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stevie-petey · 5 days ago

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track three: you did me bad

“I take it the date went well, then.” Steve closes the door with a slight chuckle at his own joke. “Seeing as how you’re in my hotel room rather than his.” A bottle of red wine glistens from the beverage cart in the room. Without thinking, you grab its neck and force it open. “You’re insufferable, has anyone ever told you that?”

Summary: with tour winding down and an album set to be released, tensions inside the tour bus grows. when the already blurred lines between you and steve get crossed, the fallout of your relationship nearly sends the band spiraling as well.

Rating: mature, lots of swearing and sexual tension

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, steve is a slut (endearing), mentions of drugs (max), excessive swearing, borderline smut, lots of alcohol use, and messy situationships

Words: 20.5k (the chapters only get longer from here)

Before you swing in: two things: 1) joe wearing a sleeveless shirt in pomona single handedly fueled half of this chapter and 2) all i can say is that i apologize for what youre about to read

The weight of the leatherbound book creases beneath your touch. Its edges have smoothed over from use, the pages yellowed with age and etched with stray pencil marks and dried up glue. Once originally a beautiful plum color, the leather cracks to a rust.

Unassuming on the outside, but the book itself explodes with images once opened.

Every inch of its pages are plastered with scraps of film, pieces of sketches, digital photos that shine in a light that you’re constantly trying to chase.

Reds, greens, blues, purples, pinks and whites and golds paint the photographs. The red of Robin’s favorite trench coat against Mike’s green electric guitar, both tossed onto an imperial purple couch after a show in Milwaukee. Max’s blue tie draped over Jonathan’s bone white drum set. A golden halo of stage lights that enshrine Steve’s pink, rosie face.

You bought the old leatherbound book at a small annex deep in the East Village. When you stumbled upon the book, it became a spur of the moment purchase that you hadn’t reflected much upon besides whether it could fit in your bag and if its pages were thick enough to hold glue.

You’d been looking for something to hold all your art, something physical to preserve your intangible, a portfolio for images you were never quite sure would become anything other than simply images.

Now the Februarys fill the once lonesome pages of your portfolio with a vibrance of life and color.

Gluing down a film photo from last night’s venue, you carefully smooth the delicate image of Mike’s cheeky grin onto the page. His hair sticks up at odd ends and in the background you can faintly see Max, mid-laugh, at something he’s said. It’s one of the only times you’ve managed to catch a smile on their faces these last few weeks.

August, 1989, Mike & Max laugh between rehearsals.

Your handwriting is a bit smudged and jagged due to the tour bus’ endless driving, but the detail of it only adds to the tenderness of the photo.

Setting the pen down, you close the book and carefully set it under your pillow. You’re not quite sure why you’ve kept your portfolio hidden from the band. It’s not like they haven’t seen your work already, but something about the images you choose for this collection, this assortment of art that is yours only, feels different.

You glance at your watch, follow the small hand with your eyes as it ticks by, and the moment it passes the hour hand, chords from Tease infiltrate the quiet of the bus.

“Do you really need to rehearse every hour, on the hour?” You poke your head down, looking under your bed to find Steve hunched over in his own bunk, curled into himself with his guitar nestled between his knees.

The only response you get is a gruff finger pointed at a sign that’s messily taped to his bed frame that reads, don’t talk to me. vocal rest. (even you, angelface).

“I really hate that goddamn sign.” It’d been drawn the night Leonard warned the Februarys not to fuck up, or else they jeopardize their entire career.

The threat struck a chord in the band, that much was clear by how pale their faces had grown in the phonebooth once Leonard hung up. Their fear was palpable, infecting your own bloodstream simply through proximity.

They cope with the fear in different ways.

Steve starts micromanaging every aspect of the band. What they wear, how they speak with fans, insisting upon hours and hours of rehearsals with hardly any breaks, and when he isn’t forcing his bandmates to rehearse, he’s plucking at the strings of his guitar until they cut his flesh.

Every performance from now on has to be perfect. Steve won’t accept anything lower than his dream-hazed need for perfection.

The only solace from his manic hysteria comes when he’s resting his voice.

Robin and Mike throw themselves into writing their album. Rather than follow Steve’s present-obsessed thoughts, they obsess over a future they have no control over. They engross themselves in lyrics and riffs and drum beats and tempos.

Though not as labor intensive as Steve’s coping mechanisms, Robin and Mike quickly become unbearable when they keep everyone awake at night whispering lyrics and ideas to one another.

The lack of sleep and Steve’s overbearing presence drives Max to start smoking during the day to survive. No one is sure where she gets the weed (she refuses to share her stash), but Steve loses his mind when he finds out.

“Are you fucking high?”

“Thank fuck I am,” Max giggled. “I mean, how else am I supposed to endure your fucking psychotic tendencies?”

“This isn’t some joke, Mayfield! You need to be as sober as the goddamn Pope before our gig tonight or I swear to fuck–”

“Y/N’s right,” she giggled again, eyes squinted at Steve. “Your face does get all pink. Like a pony.”

You had to drag Steve away before he started yelling. It carries on like this. Max antagonizes Steve to settle her own nerves, and he takes the bait every time. You’ve lost count of how many fights you’ve had to break up between them.

As for Jonathan, his anxiety gets so bad that he starts tapping his fingers and drumsticks on every surface he can find. Tables, beds, sides of venues, chairs, the floor, anywhere he can reach, and eventually he gets banned altogether from making any sound at all.

The tour bus becomes a war zone.

Stuck in a small space for three straight months with your closest friends, while fun at first, teeters on warfare with the added pressure of Leonard’s threat. Everything grows unsteady, heavy with tension.

Your job as a photographer is grim. With hardly any laughter remaining on the bus, the only photos worth taking are during the staged performances.

The only semblance of joy can be found in pieces of Robin’s laughter when Mike has thought of a particularly clever line. Steve’s proud smile, watching them. Jonathan’s quiet teasing in your ear and his shy chuckle when you pinch his side. Max and her wispy, rough voice crooning a country song that makes everyone giggle.

Even with the small pieces of joy, somehow the responsibility of keeping the quickly deteriorating band together falls on your shoulders.

The pressure of Leonard’s words are different for you. While your job technically hangs in the air as well, you’ve only just realized your dream of concert photography. While being with the band has been the best six months of your life, you know, eventually, you’d mend the broken pieces of your heart.

But the Februarys have been dreaming of this since they were kids. To have everything they’ve ever wanted stripped from their hands so suddenly, so close to the end, would ruin them.

So you force the band to participate in sightseeing parks and shitty roadside attractions. You keep a supply of Advil in your camera bag for Robin, knowing her migraines worsen the less she sleeps. You coax cold water down Max’s mouth for her chapped lips and smoke filled throat. You laugh at Mike’s jokes so that the relief of a pleased reaction can ease the sting of his exhaustion. You save some film for Jonathan so that he can slip away with your camera and get lost in the art he still adores.

You let Steve’s burnt out kisses soak your skin each night he crawls into your bed after crawling back from someone else’s, desperate to unwind from the pressure he can’t outrun. He tries to wash his sins with your warmth, and you become terrified that if you push him away, he’ll spiral.

One day, the Februarys will cite your presence as the glue that kept the cracks from shattering under the unbearable weight of finality.

–

Later that night, you’re crammed between Mike and Robin in a comically small dressing room. The Februarys have just completed their last show in Milwaukee, and though the hot, stuffy air is stifling, the heat doesn’t deter the band’s celebration.

“Three more shows!” Robin squeals, throwing her head back, knocking against your shoulder in her childish excitement.

“Chicago, here we come!” Mike’s lanky body hits yours next, his fist jumping into the air as his bony shoulder collides into you. “God, I can’t wait to be blown away in the wind.”

Max plops down on the couch the three of you inhabit, smothering your space even further, but none of you seem to mind. “We still have a show in Kenosha before we get to Chicago, dumbass.”

Mike waves her off. “Whatever. Wind is wind.”

Jonathan snorts at his response, though Robin makes a face. “Screw the wind, I’m just excited to finally be on the final stretch. I mean, Jesus. I was worried we’d lose someone by now. Homicide definitely isn’t a good image for the band.”

As if on cue, Steve flings the door open and stumbles inside, a handful of girls following close behind.

He throws his arms out, the shadows of his biceps rippling, no sleeves to hide them away. Robin was bored one day and cut off all the sleeves of his shirts, something that you haven’t quite forgiven her for. Steve gestures around the room as if it’s his kingdom and it’s hard to tear your eyes off of him.

“And this is where the magic happens.”

The girls fall into hysterics, giggling and clawing at Steve’s bare arms. Moles mark his tanned skin. Their fingers hide the beauty marks you wish you could kiss over.

“On second thought,” Robin narrows her eyes, scrunching her nose in disgust when one of the girls pulls down her top. “Maybe homicide isn’t so bad.”

“I know a good lawyer.” Max’s disgust mirrors Robin’s.

“No one is committing homicide,” you poke their chins, dragging their heads back so you can finally get up. You’ve kept to your own post-show ritual of leaving the dressing room as soon as Steve steps inside. “Anyways, can you guys help me find my extra film canisters? They were in my bag, but I couldn’t find them before the show started.”

Jonathan hops up. “Yeah, I’ll check by our equipment.”

“I’ll scour the dance floor.” Mike stands as well, saluting you. “And definitely won’t be looking for any money left behind.”

“You’re such a good samaritan, Wheeler.”

“I try to be.”

Meanwhile, Max wordlessly joins Jonathan’s side, ducked down behind his drum set to help. You thank them both, which they smile at, before you turn to Robin, who remains seated on the couch.

“And why aren’t you at my beck and call?” You ask her playfully, nudging her leg with yours.

“Because you indulge Steve too much,” she says, not taking her eyes off of him. She watches his every move, monitoring how unbalanced his coordination is, whether his pupils are too dilated, if the girls he’s with seem too incoherent themselves. “At least one of us has to tell you no.”

Her words upset you. Ducking your head down, you start looking through your bag again, giving your hands something to do.

“I don’t indulge him,” you can’t find your goddamn canisters. “Do you think I left the film on the bus?”

“I saw him crawling into your bunk last night.” Robin glares at you. “Again.”

“He’s under a lot of stress right now,” you remind her. “All of you are.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re sleeping with you as a shitty coping mechanism.”

You whip your head up, terrified Steve will overhear, but he’s too infatuated with the girls he surrounds himself with. “Will you shut up? We aren’t sleeping together!”

“Oh, my apologies. You just share a bunk bed like goddamn middle schoolers.”

“Look,” you set down your bag, crawl up onto the couch and kneel before Robin. Forcing her eyes on you, your hands clasp around hers. “I meant what I said about not wanting to be another girl Steve sleeps with.”

She doesn’t say anything; she’s seen how much more dependent Steve has become on you.

You sigh. “Whether or not you believe me, that’s your choice. But just because I refuse to sleep with him, it doesn’t mean I’ll abandon him, either.”

“Stubborn,” she says softly, her frail laugh almost pitiful echoing the warning from lifetimes ago. “Always stubborn.”

“Yeah, well,” you pinch Robin’s cheek. “I’ll be less stubborn if you help me find my canisters. Deal?”

“Deal.”

And though the conversation gets put to rest, it lingers on your mind the rest of the night.

Mike ends up finding the film canisters in the couch cushions, as well as a wad of fives that he pockets immediately, and you walk with the band back to the bus. Steve isn’t with you. The heat of his absence leaves a faint trace of smoke.

Jonathan falls asleep first. Mike follows, then Max, and eventually Robin. You’re left laying awake, staring at the bus’ ceiling, your conversation with Robin etching itself into the paneling, waiting for the stumbling of Steve’s footsteps to come home.

The anticipation draws into your chest like a tightrope. Taut, strung up high enough to hurt if you fall. The line tugs at your ribcage, coils in your stomach, its frayed edges a warning.

You’re afraid of what will happen when the tightrope snaps.

And it doesn’t take long to find out; the sting of its severance follows the morning after.

“It’s too nice of a day to stay inside,” you slam a pillow against Steve’s face, hoping the force of its collision will be enough to rouse him. He had come home late last night, crawling into your bunk at an hour that surprised even you. “Get up!”

Steve groans, rolling over as he pulls the blankets over his head. In the movement you catch a dark bruise on his chest, nail marks, before his body is covered again.

Seeing the bruises hurts. Smelling the perfume on his body twists your stomach. His exhaustion from girls who aren’t you infuriates you.

The remnants of Steve’s nights that he doesn’t bother to hide from you are enough to make you slam the pillow back down to his face, more forceful this time, childish, even, but his yelp of pain satiates the sting of his nights.

“Wake!” You hit him again. “Up!”

