk chair in the very center of the room, angled toward your bed.

You nodded, fascinated by the pill, unable to make eye contact. “You took care of me?”

“Well, Rob and Nance were here too, but I made them go to bed a couple of hours ago.”

You nodded, a little relieved that it hadn’t just been you and him, but incredibly embarrassed that they’d all watched you puke your guts out all night long. “What time it is?”

“Almost noon.” He chuckled. “Want a beer?”

Your stomach churned and you groaned, flopping back onto your pillow, and he laughed, bringing a hand to jostle your arm in his tease.

“You hungry?”

You nodded and allowed him to help you back into an upright position. He patted your thigh through the blanket.

“Okay, let’s get going. Robin also said I’m not allowed to leave until you get packed.” Steve removed himself from your bed and stretched tall, fingers touching the ceiling tiles, skirt riding up to expose a bit of soft skin, the fuzz of a happy trail, deep purple scars.

You blinked back at him, his words barely sinking in. “Packed?”

“Told you,” he mustered a tired smile, holding out a hand. “She collects strays.”

—

Mrs. Buckley’s Easter dinner rivaled Thanksgiving in delicious flavors and the sheer amount of things to add to your plate. An assortment of food colored items, to remain festive, salads and casseroles and everything you could have asked for compiled onto your plate to go with the savory sweet taste of the pleasure you gained from hearing Rose complain about the downfall of her life.

She’d returned to Hawkins from Paris, her time abroad at a close, and she’d gotten a job at the grocery store working for their dad. And, as grateful as she was, “Daddy”, it just wasn’t as glamorous as the streets of Paris. Mrs. Buckley attempted to cheer her up by providing baguettes and French coffee, macarons for dessert, but Rose promptly abandoned the table to cry in her bedroom.

After dinner, as your eyelids grew as heavy as Franklin in your lap, and the setting sun had begun to dip the sky in Easter egg pastels, Robin pulled you from you comfortable spot, grunting and groaning, to take you for a walk. You hugged one of her denim jackets tighter around yourself, appreciating the adornment of political buttons and pins. A soft breeze brew past you both, and you stepped into sync beside her.

“Where’re we headed?” You offered an elbow, which she gladly linked, and the two of you stumbled, stomachs full, down a sloping drive, past daffodils and unfound eggs in yards.

“It’s a secret,” she smiled, and then something sad crossed her sweet, freckled features. “Hey, so I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said.”

“Robin,” you sighed, squeezing her hand resting in the crook of your arm. “I’m sorry, really. I said a bunch of shit because I was mad that Steve kissed me and then completely ignored me. I took it out on you guys, and it was childish of me.”

“No, stop,” she shook her head, turning to face you, halting your walk and pulling you off the road and into the woods. “You were right. Nancy and I were assholes. There’s a lot that happened here.” She looked off behind you, the breeze and her gaze sending a chill down your spine. “And some of it is… hard to explain, but that’s not fair to you. You’re right. It’s impossible to be friends with people that keep secrets from you.”

You nodded slowly, gave her hand another squeeze.

“Can I tell you something?” She fidgeted with your hands, picked at the already peeling purple nail polish. “A secret?”

“You don’t have to, Rob,” you sighed.

“I want to.” Her eyes were glassy. “Or, God, I don’t know. I want to tell someone, and lately I just feel so sick of screaming into the void. I think if I hold it in any longer I might combust, and even though Steve knows a lot of it, I can’t tell him all of it because then he’ll combust, and we’ll both just be running around like two chickens, flambéed, and my life’ll be a disaster.”

“Robin!” You shook her shoulders. “You’re rambling.”

Her cheeks were tinged pink, then red, and she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. “Promise you won’t tell a soul?”

“Cross my heart,” you rolled your eyes.

But she was serious, panic-stricken. “But like, it’s just that I’ve only ever told Steve before, and he handled it like… scary well, but we were both on drugs then, so I think it was just easier for both of us.”

“Robin,” you took her hand in both of yours and held it tight.

“Okay,” she used her other hand to twirl her hair beside her face, still bouncing on her toes. She stopped for a moment to look at you. She licked her lips. “The thing is that I…” She swallowed. “I like Nancy…”

You nodded, waiting for the continuation. Was she going to talk shit about Nancy? Was she going to confess her love for Steve? You blinked back at her. “I like Nancy too?”

And then she gave you that pointed look, that all encapsulating look of horror and truth, and it sunk into you so fast in a barrage of memories. Her soft, pink lips against Nancy’s, the tenderness of her touch, moments shrugging off Boy-Talk, Steve’s almost-admission when you’d asked about Eddie. You felt your lip form an ‘oh’, and you faltered on your feet a little.

She gave your hand a little squeeze, and you met her gaze.

“Holy shit, Rob,” you breathed.

She nodded, rolled her eyes, pulled her hand from yours to wipe clammy sweat down her pant leg. “You and Steve are made for each other.” She mumbled while your brain caught up.

“Wait, but like Nancy? Like Nancy Wheeler Nancy?”

“Yep,” her lips popped around the letter ‘P’, and she began to sway on her toes again. “And we live together, and we’ve been through Hell and back, literally. And I didn’t realize it until Halloween. I mean, I always admired her. She’s like, a total babe, and a total badass, but like I just thought it was Steve feeding me information and then we played Spin-the-Bottle, and…” She sucked in a breath, and you calmed her with hands on her shoulders.

“Holy shit, Rob.” You repeated.

“Okay, can we try maybe more than three words? Because we’re going to meet everyone now, and I think if I have to look at her big, blue eyes one more time, I might just explode.”

You felt your face tug into a grin, and you pulled your best friend in for a tight hug, warm limbs, rosemary and vanilla. When you pulled away, you shrugged and pursed your lips together. “I think you could be Nancy’s type. She loves big dumb oafs that worship the ground she walks on.”

“Not helping,” Robin groaned, linking arms with you to continue your walk through the woods.

—

The Wheeler’s basement was a cacophony of sounds as a wily group of teenagers finished a particularly rousing game of Dungeons and Dragons. You knew little to nothing about the game, but tucked yourself into the couch between Nancy and Robin, eating jelly beans and taking delight in the myriad of accents and characters that came out of Eddie. He was the Dungeon Master, you’d been informed, but that just translated ot storyteller and you became easily enraptured in the game.

Lady Applejack, a character played by the littlest girl in pink, Erica, seemed to be the most skilled fighter of the group, tearing up about four of the undead soldiers while the rest of the group cheered her on.

You laughed along as Nancy’s brother, Mike, got his character stuck in quicksand, and you gasped along at the cliffhanger Eddie ended up, Lucas’s character was snatched by a mysterious one eyed monster.

“Nerd,” Nancy toed your knee, and you popped another cherry flavored bean between your teeth with a laugh.

A creak from the basement stairs caught everyone’s attention, but before you could see who had arrived, the teens all started yelling and throwing pencils and paper and jelly beans.

“5-0! 5-0!”

“Shit, it’s the cops! Get down!”

“Get out of here, pig!” And so on.

Robin managed to wedge the pillow out from under you to chuck at the intruder, but it was caught mid-air by Steve Harrington in a pale blue police uniform. You weren’t sure if blue was his color or if you loved a man in uniform, but it hugged him perfectly, buttoned all the way up, cleanly pressed.

“Hey, shitheads,” he pointed around the room. “I could have you all charged and booked for conspiracy and harboring a fugitive. So you better watch yourselves.”

“You’d do that to us?” Lucas scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“On the Lord’s day?” Erica tutted, shaking her head.

“Yeah, no better day to do Satan Worship,” Eddie grinned, packing his meticulously painted pieces carefully into a beaten tin tackle box.

There was a call for Nancy and Mike from upstairs, and the two echoed simultaneous groans and shoved each other to get up first. Nancy won, taking two steps at a time, and you smiled up at them and back at Robin, whose eyes shined in utter devotion. You honestly couldn’t believe you hadn’t seen it before.

Steve tossed the pillow into Nancy’s discarded spot before slumping down beside you, weight leaving his shoulders, belt and accessories jingling with his sigh. He bumped your knee with his own. “Hi,” he mumbled. “How you feeling?”

You smiled and nodded, eating another jelly bean. “Full.”

“So I shouldn’t offer you glass of wine?”

You held a hand up to him and feigned a dry heave. “Never again.”

He laughed, pink lips splitting into that perfect smile. Your face heated and suddenly your jelly beans became fascinating into your sweating palm. He took a white one and popped it into his mouth. “Are there any books about Easter?”

You knew he was being sweet and taking an interest in your hobbies, but you found a bit of joy in the look of shame that crossed his features when you replied, “the Bible?”

Robin snorted from next you. “Yeah, dingus.”

“Shut up,” he reached behind you to flick her forehead, and she immediately returned it with a swat to his arm. He poked her one more time in the cheek, for good measure, but left his hand rested on the back of the sofa behind you. Every muscle in your body tensed to keep yourself from settling into him.