“Jesus, Y/N!” Steve shields his face from your attack, twisting in the blankets as he tries to escape. “Would you–” he ducks another blow. “Stop!”

When he’s finally on his feet, you drop the pillow and smile at him, innocent. “Good morning, rosie.”

“I’m not calling you angelface after you just maimed mine.”

“Don’t worry, you’re still a pretty boy.” Patting his chest condescendingly, you step past Steve and go wake the others. “Get dressed. There’s a park not even a mile away. Everyone is going. Mandatory band outing.”

“We pay you to take our photos, not to take us out on field trips.” He scoffs, though he grabs a pair of jeans and t-shirt anyways.

Pleased that he doesn’t put up much of a fight, you wink at Steve. “As if you don’t want to get me alone in a field.”

He trips over his jeans and you laugh, finally leaving him alone.

It takes about thirty minutes to get everyone awake and ready. Some are easier to convince than others. Max wakes up immediately and is the first one ready. Robin complains but lazily gets dressed. Jonathan has to be dragged out of his bunk, then Mike, but eventually you manage to get the Februarys out of their tour bus and into the open air.

The walk is leisurely. With only three shows left, the chamber of pressure slowly releases. They’re close to the end. Really close. And despite their hatred of Steve’s grueling schedule of rehearsals and practice and perfection, the band has never been as cohesive and amazing as they are now.

No longer on the brink of self-destruction, the Februarys are free to talk amongst themselves during the walk to the park, hopeful and optimistic of what’s to come. They’re laughing again, smiling, and Steve’s rough palm feels good in yours and the sun settles its rays on your skin like a lover’s lips, and for the first time in a long time, everyone can breathe.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Mike kicks a rock in the path, turning towards you. “What do we pay you for, exactly? Like. I know you take pictures of us, but do you, I don’t know, sell them on our behalf or something?”

“I’ve been with you guys for months now.” You look at him in disbelief. “You seriously don’t know what I do for the band?”

“Nope.”

Steve shakes his head, laughing. “Where do you think our flyers came from?”

“We have flyers?”

Everyone groans. You manage to capture the collective disappointment on film, and you know before you’ve even developed it that it’ll be yet another image that goes into your portfolio.

At the park, everyone splits into their now habitual groups. Jonathan goes with Mike. Max with Robin. Steve with you. The groups formed after the first park you all went to, and no one has quite managed to drop the habit, though you don’t think anyone really wants to.

Steve finds a small patch of dandelions in the shade. The strength of the sun scorns just enough to make your skin blister, but in the sweet cold of the shade its rays are more kind, tender.

He’s brought his guitar with him, another habit instilled within him now, and soon you’re in his arms with the instrument against your chest. You’ve been working on the early strings of Rosie these last few weeks. Steve insists you learn the song you created.

The day passes in a slow, dream-like way that leaves saccharin in your bones. Chords float through the air. In the distance you hear Robin’s infectious laughter and see the flash of Robin’s red hair. Somewhere Mike rambles to his newfound brother, both sharing stories of Nancy.

For a moment, it’s just the six of you in this small, intimate world built only for one another.

That’s when you see a red Camaro park next to the tour bus. A figure gets out, the long limbs suggesting a man’s body. You frown, nudging Steve to get his attention.

“Do you know who that is?”

He squints, the distance far enough to mask the person’s face. “No, I don’t think so.”

You shrug it off, about to go back to the bridge of Rosie, when the man in the distance starts to wave his arms at you and Steve, friendly, though demanding enough to alert you to the fact that he wants you to come to him.

Looking at Steve, he mirrors your shrug. “Seems he knows us, though.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, but Steve is already grabbing your hand to stand the two of you up. He brushes off the grass and dandelions you plucked together and tugs at you to walk along with him.

Robin and Max must’ve seen the man as well, because soon they join.

“Who the hell is that?” Max asks.

“No idea,” Steve whistles to where Jonathan and Mike are, shouting, “Hey, guys!” He points towards the parking lot, silently commanding them to follow, and they nod, confusion evident on their faces when they see the unexpected company.

The first thing you notice about the man is the green of his eyes. Trapped behind thick rimmed glasses, there’s no hiding their beauty. They remind you of the emerald ring your mother used to wear. Deep, multicolored, a tint of blue that makes you miss the ocean.

“Hello,” he smiles at the group. His slightly crooked teeth only add to his boyish features of soft cheeks, a rounded nose, a bashful chin. Freckles splatter over the crest of his nose. You wonder how long it would take you to count them all. “My name is Gregory Clarke.”

“Cool,” Steve grips your waist, holding you behind him, protective, unsure what to make of the man before him. “Can we, uh. Help you, Gregory?”

The rest of the band stands behind Steve, following his weary nature.

Gregory senses the unease and brushes his hair out of his eyes, apologetic. It’s brown. Almost a lovely amber in the sunlight. Hints of gold that match his freckles.

“My apologies,” he says, his easy laugh reassuring, comforting. “I guess Leonard never mentioned me.”

“You know Leonard?” Steve is surprised.

“I’m his assistant, actually.” Gregory takes a cautious step forward, nodding at everyone. “Nice to finally meet you guys.”

No one moves. Steve pulls you tighter against him. You can tell by the curl of his fingers that he doesn’t trust the man, but the green of his eyes draw you in, his smile makes your heart pound in a pleasant, delightful way.

“I’m Y/N,” you step out of Steve’s grasp, closer to Gregory, and smile up at him. He’s deliciously tall, broad, and you stick your hand out, body buzzing at the idea of touching his. “Sorry that you’re Lenny’s assistant.”

“It isn’t so bad,” he says, hand intertwining with yours, softer than Steve’s, alabaster and freckled. He smiles politely at you, but his eyes betray him for a brief second, lingering on your frame, and you see it. Your stomach warms at the idea that he’s succumbed as well. “Especially when I get to meet talent such as yourself.”

Your face flushes in the August heat. “You’ve seen my photography?”

“Of course I have. Leonard really admires your work. In fact, he even told me–”

“Why are you here?” Steve’s voice cuts through clenched teeth, stabbing into the conversation. He’s next to you again. You’re not sure when that happened.

Guess you weren’t the only one who noticed the lingering gaze.

Gregory’s smile doesn’t falter at the disdain in the other man’s voice. He only fixes his glasses, grins back at you again, before facing Steve. “Right, I should’ve explained that sooner.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Steve.” Robin snaps at him, yanking his shirt as if restraining a dog. “Don’t fucking start.”

“Really, it’s no problem,” Gregory addresses her now, patient and understanding. “He’s right to be upset. It’s quite humid out here and I’m only keeping you in the sun longer than necessary. In fact, why don’t I treat you guys to an early dinner? That way there’ll be some AC while we talk. It’s nothing bad, of course, but it’ll take some time to discuss.”

The way Gregory talks, with a soft smile around his vowels and genuine interest in what you have to say, you’re struck by how different his charm is from Steve’s. It’s real, delicate, authentic where Steve’s is performative, and there is nothing hidden in the way he looks at you.

“I think dinner sounds great,” you tell him, answering for the band before Steve can shut the idea down. “Don’t you guys agree?”

Max looks around uncertainly, noting Steve’s clenched jaw and your hopeful smile. “I guess I could eat.”

“Can we order whatever we want?” Mike asks Gregory.

“Within reason, but Leonard did give me his credit card.”

“Then I’m sold.”

Robin forces a smile on her face. “I’ve never said no to free food,” she clears her throat, not so subtly kicking Steve’s shin. “Right, Steve?”

“Whatever.”

You pretend he sounds excited, that his resentful gaze doesn’t brand your skin. “Byers, I take it you’re in?”

“AC sounds nice.” Jonathan grimaces. He’s never been able to hide his discomfort. “I, um. Like AC.”

“Then dinner it is.” Gregory beams at everyone, not at all expecting anyone to return the smile, but smiling anyway because he’s truly happy to be here, to talk to them, to finally meet the Februarys, even if their reception to him is cold.

Your heart flutters again.

Almost as if he can hear the unusual cadence of your heartbeat, Steve grabs your hand, strokes the underside of your wrist. A silent plea to look at him, but instead you place your hand on Gregory’s arm, walking away.

“So, know any good restaurants around here?”

–

Dinner is unbearable.

The restaurant Gregory takes everyone to is a small, local diner that he’s been to a few times during his time as Leonard’s assistant. He promises that the food will be worth the shitty weather, and for a brief second you’re all hopeful that the dinner will go over smoothly.

Then Gregory pulls a chair out for you and helps you sit down before sitting across from you.

Steve bristles immediately, deliberately choosing the seat next to you as retaliation, and the rest of the band has to bite their tongues to keep quiet.

“So,” Gregory doesn’t wait to explain everything, having already ordered a round of drinks for the table. You wonder if he’s caught on to the group’s tension by now and purposefully selected alcohol as a buffer. “I’m basically here on Leonard’s behalf.”

Steve huffs. “Like his little pet?”

“If you want to look at it that way, sure.” The laugh that falls from Gregory’s chest only darkens Steve’s already shitty mood. He isn’t reacting how he wants him to. “As I’m sure you all know, there’s three shows left of your tour.”

“We can count.”

You pinch Steve’s side, harsh, and he flinches. “What he means to say is that they’re excited to finally be wrapping up the tour.”

“Well, Leonard’s excited, too.” The waiter comes and sets the drinks down. A simple round of beers, a safe option, and you think Gregory accounted for that as well. “But, Leonard being Leonard, he wants to make sure your final three shows are, well. Uneventful, so to speak.”

Don’t fuck up.

At least Gregory tries to put the threat in a lighter, more optimistic tone.

“‘Uneventful’ is one way to look at it.” Robin sips her beer, leaning over the table to get a better look at Gregory. “He practically told us not to fuck anything up or else he’ll fuck our lives up.”

The assistant winces. “He… certainly has a way with words.”

“No kidding,” Mike orders two ribeye steaks. “His money doesn’t hurt, though.”

“Wait, you said Leonard sent you to make sure the shows go well?” Max asks Gregory, who nods. “Okay, so what does that mean? Are you our babysitter or something?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, no I hope you guys don’t view it as that. Leonard just… really, really needs to make sure there’s nothing that will jeopardize the future of this band. He wants the Februarys to be successful. Believe me. I’m just here as a sort of precaution. All I’m doing is attending the last three shows to tell him what he already knows: you guys are a fucking once-in-a-lifetime band.”

“Or you’ll be an annoying snitch,” Steve spits out. “I mean, how are we supposed to just trust that you won’t go spewing bullshit to him?”

Your face burns in embarrassment at his treatment towards Gregory. “Why are you being such an asshole right now?”

“I’m looking out for my band!” He argues, grabbing a beer and sloshing it around. “I worked too fucking hard to trust some guy named Greg. I mean, who the hell even names their kid that?”

“Your name is Steve.” Gregory points out, though not unkindly, and you’re not sure if you want to kiss him for his unwavering confidence or kick him for antagonizing an already unstable Steve. “But regarding your concern of trusting me, I won’t force you to. That’s entirely your decision. All I can say is that I haven’t heard music like yours since The Velvet Underground. You guys are special. I’m not here to tarnish that.”

Steve opens his mouth, ready to say more, but the food arrives and suddenly the tone in the conversation shifts. Gregory eagerly thanks the waiter, charming as ever, and before his eyes Steve watches his band members warm up to the assistant.

“Leonard is really okay with paying for all of this?” Jonathan asks in disbelief, staring at the sheer amount of food that can’t possibly be finished by them. “I-I mean, this has to be at least a couple hundred dollars.”

“Technically, he told me to do whatever to convince you guys I’m not the enemy.” Gregory shrugs, takes a bite of his burger. “So this will probably be a tax write-off for him.”

“Is that… legal?” Max doesn’t know whether to start with the truffle fries or the salad.

Again he shrugs. “You’ve met my boss.”

The stoic, uncharacteristically dry response makes you snort. Embarrassed, you try to hide it behind a laugh, but Gregory catches the reaction and leans in close to you, as if conspiring, “I heard that.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you flick your hair over your shoulder, relishing when Gregory’s eyes follow the movement.

“Don’t worry, it was cute.” He steals a fry, winks at you, before sitting back again.

Robin has to take the steak knife out of Steve’s tight fist.

You don’t see the exchange, too focused on the dimple in Gregory’s left cheek and imagining yourself kissing it.

“Besides music, tell me about yourselves.” He turns back to the group now, though his shoulders lean towards yours, an easy intimacy to him that eats away at you.

Robin tilts her head. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” He says. “I’m all ears.”

One by one, the Februarys start to laugh at Gregory’s jokes. They tell him stories from their early years, explaining how the band formed, where their name came from. Robin lets him try her milkshake. Mike splits his second ribeye with him. Max discovers they’ve both read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and talks animidly with him about it. Jonathan shows him a picture of Nancy and smiles when Gregory says she’s beautiful.

And you latch onto every word. A breath of fresh air, Gregory’s intelligence and honesty pulls you under the tide like the moon controls the current.

Steve doesn’t think he’s seen you laugh this much since the winter in the apartment together. The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that he washes down with alcohol.

“You look like you’re trying to kill the guy with your mind.” Robin whispers in his ear halfway through the night.

“I fucking want to.” Steve watches you reach across the table to fix Gregory’s glasses. “I want him dead.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Can you save the melodrama for later? I actually like the guy. Don’t scare him off, please.” When the tension in Steve’s jaw doesn’t lessen, she sighs. “Steve, I’m serious. Don’t fuck this up for us. Lay off the beer. Plaster a smile on your face. Pretend you want to be here and that you have your shit together.”

He scoffs. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Harrington.” She grabs his arm, tugs him away from you, and whispers venomously. “I know you, okay? I know you and I love you despite that, but if you continue to throw a hissy fit with the guy who reports directly to Leonard Branham, I will castrate you.”

“I–”

“So, Gregory!” Robin throws a smile back on her face, releasing Steve. “You said you’re from Vermont?”

Steve gets the hint. He shuts up. Puts the beer down. He won’t pretend to play nice, but he at least softens his glare to a sneer, and it’s the most he can offer Robin.

Eventually the bill gets paid and Gregory walks the band outside. He’s perfectly civil, extending his farewells to everyone with his usual kind smile. “It was wonderful getting to know everyone tonight.”

Steve fucking hates that he seems to mean it.

“Thanks for the food, man.” Jonathan claps Gregory’s back. “It was really good.”

“I think Mike might puke.” Max points to the kid, who clutches his stomach with a red face. “How many steaks did you eat?”

“Not enough,” he pants out. “God, Jonathan can you carry me back to the bus?”

“I really don’t want to.”

“If you don’t, I’ll tell Nancy you let me drink beer tonight.”

“I dread the day I marry into your family,” Jonathan bends down, instructs Mike onto his back, and then turns to Gregory again. “Sorry, but we should go.”

He laughs. “I understand. You two have a good night.”

“We won’t.” They both say at the same time, before Jonathan treks home with Mike on his back.

“We should get going, too.” Steve says, speaking for the first time in nearly an hour. He looks directly at you when he says it, though, completely ignoring Max and Robin who remain. “Right, angelface?”

The name is purposeful, a way to mark you as his in front of Gregory, and the shame of it washes over you in sickly thick waves.

Your mouth opens, closes, no words come out. Steve stares at you, expectant in a way that isn’t demanding or cruel or even as a way to guilt you. No. He stares at you with the same expectant gaze that you frame on him every night he walks away with the girls he hides behind.

“Actually, Y/N needs to talk to Gregory about something, right?” Robin’s mercy saves you, giving you an out.

“Right,” you nod, finding your voice again. “I, uh. Needed to talk to him about some potential projects.”

The expectancy dies in Steve’s eyes the same way yours does every night. “A project?”

“Yeah.” Your throat squeezing at your lies. “I’ll see you guys back on the bus.”

Robin catches Max’s eyes and they exchange a brief look. They nod, grab Steve’s arms, and drag him away before he can say or do anything else, leaving you alone, finally, with Gregory.

Steve’s protests and yells can be heard deep into the distance, and you almost don’t want to turn back to Gregory, too ashamed to face him.

Only he gently grabs your arm, spins you around, and his head hangs low so that he can coax your eyes to his. “Angelface, huh?”

“It’s just a nickname.” The lie comes out fast, easier than you expect it to. You hate that it does.

If Gregory notices the lie, he doesn’t show it. “I think it’s sweet. Fitting.”

“Is it? I’ve always thought it was an exaggeration.” You brush off his compliment, not wanting someone else to agree with the name meant only for a boy with rosie cheeks.

“It’s not an exaggeration,” Gregory tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, stroking your cheek in the process. “You’re beautiful, Y/N, and, if you don’t mind me saying, I’ve been trying to ask you to dinner all night. A real, proper dinner, just you and me and Leonard’s credit card.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Then why haven’t you?”

Gregory sighs. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were already spoken for.”

Your heart sinks. "I…”

“I’m still not sure,” he laughs awkwardly, boyish smile strained. “I mean, I saw Robin hide the steak knives from Steve.”

“He’s just an idiot,” this time it isn’t a lie. “I promise you that that’s all it is.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, though he isn’t accusatory. Only curious, empathetic and understanding. “If there’s something more, I’ll happily back down. We can forget that dinner was ever on the table. I don’t want you or anyone else to think I’m here to cause any harm.”

Fear tightens your vocal chords. “No,” your hand falls to Gregory’s. “No, please listen to me. I’m not Steve’s, and he sure as hell isn’t mine. I want to get dinner with you, Gregory.”

He squeezes your hand. “I just don’t want to cause any problems.”

“You won’t,” you promise him. Another lie. “Now, walk me back to the bus, properly ask me to dinner, and maybe I’ll kiss you goodnight.”

Gregory smiles, and it’s like a thousand soft raindrops on sun-torn skin.

He holds your hand the entire way back. His grip isn’t as heavy as Steve’s, it’s lighter, easier, less sacred and sacrilegious. He tells you a story from his childhood, more soft spoken now than he’d been at dinner, as if only your presence requires this gentleness overflowing.

When you get to the bus, Gregory pulls you so that you lean against its side, and he settles both arms against the bus, encasing you, and his height only makes the sensation of the proximity more pleasurable when he looks down at you.

“Please, will you join me for dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’d love that,” you whisper up at him, standing on the tips of your toes, anxious to be even closer to him. “Pick me up after the show?”

His nose dips down to yours. “I’d love that.”

A grin eases its way across your lips, and before you can press them to Gregory’s, he cups your face, kisses your cheek once, twice, and then pulls away.

“Save the kiss goodnight for when I’ve earned it,” he tells you, hand trailing down your arm until he reaches your fingers to bring your wrist to his lips. Only he doesn’t kiss the back of it like Steve does. He kisses the front, the strip of flesh just above your watch. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

The words are murmured against your skin.

“Goodnight, Gregory,” you exhale.

He feels your eyes on him the entire walk back to his car.

–

When you walk onto the bus, you find the band caught in a landmine.

Robin sits at the kitchenette with a deck of cards in front of her, untouched. Her stiff posture and tired eyes tell you that it’s been a long night without your presence.

Max and Mike sit at their bunks, hunched over together, pretending to busy themselves with songwriting. Only their instruments aren’t with them and Mike’s nervous fidgeting gives away everything.

Jonathan lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, a book propped against his chest that he doesn’t bother to pretend to read.

They all greet you with weak voices, afraid that any sudden movement will set off a stray mine. None of them acknowledge Steve in his bed, his knees drawn in tight, his guitar clutched to his chest, aggressive, almost destructive chords plucked from his fingers over and over again as if he can drown his anger in its melody.

The agonizing sound shrieks in your ears. Max flinches, Robin squeezes her eyes shut, and you know that you have to be the to cross the bomb-ridden field to quell its dull roar. It isn’t fair to your friends otherwise.

Steve doesn’t look up from his guitar. He continues to play a song that you think is from their EP, though the angry way he’s playing it almost makes the song sound foreign, unknown.

“I doubt Lenny will like this version of Lower East,” you sit at the edge of the bed like a bird perched in a barbed cage. “Might be a little too aggressive, even for him.”

His lips don’t turn upwards. His fingers don’t relent at the taut strings.

You try to relax your spine, moving your hands from your lap onto the bed. The blankets are familiar, worn, remnants of Steve’s childhood home in Hawkins. “I think he’ll love what you guys are working on now, though.”

You’ve heard the early stages of their album, catching snippets between rehearsals and late night writing sessions. You aren’t telling Steve this to appease him or placate him. You tell Steve that Leonard will love his music because you truly believe it to be true.

“Have you guys thought about what you’ll name the album?” You move so that you’re laying beside him, enough room not to make him feel trapped, but close enough so that your body heat kisses his.

Only Steve still pretends that you don’t exist. His white knuckles clutch the frail instrument and he strums so roughly that the bed shakes with every movement.

Swallowing back your anger, your eyes close.

“You have slept with every girl in every goddamn state.”

The screech of stopped chords tell you that you finally have his attention.

“You get fucking wasted and sleep with the first warm body you find. And then you crawl into my bed when you’re finished. Every single fucking night.” A cold laugh snags at your clenched teeth. “You don’t get to be a fucking asshole to me just because I smiled at someone who isn’t you.”

The vitriol that laces Steve’s laugh cuts your skin. “What, so you decided to try and make me jealous? Is that it? You think that’ll get you my attention?”

You stumble off the bed, exasperated laughter foaming over your fury.

“Oh, you think I want your attention? Please, a fucking mannequin with tits is enough to get your limp dick hard.” Steve’s lips part in shock, but you’re furious. “I-I mean, I’m already yours, Steve!”

You’re screaming now, uncaring of the fact that the rest of the band members are only a few feet behind you. Your body shakes, your throat burns, but Steve’s cruel, callous eyes blind you with upset and insecurity.

“Jesus fuck, I’m yours. All you have to do is tell me that I won’t just be some girl you fuck and forget about!” You’re laughing, only it comes out tight, incredulous. Steve sits in his bed and you bend down, eye to eye; you’ve always known exactly who he was. “But you can’t promise me that, can you?”

Steve doesn’t flinch at your vicious words. He stares straight back into your eyes, skin crawling when he feels everyone else’s gaze on him. He’s hyper aware of their presence. Their bodies are too close, he wishes he hadn’t started this argument with witnesses. He hates that he’s trapped himself on a bus that he can’t escape.

But he had. Now he pays the price for it, biting his tongue, biting back a promise he hates that he can’t give you. Not with them here. Not with anyone else present.

Steve thinks he sees tears rimmed around your eyes when your manic laughter dies and all you can say to him is, “Then it’s your fault if I mess around.”

And then you leave, throwing yourself into Robin’s seat at the kitchenette, as far away from Steve as possible.

He doesn’t talk for the rest of the night.

You end up sleeping in Robin’s bunk. Her body isn’t as warm as Steve’s, but it’s softer, plush, comforting to rest your head on as you cry. She pulls her blankets over the two of you so that no one else will see your tears. She hums random songs to disguise your sniffling.

“Steve’s a jackass,” Robin whispers into your ear, drying the tears that spill out. “Ignore him, alright? You’re allowed to flirt with cute boys named Gregory who drive hot Camaros.” A wet laugh, though Robin is happy to hear the shadow of your normally bright one. “C’mon,” she pokes your stomach, “tell me all about Greg.”

And you do.

–

Sometime in the morning, Steve wakes up before everyone else, grabs his guitar, and slips through the doors. He doesn’t leave a note, he doesn’t tell anyone where he’s gone, and though a part of you is worried, you can’t help but be thankful for his absence.

Robin heats you up some oatmeal and dabs your puffy eyes with a cold cloth. She sets coffee in front of you and kisses your exhausted cheek and sits down at the table next to you as if the weight of Steve’s cruelty doesn’t hang over her as well.

Everyone tries to go about their usual morning routines, though it’s difficult with the ever present worry that Steve has finally slipped through their fingers, gone for good.

You try to distract yourself with film. Claiming the kitchenette as your office, you carefully mix together the chemicals, spread out the rolls of film you’ve combed through a million times now, and get lost in the hypnotic sequence of developing the photos.

“I don’t think ‘running after a venom kiss’ lands well,” you hear Robin chastise across the bus in Mike’s bed with him next to her. “I get what you’re trying to say, but it sounds like a shitty Spider-Man villain.”

He frowns, furiously erasing what he’s written. “What about ‘fighting though vicious lips’?”

“Too sexual, and that’s not what we’re going for. Not for this song, at least.”

“‘Soothing words on velvet faux lips’?”

“Now you’re just stitching v-words together.”

You set a photo down. “What about ‘chasing vitriol with someone’s lips’?”

Robin doesn’t expect to hear your voice, but when she thinks through what you’ve said, she hums, nods, and quickly writes the lyric down. “Not bad, L/N.”

“Where’d that come from?” Mike raises an eyebrow at you, the closest he’s come all morning to asking about what happened last night.

Except you don’t want any pieces of it to remain. Rather than feed into his question, you simply shrug at him and go back to your work.

About midday, an hour before the bus is set to drive the final few miles to tonight’s venue, Steve slams through the doors, storms past you and everyone else, and locks himself in the bathroom.

Despite his aggressive return, there’s a collective exhale of relief.