“Hi,” a figure stood directly in front of you, and you glanced up from the grey slacks to the open button-up and loose tie to the mop of curly hair, slicked back like a 50s greaser. “I’m Dustin.” The kid held out his hand, and you took it with a smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He waggled his eyebrows.

You’d heard about the kids too, of course. It seemed at those Nancy and Mike were fairly close for their age gap, and Mike’s friends had become siblings of Nancy’s too, in their own right. You smiled. “All good things, I hope.”

“Yeah, real good.” He offered a wink and you watched Steve’s foot kick him in the shin. Immediately, the kid rounded on him. “What the hell, Steve? Did you just kick me?”

“Yeah Steve, what the hell?” Eddie grinned, finding himself a seat on the table. It teetered under his weight, but he kicked his boots onto a little folding chair for balance.

“You, don’t start,” Steve pointed at him, running a tired hand over his face.

Nancy and Mike retreated back down the staircase, the sister carrying a look of accomplishment and a six pack, and the brother slumped shoulders and dejection. Nancy set the beer on the table and Mike announced it was eleven o’clock. With a sigh, Erica and Lucas stood up and started to pack their things. Dustin groaned and slipped his arms around Eddie in a tight hug, both of them affirming gratitude and love for one another.

“I’ll walk you out,” Steve sighed, using a wide hand on your knee to help right himself, and a hand on Dustin’s curly head once he stood to full height. “Nance, your mom have any leftovers?”

Nancy rolled her eyes, and you watched as the group said their goodbyes and slowly trudged up the creaky staircase. You snuck a moment to appreciate the curve of Steve’s ass in those pastel polyester pants, face heating when Robin called his name, and he turned on his heel to look at you both.

“Can you get me a Swiss Roll if they have any?”

Steve nodded resolutely and pointed your direction. “Any requests?”

You shook you head and bit back at smile when he winked and continued his sway up the stairs behind the gaggle of kids and Nancy.

“He won’t shut up about you, you know,” Eddie commented the moment the basement door closed behind them all.

You blinked back at him. “Dustin?”

He showed his canines in a knowing smirk, waggled his eyebrows. “Harrington. Guess he convinced Dustin to translate all of Hamlet to him the other day.”

“Is that what his deal is!?” Robin exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “Steve kept asking me questions about Shakespeare, and got super annoyed when I didn’t have answers because he thought I was a theater nerd.”

You bit back your smile and sunk back into the sofa cushions in a vain attempt to disappear into them, and Robin prodded your with a soft finger. You pulled the pillow from the spot next to you to hug close to your chest, pulling your knees up to shield your body from her and Eddie’s teasing stares, and their kissy faces and chants of love and Romeo and Juliet quotes.

—

You were warm and happy, a frenetic energy that kicked low in your stomach and had you washing your hands trying to avoid the giddy smile in your reflection in the mirror. Eddie and Robin’s words lingered in your head all night, allowing you the comfort to sink into Steve when he threw his arm across the back of the sofa. You listened the four of them bicker like siblings and tell tales of holidays passed, and your body alighted in tingles with every brush of Steve’s hand against your shoulder, every bump of thigh to thigh.

Robin and Eddie had been arguing about Return of the Jedi when you excused yourself to the restroom, taking the one in the hall upstairs so you could grab another soda from the fridge. You pulled out a Coke with that same smile playing at your face, like it had glued itself permanently to your features. You rubbed any grime off the top of the can with a nearby hand towel and were about to pop the tab when the basement door creaked open and Steve appeared.

“Hi.”

You were acutely aware of the silence existing in the house around you. The Wheelers had all gone to bed hours ago, the only light was the hood from the stove, casting the room in soft yellow. Every squeak of Steve’s boots echoed, the creak of the door behind him.

“Hey,” he muttered. “I’m headed out. Want to walk me out?”

You swallowed, nodded, discarded the can somewhere on the island to follow him out. The front door clicked closed, and the sounds of crickets flooded the space where silence lingered. You took the walk to the Wheeler’s driveway in step, your hands flexing out of anxious reflex, his tucked into his pockets. You moved slow, to drag it out, to prolong the goodbye, or to spend more time in each other’s presence, his a sturdy warmth from beside you.

“So listen,” you swallowed, your words coming out at a higher pitch than you anticipated. “Thank you, again, for the other night. You’re a pretty damn good babysitter.”

He snorted at that, rounded on you when you’d reached his little maroon car. “It was no problem, really. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Me too,” you smiled.