–

The venue for Kenosha is bigger than Milwaukee's had been. A large lounge area encircles the dressing room, spacious enough to house a small crowd with floor length mirrors built into the walls. The reflective space borders on disorienting, but Gregory looks around in awe and endearing excitement.

“Oh, this is just fucking cool!” He stands before one of the mirrors, his reflection reflected in the dozens of mirrors behind him. He spins around, looks at himself from the other side, and laughs even harder. “God, this would be terrifying if you were high.”

“Stand still,” you aim your camera at Gregory, giggling when he poses like a comic-hero. In the corner of the frame, you spot Mike’s middle finger sticking up. “You’re in my shot, Wheeler.”

“Considering we’re in a mirror-hell, I’d be surprised if I wasn’t. You can practically see everything in here.”

Steve yanks at his shirt, undoing the first row of buttons with unneeded force. “Fucking tell me about it,” he mumbles, bitter, unable to look away from your eyes shining up at Gregory.

“Tell me, was the keyboard custom made?” The man in question points at Robin’s multicolored keyboard.

“I painted it myself, actually.” She beams in pride.

Gregory whistles, ignoring the steely glares he feels from Steve. “If I gave you my violin, would you paint something on it for me?”

Steve wants to bash his head against the mirrors. Of course he fucking plays the violin.

Asshole.

You haven’t looked at Steve since he got back earlier and he really, really misses your voice. This is the longest he’s gone without hearing rosie fall from your lips. Yet here you are, giggling at someone else’s jokes, wasting your film on someone who isn’t him, and Steve thinks that maybe it’ll always be this way.

Gregory’s presence reinvigorates the band, even if it enrages Steve. He’s able to get Max to smile for your pictures again. He poses with Jonathan, holds the drumsticks up like medals. He plays a game of rock-paper-scissors with Mike and the winner’s triumphant smile gets captured by you. Robin throws her legs across Gregory’s when they sit on the couch together and you take a picture of her purple skirt over his denim jeans.

With the endless mirrors surrounding him, Steve can’t escape any of the images.

By the time they’re called onto the stage, he’s never been more grateful to perform.

Gregory stands next to you in the security area. His height makes him impossible to miss in the crowd, and despite Steve’s best efforts, he can’t stop looking at the way your body seems to fit so well beside Gregory’s.

What burns the most, Steve thinks, is that for the first time since yesterday he has all of your attention, your viewfinder always on him, taking only his picture as he performs. The art is meant only for him, yet Steve knows that if you had a choice, you wouldn’t choose him to be your muse.

And what a cruel reminder it is.

The concert nears its end and you adjust your aperture in preparation of the pinks and purples that cloud Rosie’s stage for the finale. You fiddle with your camera, head down, not paying attention to what’s happening on stage, until you hear the click of a mic and Steve’s introduction of the song.

“I need to ask you guys something,” he says to the screaming crowd. “It’s a serious question, so bear with me, alright?” A variety of agreements and promises cheer through the audience, and Steve licks his lips. “God, I knew I could rely on you guys. Okay, when you hear the word ‘rosie’, what color do you think of?”

“Pink!” “Red!”

Back and forth the crowd debates.

Steve draws the mic up to his lips. “See, when I hear ‘rosie’, I think of red myself. But isn’t it ironic that red also makes me think of anger? I mean, isn’t it supposed to be associated with love or some other shit like that?”

A slight murmur of confusion washes over the audience. Steve’s charismatic performance slips, ever so slightly, and they’ve sensed it.

Max eyes him, unsure what to do, and none of the other band members seem to know what to do with Steve’s odd comments, either.

A long pause stretches, almost unbearably long, but Steve doesn’t move, he doesn’t say anything else. Robin assumes this to be her cue to start Rosie and begins the melodic lullaby keys for it, only for Steve to suddenly grab the mic and surprise everyone with a completely different song.

For the first time since the start of the tour, he doesn’t perform Rosie.

It takes you a moment to recognize they’re the lyrics to Cool it Down by the Velvet Underground. The song you once suggested the band cover, before a tour was ever on the table, before they even had any other songs to perform, simply because Steve had told you a story from his childhood.

Robin’s fingers fumble on the keys, creating a disjointed sound that clashes with Steve’s voice. She grimaces at the sound, her face red with embarrassment, and it’s Jonathan who’s the first in the band to recover from Steve’s sudden change to the setlist, following the beat to a song that isn’t theirs, while Robin and the others slowly catch up.

You better cool it down.

Oh, baby, cool it down.

Steve stares straight at you, never faltering in the song that he knows has just as much meaning to you as it does to him. He leans down, stares past your lens, a pink haze of smoke swirls around his disheveled hair.

Gregory’s hand rests carefully on your waist, blocking you in.

In this lighting, you wonder if you can hate Steve with the halo that shines down upon him through your camera.

–

Gregory doesn’t recognize the wreckage he runs into, face beaming, after the show. He’s ecstatic, running around from member to member, talking a mile a minute.

“You guys are fucking incredible!” He grabs Jonathan’s shoulders, shaking him, and you have to gently pry him off your friend.

“Try not to kill your boss’ talent, Gregory.” You tease, smiling.

He steps back sheepishly. “Sorry, I just haven’t seen a show like that since I was a teenager and my dad took me to see Springsteen. I mean, it was an almost perfect performance, just be careful not to play the wrong songs when Leonard gets here.”

The temperature in the room drops at the mention of the setlist change. Gregory doesn’t register it, he doesn’t understand that he’s in a minefield now as well.

But Steve does.

He clenches his jaw, hissing through his teeth, “It won’t happen again.”

Gregory’s eyes widen slightly at the unexpected rage. Steve had been cruel to him last night, immature, but he had attributed it to his interest in you and his protectiveness of his band. Now, seeing the deep hatred in Steve’s eyes, Gregory understands that there’s more to his anger than he can ever know.

“Well,” he coughs awkwardly, knowing he’s overstayed his welcome. “I should get going, but I just wanted to say again that you guys were amazing tonight. Truly. I have no doubt that Leonard has nothing to worry about.”

Robin manages a small smile. “Thanks, Greg.”

“Not a problem at all,” then, salt in the wound, he turns to you, “I’ll wait outside?”

“Yeah,” your head jerks a nod, uncoordinated, aware of Steve’s eyes on you. “I’ll, um, meet you in a couple minutes.”

Gregory squeezes your hand and leaves with even more praise for the band, unyielding in his charm, warming the room before the inevitable storm comes. The second the door closes behind him, Robin rounds on Steve.

“You changed the fucking setlist?” She screams so loud in his face that everyone stumbles back, momentarily blinded by her fury.

“It was just one song,” he tosses his guitar onto the couch and rolls his eyes. “Why the hell does it matter?”

“It matters because you didn’t tell us!” Robin grabs at his shirt, pulling him back so that she can force him to look at her. “I looked like a goddamn idiot on stage!”

“You didn’t look like an idiot, Robin.” Jonathan reassures her, though when he turns to Steve, his patience slips into disappointment. “She’s right, though. You can’t just change the setlist whenever you feel like it.”

Mike flicks a guitar pick, watching it thud off of Steve’s head in pleasure. “Yeah, you’ve been a control freak for weeks, but now when Leonard’s freakishly tall spy joins you’re a selfish asshole?”

“You can act out when we’re alone,” Robin’s grip on Steve’s shirt tightens, they’re nose to nose as she spits in his face. “You can be a malicious bitch when Leonard isn’t watching, but that’s the last goddamn time you pull a stunt like that. Don’t fucking ruin this for me, for us.”

“Ruin it?” He laughs incredulously. “I’m the reason why Jonathan recovered so well from the setlist change!” He stabs at his own chest with every word. “Those were my rehearsals that prepared him for the change. I’ve been the one holding this fucking band together! For years it’s been me keeping us afloat, finding our venues, encouraging Jonathan to join, buying your goddamn keyboard, practically begging Mike’s and Max’s parents to let them live their dreams!”

He sucks in a harsh breath, eyes cold and face broken. “Everything I’ve done has been for the Februarys.”

“Then where have you been this entire fucking tour?” Max shoves Robin aside, sick of the hypocrisy. “Huh? Where the fuck have you been since we left New York?” She laughs in his face. “What, you don’t remember? Did you forget that every night you get drunk off your ass and fuck every girl you can find? Did you forget that you abandon us the second our shows are done so you can go get shitfaced with complete strangers who don’t care for anything other than your saggy dick? Did you forget all that?”

Something cracks under the surface of Steve’s indifference. A twitch of his mouth, a sting in his eyes, but Max sees it and cuts even deeper, no longer respecting the boy she grew up admiring.

“Did you forget that it’s been Y/N holding us together while you’ve gone and done fuck all else?”

He stumbles back, the lash of Max’s viscous words severing the last of his resolve. His body collides into Robin, only she doesn’t catch him. Not this time. He barely regains his balance, nearly deafened by the silence that follows Max’s death kill.

The mask falls. His head spins around in a dizzying manner, looking at his childhood friends like a little kid, lost in a grocery store, terrified and alone. His face bears no trace of the anger that marred it only seconds ago.

Steve would do anything for the Februarys. From the very first day you met him he’s made this evident. He’s bled himself dry for them, given everything he can for the chance to make them happy, to hold their hands through the journey, to be a rockstar with his best friends, to be their leader when they call out to him in need.

Somewhere along the way he lost sight of that.

He’s only now realized how far he’s fallen.

“Steve,” your breath comes out more like a plea, a conciliation. You turn to him like a hunter does an injured deer, aching to patch his wounds.

He’s all alone.

And he knows it. Steve pushes past you, pushes past everyone, and the slam of the door echoes the weight of grief that plagues the room.

No one sees him for the rest of the night.

Steve doesn’t return to the tour bus. In the end, you cancel your date with Gregory. You don’t have it in you to plaster a smile on your face when you’re wracked with guilt over what’s happened tonight.

You apologize over and over again, but Gregory frustratingly understands it all. He tells you it’s okay, that he doesn’t spite you for caring about your friends.

The hollow cavern in your chest rattles at the thought of Gregory referring to Steve as your friend, but you don’t correct him. It’s easier for you not to.

–

You’re up before everyone else in the morning.

The sun rises over the crest of mountains, pinks and oranges glisten in the distance. The stiff, humid air clings to your skin uncomfortably. The rest stop the bus resided in for the night lays deserted. You’re the only ones there.

You find yourself missing Dustin’s endless rambles. He would’ve loved talking with Gregory, both of them fond of mechanics.

Sitting outside the bus, picking at the dirt underneath, Gregory finds you. He doesn’t say anything. He simply sits down beside you and the sun continues to ascend the sky. He watches your side profile. You watch the skyline for any sign of Steve.

When you see his figure stumbling home, you run straight to him. “Steve!”

He doesn’t react to your presence. His bleary eyes can barely focus on you. The bridge of his nose is sunburned, his hair freckled with dirt and debris, his pants torn at the knee and his shirt reeks of booze.

“Oh, rosie,” you carefully touch his cheek. “You’re a mess.”

Steve’s cracked lips bleed a smile. “I know.”

You help him into the bus, careful not to move him too fast in fear of overwhelming him. Gregory stands back, aware that his presence will only provoke Steve. Once he’s on the bus, you turn back to the other man and smile apologetically.

“I should get him cleaned up.” A dismissal, one that Gregory nods at.

“Alright,” he turns to go, but hesitates. “You know, there’s almost a two hour drive to Chicago. Are you… sure you want to ride with them?”

Your mouth turns down. “Where else would I go?”

“You could ride with me?” He’s hopeful. Naively so.

“I’m sorry,” all you seem to do lately is apologize for Steve’s behavior. “But it doesn’t feel right leaving the band like this. They need me.”

“Steve needs you.”

Your body tenses. “If you see it that way.”

“I’ll see you at the venue, Y/N.” Gregory still kisses your hand before you leave.

Steve has thrown himself into bed when you finally close its doors. The rest of the band sleeps, the early hour still fresh. You make your way to him, quiet, no wanting to disturb the others. When you reach him, he moves to the side, silently asking you to lay with him.

You do.

He curls around you, a tight ball of shame and loneliness. Holding Steve, you can feel the ridges of his spine through his thin t-shirt. You’re not sure when he falls back asleep, or when you join him, but eventually you’re woken up to Robin’s morning chatter and Jonathan’s tired yawns.

“Good morning,” Robin says politely to you when she sees you awake. “I made you coffee.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, Steve’s soft breaths still asleep.

She nods, eyes only on the boy in your arms, before going back to her conversation with Jonathan. Mike and Max are in their own world, slowly waking up themselves. The usual morning routine remains undisturbed from last night’s fury.