Steve reached out then, to pull his fingers into your own, a zap of electricity and warmth up your arm. He stared at your hands, brushing his thumb over each of your fingers. “I have to work next weekend.”

“Okay,” you laughed, breathless, and he pulled you in a little tighter.

“But I will be there to help Nance and Rob move out. I heard there’s a party that Friday?” He looked up at you then, for verification, brows creasing in the middle.

You nodded, bit down on your bottom lip. You weren’t sure what you were agreeing to, brain too fuzzy from the feel of his fingers against yours, but you were sure you’d agree to anything right now.

“Great, so I was wondering if you wanted to go the party. You know… together.” His big brown eyes were soft and shy, head ducked to cast a shadow on his cheek from his imperfect nose, and you smiled and nodded again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You breathed.

And he tugged you an inch closer. It was so warm for the early mornings of Easter Monday. Dew had been cast in the green grass of the yard, and crickets chirped like the start of summer, and your hand and wrist and arm were on fire. It was catching. Steve’s other hand found your waist, where the hip met your ribs, and he inched you closer until the front of your body pressed to the front of his. You could feel the gadgets on his belt, and tug of his badges on your chest and shoulder, and you laughed softly.

“What?” He breathed, nose nuzzling your own. You shook your head, feeling his warm breath fan your lips. You parted them, made to close the distance, and a loud slam on the hood of Steve’s car broke you abruptly apart.

“Time to go, Harrington,” Eddie yawned, yanking open the passenger’s side. “I’m sleepy.”

You watched with mild amusement as Steve’s jaw clenched and his fists balled at his sides. He rounded over the hood, finger pointed, and threatened arrest. “I’m taking you in, Munson. That’s it. First degree. No more of this witness protection horseshit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie wagged his head, hair flopping like a cocker spaniel, and he blew you a kiss. “Bye, sweetheart.”

You waved and watched him climb into the passenger’s seat and begin wrapping against the dash.

Steve sighed and rubbed at tired eyes before turning back to you with a weak smile. “See you in a couple of weeks?”

You nodded and backed slowly toward the Wheeler’s front door. You watched him get in, yell at Eddie’s teasing grin, and turn the car on. He offered you one more smile and wave before backing out of the driveway. You held in every squeal and jump of excitement as you entered the Wheeler’s home and pushed yourself against the closed door.

—

Chaos couldn’t begin to describe it. Pure chaos lingered in the air like static electricity. This heart racing buzz of people and boxes and packing tape, friendly smiles and waves. Your floor mates all swung by to bid you and your roommate adieu, carrying full baskets of laundry and bedsheets and boxes full of uneaten Ramen noodles.

You packed what you could, but mostly helped your roommate carry the last of her things to her car. She elected not to stay for going away festivities. Her boyfriend dumped her the day before, claiming he wanted to be free from the Ball-and-Chain for the summer. Asshole. So you’d mopped her tears and held her hair when she puked and helped stuff every inch of her side of the room into her Rabbit.

“Maybe I’ll see you at a party next year?” She offered you a hug, and you smiled and waved her off.

And then you were left alone with the anticipation of tonight, that lingering anxiety you’d felt all week, knowing Steve was coming tonight and you were to attend a party off-campus together, as a date. Finals ended two days ago, and you’d been thankful to have your roommate as distraction, but now, as her side of the room sat as bare as the day you moved in, you felt your hands grow clammy, and you chugged a glass of water to keep the bile of nerves from coming up.

You changed outfits about five times, digging to the bottom of a box of clothes you’d already packed and then repacking it all once those pants didn’t suffice. You played music on your walkman, leg bouncing, while you applied your makeup in the smudged mirror above the sink, and the sun began to tinge the world pink just outside the window.

Finally, just after seven, when you’d finished a bowl of Ramen and read a few pages into the Silmarillion (upon Eddie’s request), a wrap of knuckles against your door startled you upright.

“It’s us!” Nancy called cheerfully, and you jumped up from your bed to apply one last layer of peachy pink lipgloss before grabbing your denim jacket and slipping into your sneakers.

Your hand trembled against the door knob, and you took a few deep breaths to remind yourself it was just your friends, and Robin called your name from the other side of the paper thin door.

You opened it to find Nancy, bubblegum pink and shy smiled, and Robin, vanilla and rosemary and ready to go. They stood alone. Your heart sank, and they stepped back to give you room as you closed and the locked the door behind you.

“Ready?” Nancy offered, and you returned her smile with a nod.