Soon the bus starts to move and Kenosha fades into the distance. You let Steve sleep for the first hour of the journey. It’s a quiet drive, no one really speaks besides the occasional comment on the scenery. You’re left alone with him, which you’re thankful for.

It doesn’t take much to wake Steve up, and even though you brace for his unrelenting malice, he’s gentle when he awakens. He listens to your soft commands to shower. He doesn’t put up a fight or scream or demand his independence. Instead, he obliges.

He only tries to push you away after he’s showered and you try to soothe his burned face with some cooling lotion you stored in your bag.

“I’m fine,” Steve insists, scrunching his face to ward off your tender care.

Now it’s your turn to ignore his pleas, resting your entire weight against him on the bed instead. He craves the heat, he misses having you in his arms, and you use this weakness to get what you want. “You’re extra rosie today,” you smear the lotion on his nose, smiling when he shivers. “I’m just trying to help.”

He crumbles immediately, melting into the bed beneath him. He wishes he could melt completely into you. But the physics of it aren’t possible, so he settles for resting his hands on your hips. “Fine.”

You smile, victorious, and Steve doesn’t think he can believe in a heaven when there’s already an angel in his arms.

A comfortable silence settles over the two of you. In the safety of Steve’s bunk, there are no prying eyes. It’s just you with him and your soft scent of the soap you’ve stolen from him and your gentle, ever present warmth.

Here, with you on top of him, Steve feels the most human.

“I shouldn’t have treated you how I did the other night.” He confesses, nose pressed to your neck. Where it belongs. Where he hopes he can always keep it. “I was awful to you then and even worse last night.”

“You were pretty miserable to be around,” you twist his hair in your fingers, staring up at your mattress above. Tucked in the corner is a polaroid of you and Steve, laying in the exact position that you are now. “What you said really hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” You feel the graze of his eyelashes against your skin as his eyes close. “I don’t like who I’m becoming.”

Your fingers still in his hair, the strands wrapped around them. He’s offering you a piece of himself as he says this. Vulnerability where he normally exudes bravado. The action makes your chest ache even more. Swallowing, you tell him what you hope he’ll be able to understand one day.

“Then change who you’re becoming.”

He laughs, not cruel, not mean, but tired, exhausted. “It’s that easy, huh?”

“It is,” you flick his ear, turning his broken laugh into a true, Steve Harrington laugh that bellows in his stomach and coats his cheeks pink. “It’s that easy, Steve.”

“Alright!” His laughter turns to giggles when your fingers find his sides and attack him. “I-I’ll be nice to Gregory, stop! I-Christ, I’ll make it up to you once the tour is done!”

I’ve already forgiven you, you think, smiling down at his joyous face.

His laughter fills the cold bus with warmth once again. Jonathan sighs in relief at the sound.

–

Chicago is the biggest venue of the tour. The grand finale, as Leonard would say. With the largest capacity and two completely sold out nights, the Februarys step inside cautiously, staring up in awe at the ribbed ceiling and elaborate furnishings in the dressing room.

A long, white couch lines the stark black wall. On the other side, mirrors sit on top of vanities with every possible accessory needed. Lights shine along the mirrors’ edges, golden and honeyed. Every amp of every kind litter the floors, spare guitars hang above, excess instruments at their disposal in an almost greedy capacity.

“Holy fuck,” Max places a careful hand on a royal blue guitar. “This is all for us?”

“Leonard wanted you to have the very best for your final two shows.” Gregory sets down a crate of champagne. “This is for you as well, and don’t worry, it’s store bought.”

The smile Steve gives him is tight, strained, but at least he’s trying. He told you he’d be civil with Gregory, and at the very least he can thank him for the generous gift. “Thanks. We, uh. Didn’t necessarily enjoy the homemade stuff he sent us.”

“Jesus, did you drink it?” Gregory gags. “I’m so sorry. He told the NYPD he’d stop sending people his basement liquor.”

“He didn’t.” Jonathan clutches his stomach. The ghost of his pain from the liquor eminent. “He definitely didn’t.”

Mike pats his back sympathetically and Gregory shakes his head. “Well, I guess I have some phone calls to make when I’m back in New York.”

Everyone laughs, though Steve’s smile borders on a grimace. You can practically see him biting his tongue in a desperate attempt to remain polite. He isn’t his charming self, far from it, but his effort to keep his promise to you is more than you ever could’ve hoped for.

When no one’s looking, you quickly stand on the tips of your toes and kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” you mumble against the skin, lingering for longer than you need, not quite knowing how many more times you’ll be allowed this small privilege of kissing the crest of his cheekbone.

Instinctively Steve’s hand comes to your waist and he holds you against him. The moment lasts less than a second, yet it feels like a lifetime passes before he finally lets go enough for you to pull away.

And when you do, you laugh at the lipstick stain that paints his face. Steve looks at you, confused, but you simply grab your camera and take a picture of the pink shimmer upon his tanned skin.

“What was that for?” He asks you, narrowing his eyes in teasing suspicion.

You wipe the lipstick off, saddened to see it go, but selfishly happy only you got to witness it. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

Something akin to intimate worship washes over Steve’s face, melting his hardened features into an oil painting of love and adoration. The painting before you catches your breath. There is no form of art that could ever capture his beauty.

“Y/N, can you help me with my hair?” Max’s voice breaks the moment.

Steve steps back. Your hand drops. “I’ll be right there,” you tell her, not quite ready to look away from him yet.

“Go,” he tells you. “I’ll see you on stage.”

Reluctantly you step away.

Max wants her hair in braids, so you help pin the mess of hair up and twist her red curls around your fingers. In the corner of your eye you see Robin and Gregory talking, laughing occasionally, while Jonathan and Steve stand in their own corner, heads low, discussing something you can’t hear.

Mike has a field day with the instruments. He fiddles with a bright gold electric guitar and Steve has to gently chide him that it wouldn’t be the best idea to try out a new instrument during the show.

A familiar energy returns to the room. Banter between Mike and the older boys. Max’s quick wit joining in. Robin dotting glitter onto Steve’s eyelids, giggling together like school children. The spillover of last night’s argument doesn’t exist at this moment, and you relish in the photos you take of the Februarys, whole again, at least for now.

“Alright, guys.” Steve gathers everyone around, minutes before the show. “It’s just us, okay? I mean it. It’s just the five of us. On and off the stage, we have each other.”

A deviation from the traditional just us just us just us mantra.

The Februarys look at Steve and he allows them to see his regret. He allows them to see his genuine love for the group and his nail-grip hold of success that he craves.

“It’s just us on that stage. It’s always been just us. It will always be just us.”

“Just us,” Robin repeats back to him, her smile rivaling the sun.

“Just us!” The others chant.

Steve’s eyes shine. Whether from tears or from gratitude, you aren’t sure. All you know is that he shakes his head, as if he can’t believe that his band is real, and says the words they’ve all been waiting for.

“Showtime.”

Despite everything, the Februarys best performance happens on their first night in Chicago.

Steve infects the lively audience with his endless charm. He leaves them wilted in his hands, leaves them screaming his name and everyone else’s. The roar of their demand for more vibrates the venue’s walls.

The biggest crowd of their entire career falls to their knees the moment Steve’s pretty mouth sings the songs he’s dreamed of creating since he snuck into his parent’s bedroom one day and listened to a rock album that changed his life forever.

Fans scream when Max and Robin do their handshake, never once missing a step in their sacred tradition. They scream when Mike’s electric solo comes up between the chorus of a song dedicated to his sister. They scream when Jonathan’s drumsticks break and he pulls new ones out from his jacket and they erupt into a frenzy when Steve’s shirt slips down his shoulder and his collarbones wink at them.

Each and every moment, your camera documents it all.

“Lenny’s going to fucking love them!” Gregory shouts in your ear in between songs, tall frame dancing to the beat that has already ended.

His words make you falter, camera half-raised to your face now dropping back down. It hits you, then, that tomorrow night will be the final performance. The show that will make or break the Februarys’ entire career.

One more night, and then it’s all over.

No more shitty roadside restaurants. No more walks through national parks. No more cramped bunk beds and Steve’s hot breath on your skin.

A deep sadness ebbs its way into your chest. You’ll miss the small moments from the tour more than anything else. Homesick for something that isn’t quite gone yet.

“I know he will,” you shout back to Gregory. It’s your only comfort, knowing that tomorrow night Leonard will see the band performing and finally sign them, finally give them the album they’ve always wanted. “He’ll fall in love with them.”

It’s impossible not to fall in love with the Februarys.

The sad ache in your chest dissipates when Steve takes center stage and basks in the pinks and purples of the stage light. Rosie is next. He opens his arms to it, he embraces the song, and you’re falling hard and fast.

“This next song was inspired by lullabies,” he says into the mic, his nose ring catching in the light. “I thought it was a nice contrast. They put you to sleep, but my girl keeps me awake all night long.”

Jonathan slams his drumsticks together and Steve cheers and suddenly the song starts and he smiles sickly sweet at you from the very first note. He sings the song to you like he used to, like the very first night when he ambushed you with such a raw devotion, and for this small fragment of time everything is rosie.

After the show you’re in Pennsylvania again and it’s the first night of a three month tour that will change your life forever. You’re running through twisted hallways, desperate and weak, searching for a boy that’s made of stars and strings, and when he finally finds you, you’re in his arms again just like that very first night.

Breathless laughter falls from your chest. Steve spins you around, his tired body alive with yours so close. He whispers angelface angelface angelface into your exhilarated skin and you’re sugarcoated in his love.

“Did you enjoy the show?” He asks after he’s finally set you down. He yearns for your approval, to hear your praise.

“You’re a fucking rockstar,” you grip his arms, needing something to steady your vibrating body. His flesh is soft beneath your tight grip and he doesn’t flinch at the way your fingers bruise it. “You’re-you’re incredible, rosie.”

Time is a fickle thing, because when Steve’s bashful smile crosses his face, for a moment you think you’re back in New York, laying in your bed with him promising you that he could never forget you, even when he becomes a rockstar.

But the present tears into you when Gregory’s arm falls over your shoulders. “Y/N’s right, Steve. You have such natural talent on stage.”

“Thanks,” he ducks his head, not uncomfortable, but not at ease, either. “That’s nice of you to say.”

Gregory smiles wide at the small compliment from Steve. He’s been eager to appease him ever since he stepped out of his Camaro at the park a few days earlier. “No problem, man,” then, lost in his small win, he forgets the context behind the former animosity and says to you, “so, ready for our date?”

Without meaning to, your body braces for the impact of Steve’s upset. A wince slips from your lips and you close your eyes, preparing for the worst.

Except Steve surprises you. He claps a hand on Gregory’s shoulder, a jovial smile offered to him as he does so. “Good luck on your date, buddy.” Then he turns to you, endless in his surprises. “Get home safe, okay?”

You blink. It takes you a second to process what’s happening. “I will,” you finally say, timid smile gracing your own lips.

Steve nods, winks at Gregory, and then walks back to his bandmates. They wait for him by the stage door. Leonard has bought them hotel rooms to celebrate their final two shows. A luxury that they’ve been afforded. There are no girls who await Steve’s exit.

He goes with his bandmates, his friends, home.

–

Gregory walks you to a dive bar not far from the venue. A hole in the wall, the candlelit tables and soft jazz creates a quiet and intimate atmosphere. Lined in brick, the bar reminds you so much of the ones in the East Village that you can almost taste the homesickness on your tongue.

“This place is beautiful,” you say to Gregory as he pulls a chair out for you. “Have you been here before?”

He sits across from you. “A few times. I rarely get to do anything nice while running Leonard’s errands.”

“And am I an errand?”

“If you are, then you’re the best errand I’ve agreed to.”

You snort, grabbing the menu in front of you. Expensive wines and cocktails laced between craft beer and well shots. Something for everyone. “What do you recommend?”

An ease falls between you, then. Gregory recites his favorite drinks to you with detailed notes about each one. He makes you laugh, he shares his white wine with you to offset your red. Several times throughout the night he calls you beautiful. He asks you about your childhood, asks which artists inspired your work, asks whether you think you’ll ever settle down in New York.

Gregory’s pinky skims your hand when you reach over to fix his glasses, and for a brief second, your skin shivers pleasantly at the contact, delighted at the sensation of something new.

With his face illuminated in the candlelight, you watch the shadows cast over his delicate features and mourn the reality that you met him too late, under the wrong circumstances, in the wrong context.

Maybe if you had met Gregory in a coffee shop one day in Manhattan. Maybe if you had crossed paths ducking into the rundown shop to escape the rain. Maybe if your eyes had connected from across the room. Maybe if had introduced himself to you then with the shy smile you’re weak to. Maybe if you had never known Steve Harrington’s lips on your skin.