—

The chaos of the dorms spilled out across campus and down the side streets as parents and students alike tied egg-shaped chairs to hoods of cars and roped down stacks of linens. It was late enough now that the three of you walked past several exchanged hugs of friendships made and lost to summer break. Anxiety lingered there, for you, and you felt Robin’s soft hand on your wrist as you walked.

An upperclassmen’s house filled with party-goers, movers carrying kegs and buckets of ice. The concrete stoop was cracked up the center. You ducked out of the way of a kid with the largest bong you’d ever seen, and the three of you followed the sound of bumping bass and chanting dudes into the shadows of the building.

You found yourself staring absently out the back window as a small kid threw his legs into the air for other’s to catch, beer growing warm and stale in your hand. Robin elbowed you, stirring the memories that made cobwebs in your mind, and you shook your head with a sigh. “Think I need some air.” You mumbled, and then, when she gave you a look of concern, “I’ll be okay.”

You crawled your way through the front room and spread yourself out on the concrete stoop, knees tucked to your chest, beer warm in your hand. With a sigh, you set it on the step next you and noticed the chill of a shadow looming. You glanced up to see Nikes, Levis, a Member’s Only jacket.

“This seat taken?”

You shrugged and Steve filled into the spot beside you, too close, too warm, smelling too sweet, dizzying. He nudged you with his shoulder.

“How many times do I have to apologize for being late?”

You shrugged again. “At least once.”

“I’m sorry.”

You glanced sideways at him, and he offered the softest of smiles, pink lips turned up at the corner, hair still a bit damp from his shower. Robin had informed you he was running late from work and that he was sorry, but it was nice to hear it from him. “S’okay.”

“Are you super attached to this party, or would you maybe just want to take a walk?”

The night was warm, spring fading to summer, but a light breeze lingered in the air. Stars prickled soft blue skies. “I could walk.”

“Great, let me tell the girls.”

You fell into step beside one another and Steve’s warm hand tangled itself in your own. He had long fingers, knobby knuckles. His jacket swished with each sway of your arms. You walked in silence for a long while, crossing back toward campus and through the trees and underbrush that connected the first row of Greek houses to vast parking lots and old brownstone buildings.

“So how did finals go?” Steve started with the small talk, his voice a little gruff, a bit pinched. “Read all your books?”

You laughed and nodded. “Finals were good. Books are read. How has work been?”

He sighed, ran a hand through his perfect hair. “Boring as Hell.”

“Nothing scary ever happens in Hawkins?” You grinned.

He snorted, shook his head. “Not anymore. Guess we got it all. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. I guess I just expected to be doing more car chases and less mediating fights between Mrs. Corkel and Mr. Jones about the rocks in their front yard.”

“What’s wrong with the rocks?”

“Mr. Jones keeps leaf blowing rocks onto her property. And I’m not talking like big boulders, I’m talking pebbles. I’m taking you can’t even see these God damn rocks, but she’s insisting he broke her lawn mower. And wanted to press charges.” He squeezed your hand. “I was just standing there against my cruiser looking back and forth thinking a position at my dad’s company didn’t sound too bad anymore, and at least I would have been off in time to pick you up.”

You laughed and elbowed into him. “I don’t know. I think the uniform’s pretty sexy.”

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows.

You shrugged, nodded. “Blue’s your color.”

He smiled and said nothing, and you continued to weave your way past dorm buildings and oversized statues. There was a water features on the west end of campus. By now the chaos had calmed to silence, and although you passed a handful of other students, it seemed as though you and Steve were the only ones out there.

You tried to keep the panic at bay, this condensing feeling like this might be your last chance with Steve, your last night. Neither of you could know what might happen in three months. You’d never done long distance before, and Steve didn’t have a great track record of keeping in contact. But there was something about him, about you both, this magnetism that kept pulling you closer and closer.

“What’re your plans for the summer then?” He asked, reading your mind, and you allowed yourself a shaken exhale.

“Um,” you licked your lips. “Reading. Lots of reading.”

“Of course,” he chuckled, elbowing your side. “Do you have plans for the Fourth?”

You smiled. You could feel his gaze on you, but you stared straight ahead, attempted to look nonchalant. Your heart was racing. “Robin invited me to hers.”

“Good,” he released a breath, and your stomach swooped. “There’s this fun place we light off fireworks. We kind of all get together and make a big day out of it. I’m excited to show you.”

“I’m excited to see it.” You nodded, bit back a growing smile.

“What’s this building?” He asked, suddenly pulling you both to a halt.

“The registrars office, I think?” You frowned, vaguely remembering stepping foot in that building once upon a time, to sign up for your classes. Back before you knew anyone, before you did much other than bury your face in a book, before you allowed Lydia and Carrie to drag you to the party.

The moon was out, bright, pooling light and casting shadows across campus. You heard the soft crickets, music played far-off, end-of-year parties still carrying on. Steve stepped in front of you, engulfing you in shadow and warmth and him. It was just the two of you, alone in this wide courtyard of buildings.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, thumb circling patterns onto your knuckles.

Your heart pounded in your ears. You licked your lips, remnants of peachy pink gloss trapped at the corners. “Someone going to jump out and interrupt us?”

“God, I hope not,” he growled, but you both laughed, uneasy and excited, and he leaned down to press his forehead to yours. Your eyes fluttered closed. He smelled like soap and laundry detergent. His nose nuzzled your own. “So can I?” He whispered, breath warm on your lips.

“Please.”

And he did. Soft lips, with a bit of urgency, as though you might actually be interrupted. His free hand found your waist, pulling at the softness of you to sink into him. He counterbalanced your weight with his own, and you clutched at the slippery fabric of his Member’s Only jacket to hold yourself aloft, knees weakened and a small sound escaping the back of your throat.

You didn’t want to pull away, didn’t want the moment to cease, but you wanted to feel him against you, warm hands and long fingers and the sturdy weight of him. You pulled away, breathless, and he flashed you that world-ending smirk, pink lips turned up at the corners, brown eyes blown black under the moonlight. He bent to peck the corner of your lips one more time before you spilled, “My roommate moved out today.”

It felt forward and a bit brash, but your mind kept reeling with the idea that this would be your last night to spend with him before you went home for the summer, and if you were honest, this had been building since the moment you saw him in that kitchen. There hadn’t been a single moment in the past year when you’d looked at Steve Harrington and didn’t imagine yourself pressed against him, wishing you could grapple him back to your quarters and let him pin you to a surface like he had back at that Ruger party.

“Lead the way.” And you did, slowly. The closer you got, the more palpable the tension, the higher the anxiety climbed your throat with warmth and trembles. Steve remained by your side with each step, squeezing hands, making small talk that you couldn’t quite hear from the rushing of blood past your ears.

The lobby was empty, save a few boxes with names scratched across in black marker. And the elevator ride to the sixth floor was the longest you’ve ever taken. You could feel the heat of him against your side, hear the uneven breaths pulling from each of you at opposite rhythms. The click of your lock was the loudest its even been, and you worried you’d broken your key until the door swung open and a black of cool air splashed you like a bucket of water.

You crossed to the window to jam it closed and tossed your keys to the counter. When you turned around, your door was closed, and Steve Harrington was sitting on your bed, thumbing through your open copy of the Silmarillion.

“What’s this?”

You smiled and shrugged out of your denim jacket. “The book Eddie recommended.”

Steve scoffed, closed the pages, tossed it to the foot of the bed, mumbling something about stupid Eddie.

“You jealous?” You chuckled, toeing out of your sneakers.

“Come here,” he said, so soft you almost didn’t hear it. You hadn’t realized how far away you remained, completing your tasks from beside the counter and sink and mirror, some unknown barrier blocking you from getting closer, from crossing to your bed, from sidling up next to him.

You took a deep breath, shaken, and clenched your fists at your side, twice, for the nerve, before you crossed the barrier to him. “Do you…” You coughed. Your mouth had run dry. “Do you want to take your jacket off?”

“Sure,” he smiled, unzipping and shrugging out of it. From this distance, you noticed a bit of green stain along the collar. A small swell of pride filled you. He tossed it onto the empty mattress behind you and patted your bed beside him.

You hesitated.

“We don’t have to…” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He ran a hand through his hair. “I just want you to be comfortable. There’s no pressure here. Okay?”

“I know.” You slotted yourself between his thighs, rested hands on his knees.

His big, perfect brown eyes traced every inch of your face. His hand reached out to brush your forearm. “God,” he breathed. “You’re beautiful.”

You kissed him then and he scooped you into him, large hands cradling your abdomen. His motions were smooth, languid, slow, fingertips brushing your spine, nose pressing to your cheekbone, tongue slipping into your open mouth. Your hands came lazily to rest on his shoulders, tickling the hairs at the back of his neck, falling into him, chest to chest, and he felt so warm and tasted of toothpaste and you vaguely wished you’d had the forethought to brush the warm beer off your own breath.