Maybe you could’ve fallen in love with Gregory had everything been different. Maybe you could’ve really loved him, been something beautiful together.

But you met him in a park in Wisconsin, far from Manhattan. Steve’s arms had been wrapped around you, his tattoo kisses already engraved under your skin.

Your heart already knows Steve. It didn’t leave space for anyone else.

And you fucking hate it.

Gregory tells you about Vermont and its snow. A vivid storyteller, the way he describes his childhood makes you feel as if you’ve grown up with it as well. He follows every anecdote with more drinks and, ashamed, you drink more than you should to mask the gnawing in your chest that Steve still somehow embeds himself in your skin. That he’s ruined something beautiful yet again.

Time passes. You’re not sure how long or if you’ve contributed anything more than polite hums to Gregory’s night, but he doesn’t seem to mind your unusual silence.

He pays the tab and walks you back to the hotel. He holds the elevator door open for you. His nails scratch tenderly on your hand, drawing small patterns into the skin while the floors pass by you one by one.

The elevator stops at the tenth floor. Gregory lets you get off first, ever the gentleman, and even this small act of kindness digs into the cavity that you call a chest.

He doesn’t deserve this.

Numb, you lead Gregory to your door. You try not to look at Steve’s door, his room nestled next to yours, as you walk past. The lights are off. You don’t hear anything from the other side.

“I had a great time tonight,” Gregory risks pulling you by the waist, drawing you closer, as he rests against your doorframe. His addicting height leans down to you. All you see are his green eyes that your mother would’ve loved. “I’m glad we were able to do this. At least once.”

Your head falls back, wondering if you've misheard what he’s said. “Once…?”

“I wasn’t the one floating through your pretty head tonight.” He looks down at you, a confusing mixture of regret and fondness dot along his face, just as his freckles do.

You hiss in a breath. “Gregory–”

“It’s alright, Y/N.” His lips land on the crown of your head. No one has ever kissed you there, not even the sun on days you’ve drowned in her warm. Soft intimacy that can never be yours.

“I-I’m sorry,” he wipes the tears that fall. You will never deserve him. “I’m so really sorry.”

Gregory must’ve envisioned meeting you in a coffee shop, too. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”

He kisses you. Yet even this isn’t a selfish act. He kisses you because he knows that you would’ve loved being woken up to his lips each day just as much as he would’ve loved waking up next to you.

The kiss is soft, slow. He kisses you as if he has all the time in the world, and you suppose in this lifetime, he has to make up for the lost time.

Gregory doesn’t say anything when he breaks the kiss. All he does is look down at you one last time, memorizes the face that would’ve been his for a lifetime, before he finally leaves.

His footsteps grow quiet the further he walks. You stand outside your door, unmoving, listening to the sound of the elevator’s bell signaling its arrival, taking him away from you for good.

The moment Gregory’s gone, your numb body finds its way to a room that isn’t yours.

White gripped knuckles knock against the doorframe once, twice.

Steve answers. Of course he answers.

And he doesn’t seem surprised to see you.

He steps to the side, wordlessly offering you to come in. A moment passes where you hesitate, don’t allow yourself to move. It’s only when he reaches for your hand, bridging the chasm, that you finally give in.

“I take it the date went well, then.” Steve closes the door with a slight chuckle at his own joke. “Seeing as how you’re in my hotel room rather than his.”

A bottle of red wine glistens from the beverage cart in the room. Without thinking, you grab its neck and force it open. “You’re insufferable, has anyone ever told you that?”

Steve doesn’t react to what you’ve said. He stands before you and watches as your shaking fingers manage to uncork the bottle and bring it to your greedy mouth.

“I mean,” the tarte liquid burns. “I’m fucking furious at you. Gregory is a perfectly good guy and we had a perfectly good night where he asked me interesting questions and held my hand and called me beautiful,” you drink again, trying to burn away the guilt that settles in your stomach, “but when he kissed me all I could think about was you.”

You shouldn’t be telling him this. You shouldn’t be twisting the already tangled strings between you, but the wine coats your tongue and Steve’s brown eyes melt your integrity.

He doesn’t give you the reaction that you consciously aren’t even aware that you’re seeking. He simply shrugs at your fury, takes the wine from your hand, and tips it into his own mouth. Long, slow, sips drain from the bottle.

When he’s done, Steve sets the bottle down, grabs your unsteady hips, and falls against the couch behind him. You land on his chest, unphased by the inevitable fall. You’re used to his insatiable hands and you’re tired and confused and too angry to not fall back into the familiarity of it all.

The force of the fall brings the tip of his nose to your cheek. You can smell the wine on his breath, see the red that stains his lips. His calm expression admires you, studies the conflict on your face.

“What did you think about me while he kissed you?”

His whispered question follows the heavy weight of his hands. They start at the center of your spine, rubbing at the ridges, then down to the small of your back, to the exposed strip of skin that gets revealed to him when your shirt rides up, down the swell of your ass, until they finally hook over your thighs and he forces them open, pulling you so that you straddle him.

“Tell me,” he’s still so soft with you. Whispering, massaging your stomach with his tender fingers, hesitating just before your ribcage, right under your breasts. “What did you think about?”

All the wine you’ve had tonight settles in your stomach. The flush of the alcohol warms your body, the sensation of his patient hands sobering. Your dilated eyes look down at his chest that rises and falls in uneven patterns.

“Your lips,” your voice comes out wanting, gasping when his hands finally cup your breasts, as if rewarding you for your honesty. Thumb moving over your nipple, he doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t stop. “All I could think about were your lips.”

He sits up, pulling your hips deeper into his. You gasp out. He strains against his jeans and your thin skirt can feel every ridge. Steve laughs, husky and dark, a sound you’ve only heard through bedroom walls.

Needing more, you try to move against him, to feel him where you’re aching the most, but Steve’s strong hands prevent anything further.

A pathetic sound falls from your mouth. “What are you doing?”

His hands fall back to your hips, squeezing at the flesh that’s finally his. Your eyes fall shut, you try to steady your breathing, but when they open again Steve’s forehead rests against yours. His breaths become yours.

“Tell me.” He hovers over your lips, drawing a confession from them that he knows hangs on the tip of your tongue. There’s more. He knows there’s more. “Tell me why you’re angry at me.”

Left for want and nothing.

“You did me bad.” It’s all you can say in your guilty lust. It’s the only way you know how to convey how deeply he’s settled into your veins, into the jugular that he’s kissed over and over again.

There will never be room for anyone other than him.

In the dim lighting of the room, the moon the only illumination, Steve’s eyes dilate. You watch them fall to your lips, just as they’ve always done, envisioning how you’ll taste.

“Tell me to stop,” he’s begging you. He doesn’t want you to become another warm body, he doesn’t want you to think that there’s never been more to his fixation on you than only lust. That you haven’t done him bad, either. He begs you to stop him because he knows that eventually this will burn as well.

“Tell me,” Steve begs again, his lips grazing yours. “Please.”

But you don’t.

Steve kisses the same way he performs. Needy, wanting, begging for your attention and for your heart to bleed into his. He draws melodies from your mouth, kisses choirs into your chest. His tongue flicks rhythms against your collarbones and his breaths beat symphonies into your lungs.

Over and over again he begs you to tell him to stop. He pleads when his mouth latches onto your breast. He pleads when your fingers find his belt and he begs again when you fall to your knees.

You answer his pleads with begging moans. You beg him for more, to carry you to his bed, to go faster, to finally ease the ache you’ve felt since his eyes met yours in New York and he called you beautiful.

Over and over again.

There is no end.

–

You wake up to Steve’s nose in your neck.

Loud, early morning traffic draws lazily through Chicago’s streets. His hot breaths fan your skin, mouthing at the dip of your collarbones, slow and sweet, littering love-sick pecks down to your chest, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.

“Good morning, angelface.” Steve murmurs, a shy smile on his face. His legs are intertwined with yours. He holds you against his chest, skin to skin, no longer any boundaries between you. He plays with your fingers and paints such domesticity in his fondness.

The vulnerability in his eyes sends the room spinning.

Your stomach lurches. Tearing yourself out of Steve’s arms, you stumble off the bed as if it’s burned you. Cold air stings your skin and you realize, too late, the state of undress you’re in. Cursing, you fumble for the bedsheets and use them to cover yourself as you desperately search for your clothes and escape the consequences that will inevitably come.

“Where the fuck is my skirt?” You’re running in circles, looking everywhere while simultaneously trying to assess the damage of the break. You shouldn’t have done this. You’re so incredibly, unbelievably, fucked.

Steve lays naked in the bed. This time it’s him who’s left wanting.

You find the skirt under a pillow that somehow was thrown against the wall. Next to it you find your shirt, then your underwear, and quickly you put the discarded clothing on. “Fuck.”

“What’re doing?” The gentle tone betrays the hurt that resides on Steve’s face. He watches you stumble around, not understanding what he’s done wrong, but when he sees you reach for your shoes, his face hardens.

He realizes what this is. You’re leaving him.

“You just can’t bear to be another girl I sleep with.” He hisses out a laugh, slicing into the suffocating consequences. “Guess I still can’t fucking promise you, can I?”

I won’t be just another girl you sleep with.

All you have to do is tell me that I won’t just be some girl you fuck and forget about.

Words and their faulty promises.

“I know you can’t promise me,” you force your shoes on, heart pounding out of your chest. It takes you several attempts before you’re able to tie their laces, hands shaking too violently. “Goddamn it!”

“What, so you’re just going to leave?” Suddenly he’s next to you, throwing a shirt on and storming through the room that rivals your own anguish. “I mean, fuck, Y/N! You just expect me to be okay with that?”

You stand, finally meeting his eyes for the first time all morning. “I’m doing this to protect myself!”

I’m doing this to protect the both of us.

But Steve doesn’t want to hear your explanation, and you don’t want to hear his.

“What the fuck are you protecting yourself from?”

“This!” Your hands shove Steve’s chest, forcing him to look at the mess you created together. A catalyst that will leave no survivors. You gesture wildly between your bodies. “We should’ve never done this.”

He falls back at your force, dejected and furious. “Are you fucking kidding me? You came to my room–”

You’re not sure who starts yelling first

“I don’t want to do this right now!” You need air. Your pounding head threatens a wave of nausea, and when you try to step past him, Steve blocks your path.

“Would you just listen to me–”

“Let me go!” The sheer desperation in your scream echoes in the room.

The screaming stops. All that’s left is broken silence.

Steve searches your face for something that you can’t name. When he finds what he’s looking for, he laughs, laced with ice, “Fine.”

He grabs his keys first. Then his wallet, his shoes, a baseball hat from his father.

“What are you doing?” You echo his question from earlier, and you hate that you feel a sense of grief watching him flee the room that doesn’t belong to you. “Steve, what are you–”

The only response you get is the slam of the door.

He’s gone.

The finality of his absence rings in your ears. It’s only after Steve leaves that the tears come. They build in your chest, punch their way into your throat, and spill from your eyes faster than you can control them. You heave at the impact of the despair, the collision of it sinks so deeply into your bones that it brings you to your knees.

Robin’s frantic voice and comforting embrace find you on the floor.

“Y/N,” she cradles your face, looks for any signs of injury or cruelty. “I-I heard screaming. What happened? Are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine.” There isn’t time for you to be consoled by Robin. You grasp at her arms, your force frightening her even more, but you don’t care. In between sobs you tell her, “but you need to find Steve.”

“Find Steve–?”

“He–“ You try to stand, but Robin forces you down. “He can’t be alone right now.”

Her grip tightens around you. She doesn't understand. “You can’t be alone right now, Y/N.”

“We had a fight,” you’re gasping for air. “He-he was so hurt and–”

“Y/N, I need you to breathe, okay?” She demonstrates an inhale, forcing you to breathe air into your lungs as well. Only after you’ve gasped enough air does she ask you what happened.

Through shaky breaths you tell Robin everything. The almost-kiss in Pennsylvania, how you pulled away, how you told Steve the very first night of their tour that you refused to be another girl he slept with. You tell her about the night Dustin and the others visited, how Steve had almost kissed you under the streetlights.

You tell Robin about the endless touches, stolen kisses to your neck late at night after Steve returns to you, smelling of the girls you try to forget. You tell her about Gregory, the way Steve’s jealousy edged into something more than just lust, into something softer, something akin to love. Your date with Gregory, how it was Steve’s room you ended up in.

Robin doesn’t react when you tell her that you slept with Steve. She doesn’t react when you tell her that he fled the room this morning to escape your dismissive terror.

And now he’s gone, and it’s all your fault.

“He’ll come back,” she promises you instead, rubbing the grief out of your body. “He’ll be fine, okay?”