You broke off the kiss, and he chased you for another, and you conceded, melting into him, limbs weak. When you finally broke apart for air, you felt kiss-drunk, lips tacky with saliva, body relaxed into him. His palms slid down your back and over your backside, a jolt of electricity through you, until he reached the meat of your thighs just beneath the curve of your ass.

“C’mere,” he offered again, eyes heavy lidded, lips sticky pink, and you used his aid to crawl up onto his lap. The bed sagged under you both, a dip in the center where the cross beams couldn’t support it, and his eyes widened, making you laugh.

You both adjusted, him crawling backwards toward the wall, feet off the floor, and you followed, straddled his thighs, shuffled to allow him to kick off his sneakers. You laughed again.

“I’ve missed you laugh,” he grinned back at you, and when you rolled your eyes, something in his face fell. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole.” He winced.

“Steve,” you sighed, prodding at his chest. You didn’t need to be reminded of all of the almosts, all of the aggravation. You had him now, warm hands tempting the hem of your t-shirt.

“I’m serious,” he scoffed. “I was a jerk, and I’m not trying to be that guy anymore.”

You shrugged, face heated. “You’re making it up to me now.” You offered, running your hands down his biceps, giving them each a squeeze. Your stomach swooped at the sturdiness of them, of the sinewy muscle beneath tanned skin. You could feel the purple scars beneath your fingertips. You felt his gaze on you and you avoided the scrutiny, dipping in to press a kiss to his pulse.

His jaw was scruffy, a soft peach fuzz of stubble threatening to grow in beneath his sideburns. Under his ear smelled like hair product and bergamot, and you hummed at the salty taste of him, felt his hips roll upward into you. “I could make it up to you forever,” he husked.

“I’m counting on it,” you smiled into the tanned skin of his throat, and he ducked his head to catch you back into a kiss. This was needier, all teeth and gasps and tongues. His hands gripped at the hem of your shirt, waiting for permission, and you raised your arms above your head, breaking from his lips only to allow him to pull it over your head.

You shied under the exposure, his gaze dark and heady as it trailed your skin. You squirmed, desperate to level the playing field, and groped at the tight polo hugging his shoulders. He sat up from the wall to give you access, helping you to pull the collar up and over his head, and he didn’t give you time to revel in him before he’d swopped you up in a ravenous kiss again.

His mouth was hot on you, wet warmth across your jaw and down your throat, and you yelped in surprise as he masterfully swapped your positions, tossing you to your pillow and crawling atop of you, slipping his slender frame between your thighs.

As his mouth trailed down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, you explored the spanse of his back, a field of curving muscles that flexed under your fingertips. You noticed the rivets of scars, the same up and down pattern of the backs of his arms.

He moved back up to capture your lips, holding himself up on a forearm, the other hand wide on your ribcage and moving upward, over the mountain of your breast, cupping and caressing, thumb to the flesh spilling from your bra.

You breathed his name to his lip, grinding your pelvis up to meet his. Your hands fumbled around the waist band of his pants until they tucked into the buttons, trying to pry the top one out of its denim hole.

He groaned and pushed off from you, tall on his knees to unbutton his fly. He was tanned and toned, a smattering of hair from his collarbone downward, a light trail disappearing from navel into the soft hairs poking from the waistband of his boxers. Your mouth watered at the v-cut of his hipbones, but your gaze caught on the puckered of purple scarring on either side. Deep gashes splayed out, asymmetric, one slightly higher than the last, as though large chunks of his flesh had been removed. Your breath caught in your throat, and you made to reach out for them, to trace the pock marks and imperfections, to feel the smooth dips and valleys, but he evaded your touch, removing himself from your bed to stand.

He turned his back to you, exposing the roadmap on his back, lines more chaotic, skin pulled taught across muscles as he worked his jeans to the ground.

You took his lead, peeling your gaze from him to shimmy out of your own jeans, too tight, clinging to the sensitive parts of you. You struggled to peel them from the sweaty backs of your knees, and Steve seated himself at your feet to tug from the ankles until they came loose. They were discarded with his, a pile of denim and cotton on the linoleum.

He crawled back into place on top of you, and your hands found purchase at his sides, letting him kiss you sweetly. The heat of him was inescapable now, pressed against you, thin fabrics of your undergarments the only thing separating you. You felt his hard length against your inner thigh and gasped into his mouth, hands clutching at his sides.

Your fingertips felt the raw pucker of flesh there, and curiosity took over, nails dipping into grooves until he grabbed your wrists and pulled your hands up beside your head, fingers barred in his own. “Sorry! I’m so sorry!” You squeaked, feeling as though you’d crossed a boundary.

“Don’t be,” he chuckled into your neck, light, easy, and you relaxed.

He released your hands and you felt into his hair, thick grass in a beautiful meadow. You moaned, remembering that night pinned under his head, fingers through his hair, the most incredible feeling in the world, the entire room prickling in white hot tension. He moaned into your chest, a vibration that filled his whole body and yours beneath it.

His hands pulled you up from the bed to meet the clasp at your spine. He looked down at you with furrowed brows, brown eyes black, lips glossy. “Can I?” And you nodded as he unhooked your bra and slid it down your arms.

Steve Harrington worshipped you. It was all soft touches and gentle nips, the warmth of wet lips tracing every inch of your body, and long fingers that followed. He dug into the skin of you in heady desire and chased each bruising touch with devotion and care. He was a caretaker at heart, you realized after each question of permission, fluttered eyelashes, sweet kisses to ensure you were alright.

You underwear were slid off your legs with care, knees kissed, inner thighs kissed. He calmed your moans of pressure and stretch and pleasure with sweet kisses and soft hands as he rocked into you. He was warm and heavy, bergamot and chamomile, and sweet summer meadows. His paced remained at yours, eyes watching your features as he wound you up and brought you down, your legs sticky and clinging to his body, and when he finished he found you a towel to clean up, pressed kisses to your eyelids, your cheeks, caught the laughter as it spilled from your lips.

He cracked the window, the cool spring breeze slipping in and caressing your body, and you watched with heavy lids as he jumped back into his pants and shoved his polo over his head.

“Are you leaving?” You sat up, hugging your purple sheet to your bare chest.

“I’m going to make you some tea,” he muttered into your temple, but when he returned, you had already fallen asleep, warm and spent and happy.

—

Steve tossed your last heavy box of books into your trunk, huffing something about stupid books and stupid genius girls, and you slammed your trunk closed and thanked him. It was hot, summer peering over the horizon, ridding the blue sky of clouds.

“Well, that’s the last of it.” You sighed, wiping clammy hands to the thighs of your jeans. You were fighting back that clawing emotion, the churn of abandonment. You hated goodbyes.

“Drive safe, please,” Nancy Wheeler pulled you into her, tight and soft and bubblegum pink, and you almost lost it in the soft perfume of her curls. You clutched to her shoulders and took a few deep breaths to the sound of her melodic laugh.

“You better not cry,” Robin growled from beside you. “If you cry, I’ll cry, I mean it.”

“Oh God,” Steve groaned. “Please don’t. I can’t handle all of you like that.”

You laughed and pulled from Nancy to wipe threatening tears, made worse to see her doing the same.

“What are we even doing?” Her cheeks were splotchy. “I’m literally going to see you in what, a month?”

You nodded, and it was Robin’s turn to pull you into a tight hug. “A full week, you promised. Request it off work the second you get home.” Her voice rasped in your ear, rosemary and vanilla and home.

“Promise, promise.”

She stepped back and that left Steve. He slipped his hand into yours and walked you the full five steps to your driver’s side door, which he opened for you. You wanted to latch yourself to him, not let go until fall came and the school year started again.

“Gross,” Robin groaned, and you glanced to see Nancy covering her eyes with a grin.

Steve rolled his eyes and slipped his hands around your waist, pulling you in tight. He leaned down to press a sweet kiss to your lips, chaste, not enough to tide you over for a month. You whined in protest when he pulled away.

“See you in a month,” he smiled, hands slipping from your waist to fall back in line with your best friends. “Don’t get in trouble,” he pointed his finger at you. “Don’t speed. Don’t drink and drive. No reading on rooftops or in abandoned buildings.” He counted off forbidden locations on his fingertips until Nancy swatted at his arm.

“No promises,” you smiled, sliding behind the wheel and closing the door. You swallowed more emotion back as you watched their grins and waves, perfect and warm and wonderful. You took a deep breath and started the ignition. Just one month. You could handle just one more month. As you released the emergency brake, you made a mental note to call them the moment you walked in the door.

Part Two - Lemonade

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A/N: So I kind of blacked out and wrote this very quickly, and I think I'm in love with the characters. So I'd really appreciate it if you just came and talked to me about it, even a little bit. I also obviously have a part two planned because I'll probably need to know what happens on the 4th of July, so please let me know if you'd be interested in reading that. Otherwise, thank you so so so much for reading all 25k of college parties and slowburn pining, and I adore you so so so much. xo -Amanda

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