You shake your head, more tears spilling over. “But what if he doesn’t–”

“He will.” She sounds more confident than she feels. “He’ll come back. Sure, he’ll be a pain in the ass when he does, but at least he’ll be back. He always comes back.”

Except this time, Steve doesn’t come back.

–

“Where the fuck is he?” Max barrels through the venue’s door, impulsively checking her watch every thirty seconds. “He should be here by now.”

The clock on the wall reads half past three in the afternoon. It’s been seven hours since Steve stormed out of the hotel.

No one has seen him since.

“He’ll be here.” Robin’s newfound mantra since this morning. She looks at her bandmates and tries to pretend that their concern doesn’t leak into hers. “He… he’ll be here, alright?”

Steve has never once been outside of a venue this close to their scheduled soundcheck times. Their last night of tour, their final show, the very show Leonard warned them not to fuck up, starts at nine.

Soundcheck begins at six.

And yet Steve still isn’t here. His absence alarms everyone. He’s always been obsessive about soundcheck, never running the risk of being late to a performance. He’s bled too much to jeopardize his career over something as trivial as a late arrival.

The screaming everyone heard from Steve’s room this morning and your bloodshot eyes don’t ease the band’s now frantic concern. You pace the room, unable to do anything other than bite your chapped lips and wring your anxious hands together.

“Robin,” Jonathan picks at his nails. “What if he doesn’t?”

“Then we go and find him.” She’s already setting her keyboard down, hopping over cables.

Mike scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious, Wheeler.” She yanks the guitar from his hands and snaps her fingers at Jonathan. “Go with him and look through every hotel and shitty bar you find. Every dive bar, every club, fuck, look through strip clubs. I don’t care. But find him.”

Jonathn doesn’t look convinced. “What about you?”

“Me, Max, and Y/N will take advantage of the fact that Chicago uses a grid system and search every goddamn street we find.”

“But–”

Robin claps, drowning out the protests. “We don’t have time to argue, alright? That asshole needs us right now and unfortunately he sings incredibly well and we have an insane manager who will quite literally take our dreams away like a villain takes candy from a baby if we don’t find Steve.”

“I can go look for him,” you tug at her overalls, pacing even faster to try and swallow down the guilty bile that lingers in your throat. “Alone. You guys stay here. Rehearse. Do whatever you need to prepare for tonight.”

“Not happening.”

You roll your eyes at Robin’s inability to listen. “Look, I’m the asshole who slept with your lead singer the night before the biggest concert of your lives. It’s only fair that I’m the one who looks for him.”

“You slept with Steve?”

“Not now, Mike.” Jonathan covers the kid’s mouth, which he protests at, but his muffled complaints go ignored by everyone.

“That’s such bullshit,” Robin sneers. “Steve is a grown man who can’t keep running away from his problems or drowning them in booze. And we can’t keep letting him.” She looks at everyone, the silent reprimand of the fact that Steve’s slow spiral went ignored for far too long. “We’re his friends, alright? For better or worse, the fucker needs us right now.”

Jonathan nods. “She’s right.”

Mike and Max murmur their agreements. Neither of them bother to hide their uncertainty and worry. You bite your lip. It bothers you that they take collective responsibility for your actions, but you’re wasting time arguing. Your heartbeat won’t settle until Steve’s voice soothes your skin.

Finding Robin’s eyes, you nod at her, silently backing down.

“Then it’s settled. We meet back here in two hours.” Her smile mimics a wince; you don’t miss the way her hands shake, the worry for her best friend evident. “We’ll figure the rest out from there.”

Soon your feet bleed into the soles of your shoes as you duck through every street of Chicago. Its layout reflects New York’s, only the black asphalt beats heat from the sun into your skin and you’re sick with exhaustion after the first hour.

“We’ll find him.” Robin repeats over and over again, but neither you or Max pretend to believe her.

The second hour draws to a close without any sign of Steve. Chicago’s endless city taunts your shaken body. Your heartbeat slams in your throat. Memories of this morning twist their way inside your guilt. Pieces of Steve’s broken eyes, his hurt expression, how you’d been ready to leave him, only for him to leave you instead.

This is all your fault.

With every dead end, Robin’s concern simmers into fury. When the two hours are up, her clenched fists shake with how tightly she presses her nails into her palms. There will be scabs where her skin breaks today.

Inside the venue, Jonathan sits on the couch with his head in his hands. Mike sits next to him. When they notice your arrival, the younger boy jumps up and runs over. Soundcheck starts any minute. “Did you find him?”

Your throat goes dry. “No.”

“Then what the hell are we supposed to do?”

Robin stares at the ground. Her knuckles are white. “We rehearse.”

Max turns to her. “Without Steve?”

“We have to.” A dangerous calm resides in Robin’s words.

The other band members hear it, too. Jonathan exhales quickly, licks his lips, before taking a tentative step towards her. “Robin,” his softened voice alludes to his fear. “He’s our lead singer. We can’t just perform without him, not when Leonard will be here tonight–”

“He’s not going to fucking ruin this for us!” The dam breaks. “I-I refuse to let Steve ruin the one fucking good thing we’ve done with our lives.” Robin laughs hysterically. “Either he shows up or doesn’t. I don’t give a shit anymore, but if I can’t fucking control his temperamental meltdowns, then I can at least control how I perform tonight and force Leonard to accept that I’m writing a goddamn album whether he likes it or not.”

Her outburst rings throughout the room.

The silence burns tears into your eyes. This was never supposed to happen.

“I can sing the chorus for Lower East.” Max reaches for her bass, finding its tuning pegs and cord. “I don’t think my voice fits the rest of it.”

Robin nods. “I can do it.”

“Mike, can you do Back for More?” Jonathan finds his drumsticks. “If we’re doing this, then we can’t only have Robin sing. Not on such short notice, at least. Her voice won’t adjust to it.”

Mike shrugs. “Only if she sings the higher songs.”

“I can harmonize with you,” Max scribbles everything onto their setlist. “I think if we sing together we should be able to match the register it's originally written in.”

There’s a fluidity in the way the Februarys write out Steve’s absence. Within minutes they’ve come up with a new setlist and chord arrangement for their hour and fifteen minute show. They divide the songs into who can sing them best, even stretching the capabilities of Jonathan’s thin and wiry voice. Their options are limited.

As they work, they avoid your eyes. None of them blame you, not really, but there’s an underlying understanding that you’re the reason they’re here in the first place.

–

Leonard Branham has never once been on time in his life. He was late to his son’s birth, his second wedding, and even to his divorce settlement (unrelated to his second wedding, but related to his third).

It only makes sense that he shows up to the venue thirty minutes early, before the Februarys are set to go on stage.

He slams the stage door open in a grand manner, cackling as he steps inside. “There’s my moneymaker!”

Mike screams, Robin trips over her shoes, Max slams her head against the wall, and Jonathan’s chair flies back in his surprise, sending him to the ground in a pathetic crescendo, cymbals and all.

Leonard observes their reaction with disinterest. “What? Didn’t George tell you I was coming?”

“It’s Gregory, sir.” The assistant steps from behind him. He gives you a polite smile that you can’t return. “And I did tell them you’d be here.”

“Then where the hell is the kid with the hair?” It’s obvious to everyone that Leonard means Steve. When no one can give him an answer, he narrows his eyes. “Well?”

“He died!” Mike sputters out before anyone can stop him.

Max slaps the back of his head. “Dude!”

“I didn’t know what else to say!”

“What the hell is going on?” Leonard stalks towards the band, nicotine following his scent. He looks between them as if Steve is somehow hidden amongst them. “Did the kid O.D. or something?”

“Lenny,” you risk grabbing the man’s blazer, its expensive material soft under your fingers. “Listen, why don’t you and I go talk outside? Better yet, why don’t I show you around the city? Go for a nice, long walk–”

“Cut the bullshit.” The man snatches his sleeve out of your grasp. “Where the hell is your lead singer?”

A loud crash announces Steve’s arrival before the reek of alcohol and sex does.

His timing has always bordered on ironic.

“‘M here,” Steve stumbles through the door, feet dragging on the ground, hardly able to keep himself up. A melted smile bleeds onto his face when he realizes he has everyone’s attention. “S’it showtime?”

You rush towards Steve, relief flooding through you seeing him alive and safe. “Oh, my god–”

Only Robin’s faster. She gets to him first and punches him before anyone can react. You think you scream. Jonathan’s shoulder collides into yours when he runs over to grab Robin’s violent body.

“Asshole!” Her broken screams spit at Steve’s body, now sprawled on the ground from the force of her fury. She writhes in Jonathan’s tight grasp, kicking and twisting to escape. “Are you fucking wasted?”

Steve’s glossy eyes stare up at her, his half-lidded smile confirms what she already knows.

“I was worried about you!” Robin scratches at Jonathan’s arms, spits more venom at her best friend. “This band means so fucking much to me, you know that! This is my future too, and you’re fucking wasted and putting everything on the line for some fucking fling?”

Kneeling at Steve’s side, you wince at Robin’s vicious words. She’s right. He’s jeopardized everything for a single night with you.

And you let him.

“Take her outside,” Max shoves Jonathan towards the door. Leonard watches everything. “We can’t do this right now.”

“Fuck you!” Robin repeatedly screams at Steve. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you–”

Max flings the door open and follows Jonathan outside, helping him contain Robin’s rage. The door slams behind them.

“Get him up.” Leonard commands you and Mike, snapping a finger towards Steve. The man doesn’t flinch at what’s just happened. “He has a performance in twenty minutes.”

Mike makes a confused sound. “Sir, I don’t know how to professionally say this, but Steve’s one drink away from a very expensive hospital bill.”

“He’s awake, isn’t he?”

Your fingers tangle through Steve’s hair. His forehead is overheated, he barely reacts at your touch. Looking up at Leonard, you don’t give him the satisfaction of obedience. “He isn’t performing tonight.”

Leonard’s mocking laugh infuriates you. “Sweetheart, if he doesn’t sing, there’s not going to be a goddamn show tonight. Do you understand?”

Mike pales. “You wouldn’t–”

“I would.” Leonard’s condescension drips into his laughter. “I told you my end of the deal. Don’t fuck up. It’s as easy as that. Not having a lead singer sounds like a bigger fuck up than my brother.”

Bile rises in your throat.

Gregory coughs, forcing his boss’ attention to him. “Mr. Branham, why don’t we leave them alone to sort everything out? I’m sure they’ll sober Steve up in no time.”

His blinding optimism squeezes at your heartstrings. Leonard squints at him, thinks for a moment, before he shrugs. “Whatever. Twenty minutes. That’s all you get.”

Gregory guides Leonard to the doors that lead out of the dressing room and into the venue. When the man isn’t looking, Gregory mouths a quick good luck to you before he leaves.

The second they’re gone, you and Mike drag Steve’s body up and throw him onto the couch.

“Get Robin and the others,” you quickly say to the kid, slapping Steve’s face to try and get his eyes to focus on you. You’ve never seen him this gone before. When Mike doesn’t move, you raise your voice, “Go!”

He scrambles to the stage door. You don’t hear what he tells his friends, too busy pinching Steve’s sides and hoping the pain will jumpstart his sobriety. Suddenly water splashes on you, and you spring off the couch.

“What the fuck?” You find Robin holding a water bottle above Steve’s head. “You could’ve at least warned me!”

“No time.” She dumps even more water on him, and though you know it’s meant to help sober him up, you can’t help but feel that a part of it is meant to punish you as well.

Meanwhile Jonathan and Mike run around the room to sort through their instruments. They scream at one another to collect certain cables, to find amps and missing drumsticks and where the fuck did the sheet music go?

Max punches Steve’s chest to make him more coherent. “Stop pissing me off!”

“‘M fine,” he slurs, batting her punches away. “Relax.”

Max only punches him harder after that. You don’t blame her.

The first five minutes Max and Robin switch between waterboarding Steve and bruising his chest. You manage to find pizza from a shop next door and shove the greasy food down his throat.

Jonathan manages to set the stage up, running in and out of the room in a dizzying manner. Mike sprints right behind him. Together, they prepare the stage for either their funeral or their rebirth. No one can say which will come.

The ten minutes that follow you’re able to coax Steve onto his feet. He can hardly walk, but Robin kicks his shins and forces his legs to remain upright long enough to take off his drenched t-shirt in exchange for a nicer one that Leonard won’t scoff at.

“Did you suck the blood out of him?” Robin cringes when she sees the hickeys that litter his chest.

You throw a shirt at her. “Is now really the time?”

“No, but I deserve to make fun of you right now.”

“Five minutes,” one of the stage crew members knocks on the door, pointing to her watch. “Get ready.”

A mad scramble follows. Max shoves bracelets onto Steve’s wrists, Robin pushes him onto the ground so she can force better shoes on, and you lace them up while Robin yells at Jonathan and Mike to come over.

“Okay, I’m gonna be honest,” she tells everyone once they’ve gathered around. Steve still lays on the ground. The Februarys have to stand over his desolate body. “Odds of us pulling this off are about twenty/eighty.”

She kicks at Steve. “Probably more like ten/ninety since this motherfucker is Midas with a shit touch.”

“Robin.” Jonathan warns her.

“Right. Okay. Anyways, the point is that right now I don’t think I can emphasize enough that it’s just us. No one else is on our side. It’s just us and the music, okay? We just need to focus on the music and have each other’s backs. The second things start slipping, we help each other, alright?”

“We’re gonna die.”

Robin’s head drops at Mike’s words. “Yeah. We are.”

The stage crew member returns. Their time is up. One by one the Februarys look at each other, taking in their final moments, and then leave Steve on the ground. They don’t explicitly tell you that he’s your responsibility to get onto the stage.

“C’mon, rosie,” you grab him by his arms. He’s dead weight, still more drunk than sober, and all you want to do is cry. Forcing down the tears, you pry Steve to his feet. “You can’t let them down like this.”

Somewhere in his clouded coherence, Steve nods at what you’ve said. He’s still unsteady on his feet, but he’s able to walk to the door on his own. “Can let ‘em down.”

There’s a pathetic naivety when he says this.

You walk behind Steve the entire way to the stage, terrified he’ll fall and be unable to get back up again. Just before the stage area you meet with Robin, who yanks at Steve’s hand when she sees you and gives you a quick, curt nod.

“Wish us luck?”

“Always,” you tell her.

The stage lights turn off. Hundreds inside the venue scream. The show is about to begin.

You run down to the crowd and find Gregory and Leonard quickly. They’re roped off in a separate section from the crowd, an obscene amount of security surrounding them.

“There are you!” Gregory sighs in relief when he sees you. Looking over at Leonard to make sure he isn’t listening, he ducks his head down and whispers, “should I be worried?”

Your heart beats out of your chest. “Depends. How often does Leonard watch his talent take the stage blackout drunk?”

“Oh fuck.”

Suddenly the crowd’s cheers increase in volume and the stage floods with blues and purples. Robin walks out first, her usual sly and playful manner dimmed. Her too tight smile flinches at the lights and she almost trips over a cable trying to get to her keyboard. She’s nervous. Anyone can see that.

Max follows, stiffly walking to her bass. She doesn’t smile at the crowd or wave at them. She straps her instrument to her chest and nervously taps her fingers on its neck.

Mike and Jonathan walk out together, each of them laughing too forcefully to be genuine. Jonathan knocks into his drum set and Mike can’t find his guitar for several painful long seconds.

You hold your breath watching them tear at the seams of the cruel pressure. Next to you Leonard’s mouth pinches into a thin line.

“Are they always like this?” He asks Gregory.

His eyes widen and he’s quick to shake his head. “No, never.”

“It’s been a long tour,” you tell Leonard, careful not to overstep, but anxious to help. “They’re tired. That’s all.”

“And the brewery that was on Steve’s breath?” The man laughs humorlessly. “Let me guess. Daddy’s medicine to help him sleep?”

Gregory shifts from one leg to the other, clearly uncomfortable, and you squeeze a laugh out of your lungs to appease Leonard’s cruelty. He can’t know how terrified you are.

“How’s everyone doing?” Robin shouts into the mic, waving at the crowd. She’s still tense, but behind her keyboard she starts to relax. This, at least, she can control. “Are we ready for tonight?”

The crowd shouts back their responses, the energy infectious in the venue. Everyone smiles and cheers and push towards the stage for a closer look. A sold out show, all for the Februarys.

Robin’s face breaks into a genuine, excited smile. “Hell yeah, I like what I’m hearing!” She presses on some keys, playing a simple, nonsensical melody as she talks. “Now, I don’t know if you guys know this, but this is our second night in Chicago and our last show of our tour!”

More screams. More than you’ve ever heard before. The size of the crowd overwhelms you, yet Robin finally seems to be at ease.

“And in case you didn’t already know, we’re–” She’s interrupted by the screech of a mic.

The side stage curtains swing open and Steve fumbles with the stolen microphone. He squints harshly at the light, stumbles back when the spotlight beams down at him. Blind and delirious, he has to grip onto the mic stand to avoid falling over entirely.

“We’re the Februarys.” He says into the mic, no charm or humor in his voice. He doesn’t greet the audience, he doesn’t allow them to warm up to him, to fall to their knees as he’s always provoked them to do. Instead, all he does is rudely beckon for Jonathan to start their first song.

Unable to do anything but follow along, Jonathan bites his tongue and hits his drumsticks together.

“Steve looks awful.” Gregory breathes out next to you. It’s not meant to be mean or cold-hearted, not when you know he’s right.

Thankfully Steve’s voice sounds fine, albeit slightly strained. What worries you is the way his hair hangs in his sickly face. How his sallow eyes are red. The songs continue and Steve’s only able to stumble through jerky movements, half-following the rhythm that Jonathan provides.

His sloppy performance doesn’t go unnoticed by the audience.

Max and Robin don’t do their handshake between songs. Mike doesn’t go to Jonathan during his electric solo. Steve doesn’t praise his friends or laugh with them after every song. He doesn’t clap for them or share the spotlight with anyone.

The show passes in a slow, nauseating blur.

You don’t take any photos the entire night. No one will want to remember the reek of alcohol that can be smelled from the stage during the final night of the Februarys’ career.

Leonard stands next to you, stoic. It’s impossible to read his face and you’re too busy biting your lips raw watching Steve butcher a performance he’s spent weeks agonizing over.

When the only song left is Rosie, Robin finds your eye in the crowd. Her fear-struck expression confirms what you already know. The song will break Steve if he sings it. You mouth at her to stop him, to cut the show short, but somehow in his alcohol haze he finds your lips and reads the words not meant for him.

“I guess the next song is Rosie.” Steve’s teeth clack against the mic in a painful manner. Only the pain doesn’t deter him. His breathing hitches, the lights burn his face and his flushed face worries you. “I-I mean, what kind of shitty name is’that?”

Robin fumbles to unplug her keyboard and Jonathan throws his drumsticks down and they both lunge towards an incoherent Steve. “How’s it fair that rosie sounds so-so pretty from her lips?”

“Steve, give me the mic,” you hear Robin hiss at him.

Sweat pours from Steve’s face, he fights to keep hold of the mic, but Jonathan wraps both arms around him and forces him off the stage. In the mess of cords and equipment it’s a miracle that he doesn’t fall, but they only make it just past the curtains before the sound of Steve’s vomiting infiltrates the venue.

The crowd isn’t sure how to react.

Robin says something to them, laughing out a joke about food poisoning and how it wasn’t video that killed the radio star, but you don’t stay to hear it. You’re already rushing towards backstage, towards the dressing room that started it all, and Leonard trails right behind you.

Steve lays face down on the couch when you run into the room. Jonathan paces the floor, mumbling to himself about calling Nancy and telling her to somehow get Mike back into college. You sidestep his manic anxiety and focus only on Steve, completely forgetting that Leonard stands in the middle of the room, watching it all unfold.

“You’re burning up,” your palm stings at the heat on Steve’s face. His hair clings to his forehead in sweat and you’re terrified that he’s taken something he shouldn’t have. “Steve, rosie, look at me, okay?”

His unfocused eyes squint up at you. “Y/N?”

“I’m right here.”

“You left.”

“And then I came back.” You unbutton his shirt, hoping cool air on his chest will lessen his sickly state. Memories from last night flicker in your mind as your fingers trail his buttons, skim the chest your kisses mark. Not now. Not here. Not again. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”

Steve makes a panicked sound. “Don’t leave again.”

“I’ll be right back–”

Robin slams through the dressing room, long past fury. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Robin, no–” Jonathan has to jump in front of her to keep her from gouging Steve’s eyes out. Mike’s help is needed to help him hold her back, dodging her violent nails and words with terror in his own eyes.

“She just scratched me!” Mike hisses in pain, almost letting go of her, and Jonathan hits his head to keep him focused. “Why the fuck is everyone hitting me?”

While they’re distracted with Robin kicking and screaming, Max walks past them with a drumstick in her hand, aimed right at Steve’s crotch, and you quickly jump up from the couch and yank the weapon away from her.

“Can we not castrate him while he’s incapacitated?”

“I have a spare drumstick in my pocket.”

You twist to reach behind her, the two of you now grappling at one another in a petty fight, Robin’s own fist fight the backtrack to the argument, and eventually Jonathan has had enough.

He tightens his arms around Robin and finally screams, “Stop.”

You fall limp in Max’s chokehold. She loosens her grip. Mike stops complaining and Robin pauses in her abuse long enough to snarl out, “Let me go, Byers.”

“No.” He squeezes her arms behind her back, dodging yet another fist. “In case you’ve forgotten, our boss is watching you have a fucking meltdown right now trying to kill his lead singer.”

Leonard smiles.

But the smile only infuriates Robin more. She tries to lunge at Steve again. “I don’t give a shit!”

You attempt to settle her rage. Leonard’s watching. “Robin, this isn’t helping anything–”

“Fuck you!” She screams at you. “Fuck Steve, fuck whatever the hell you guys have been doing for who the fuck cares how long, and fuck Steve for being having dicks for brains and an impulse control weaker than a ninety year old man’s erection!”

She’s always been so lovely with her words.

Leonard seems to think so, too. He starts to laugh, loud, bellowing in a stoic room that fills with dread at his presence. The laughter cascades throughout the man’s body, disbelief, joy, manic in a way only someone who’s lost their mind can recreate.

It’s a terrible, horrifying laughter that silences even Robin’s rage.

Everyone holds their breath.

Steve lays motionless under you, ignorant of his destruction. In the midst of Leonard’s callous laughter Gregory’s nervous gaze meets yours.

You close your eyes. You wait for the blow to land.

But it never does.

“Now that’s what I call rock and roll!” Leonard cackles with inappropriate glee. “Sex, drugs, fist fights between band members. Hell, I don’t think the first time I slept with a blonde was as glorious as this moment.”

The man’s ecstasy stuns everyone. He claps Mike’s shoulder like a proud father, pinches Max’s cheek and laughs when she slaps him away. He blows a kiss to Robin and shakes Jonathan’s hand eagerly.

“And him,” Leonard points at Steve repeatedly, shaking his head as if at a loss for words. “He’s a goddamn rockstar, you hear me? A rockstar.”

Steve turns his head, his cheek pressed against the couch beneath him. “‘M a rockstar?”

“You sure as shit are, baby.” Leonard cackles again. His white teeth bite into the air and when he finally notices the rest of the band’s stunned silence, he settles his laughter. Clearing his throat, he straightens his blazer. “You can have your album.”

Robin’s jaw drops. Jonathan almost drops her in his own shock while Mike and Max choke on air.

“Have the songs ready by the end of this month. Record it at my studio. Get your shining asses ready to tour the album once you’re done. You’re a part of Major Tom’s now.”

Somehow Steve is the only one who can react.

He sits up, feigning sobriety well enough to fool even you. His tipsy smile shines back at Leonard. “Thank you, sir,” he giggles, his head nods to the side like a child’s. “We-we’re honored, Mr. Branham. Sir. Thank you. Um, again.”

Leonard picks lint off his blazer, turns to him. “Why, it’s my pleasure, Harrington.”

Steve extends his hand, leaning to the side in an obscene manner that Leonard huffs in amusement at.

“But if you ever, ever, pull a stunt again like the one you did tonight,” Leonard says as he accepts Steve’s handshake. “I will make sure your name dies an insignificant death.”

The room becomes cold.

“No one will remember who you are thirty years down the line. Your name will be less than worthless.” Leonard’s grip tightens around Steve’s hand. He makes sure he understands the weight of the warning. Just how easily he can ruin their lives. “Remember that.”

Dropping the handshake, Leonard Branham adjusts his blazer one more time and snaps a finger at Gregory. “Take me back to my hotel.”

“Yes, sir.” Gregory can’t look at anyone as they leave.

In the end, it’s just you and the Februarys left alone in a venue in Chicago. Quiet follows the revelation that they’ll be able to record the album they’ve been longing for since they first played together in Steve’s garage.

There will be no celebration tonight.

Leonard’s words hang in the air long after he’s gone.

It’s only after he leaves that the last of the alcohol in Steve’s system oxidizes, sobering him enough to feel the bands in his chest snap.

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#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #rockstar!steve harrington #stranger things fic #m's writing #i wish i could say it gets better #but it doesnt #steve is so hot tho so theres that

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