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shireentapestry · 2 years

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One word, wonderful❤️

Back to December

part 1 / part 2

synopsis Steve wishes he realised what he had when you were his.

notes fem!reader + ex-lovers, lots of pining and not knowing what to say, Steve’s constantly floundering, reader with poorly hidden insecurities about his relationship with Nancy, tw for ANGST and heavy drinking.

word count 8.2K

It’s an ache like stale honey, dense and crystalline and difficult to swallow.

The dirt path below your sneakers is the same blur of soil and wet footprints, greens that darken over moss and vegetation. Familiar sludge creeps up the worn heel and toe.

The asphalt parallel is the same, cheap consistency of rubber, the sky above you the same, serene-looking blue. You take in a breath as you tilt your chin heavenward, and the air is the same, fresh-water petrichor you remember. Even the chill in the breeze feels softer, less Autumn and more Hawkins in its nature.

Everything is exactly as you left it, and the ache grows, trickles down to your toes as this registers.

Because you hadn’t expected to return so soon — soon enough for Hawkins to still feel this familiar. The streets, the rows of salt boxes, even the cinder block chimneys dawn as well consolidated memories.

You don’t want them to.

Your parents may have decided to make the move to your Great Aunt’s permanent, but you refuse to call small-town Indiana your home. It’s been two months since August, four since your first supermarket visit, and you want to wring out your brain until there’s no familiarity left.

The road bends, and your Walkman clips a tantalising sliver of hip as you turn. You’re nearing the edge of Maple and Maine, BMW-free curbs and an absence of sheepish-looking guys with hair. Your headset blares static as it skips between songs, and you’re grateful for the din — it drowns out the onslaught of memories from a summer break you’re fighting hard to forget. The thud of your sneakers grows heavier. You worry the hem of your long sleeve until it drags.

The crackly hum of glam metal, a pop rock tune that sounds vaguely familiar. Robin hears you before she sees you, emerging from a desire path that cuts through the woods on your left.

“Shit,” she raises her hoarse voice a little, louder still as she breaks into a jog toward you. She’s on the opposite side of the road, not bothering to look both ways before crossing. “Dude — dude, hey!”

The breeze lifts her brown hair off her shoulders, lighter streaks of auburn gaining prominence in the sun. “Hey,” she repeats, heavy and out-of-breath. “Wait up!”

You halt when her fingers make contact with your forearm, giving the fabric of your long sleeve a firm tug near the elbow. It’s soft and breathable, rides up a touch as the movement bristles. Still more as you whirl around, lips pulled down into a frown.

A bewildered frown. You press pause on the Walkman attached to your leggings, feeling a chill travel along the exposed rectangle of hip.

“Oh,” you say. It’s a rush of air through your nose, and you suck in your bottom lip. “Hey, Robin.”

“Dude, hey — hi,” Robin returns quickly, her blue eyes flaring with enthusiasm. “I saw you from,” she jerks her thumb over her shoulder, “back there, when I came out of that shortcut between my house and Maple. And I was like — no way, right? Because you’d totally left for college, and I didn’t know how the semester breaks worked, and we were all wondering if you were gonna come back, and now you’re here and —”

“We?” you interrupt. You worry the hem of your long-sleeve again. “Who’s we?”

Robin’s features are frozen for a beat before she winces, surprise to worry to the sort of pity that makes your skin itch. “No — it’s,” she falters, attempting a smile that looks more like an awkward, half-grimace, “don’t worry. How are you? When did you get back?”

You don’t want to worry. “This morning,” you answer, sliding your orange headset down to your neck. “I’m alright. How are you?”

“Yeah, good,” Robin responds, holding up the cardboard bag she’d tucked behind her back. It’s empty, save the coins that rattle as she waves it in the air. “Grocery shopping.”

You smile politely. The fingers on your long-sleeve drop to your Walkman, move across a riot of bumps until they find the play button. You suddenly miss the comfort of worn foam on your ears.

“Anyway,” Robin adds, rocking back on her heels. “How long are you here for?”

“Two weeks,” you reply.

More silence. You kick a loose stone at the toe of your sneaker, watching it skip across wet rubble and fall into a mound of dirt. It creates a dent as it settles, the same way Steve does everytime he crosses your mind. “Okay,” you say, clearing your throat. “I think this has been sufficiently awkward —”

“He misses you, you know.”

You freeze, eyes resolute on pavement below your feet. “Steve?” you ask, as if that isn’t already obvious. As if you haven’t been agonising over how he’s doing ever since you left. Your voice sounds higher, more tentative when you add, “I doubt that.”

Robin sighs, a frustrated, drawn-out sound that lifts your gaze to her face. “He’s an idiot,” she says firmly. “A total fucking dingus who doesn’t know a single thing about expressing his feelings.”

You really don’t want to worry. “Okay,” you say carefully.

“I just mean,” she adds quickly, eyes darting down to your Walkman. “You’re — does he know you’re back?”

Your thumb presses down on the play button, and in her haste, she reaches out and grabs your forearm. It’s a softer pressure than you’ve come to associate with Hawkins, less warmth on your elbow than you’re used to. “Because he should,” she continues with steadfast loyalty. “He’ll be happy to hear you’re home.”

“I don’t know if I’d call this place home,” you say, looking down at her hand with a frown. I don’t know if he’ll be happy I’m here, either, you want to add. I don’t know if he’ll be anything at all.

You don’t. A Bon Jovi song crackles through the foam of your headset.

“Oh,” Robin says through a breath. “Right.”

There’s a pause before her clasp loosens, arm falling to her side with less fire than she started with.

“Right,” you echo, forcing a smile. “I’ll see you around?”

Robin nods reluctantly, looking over her shoulder as a car zooms past. Hoping for a blur of familiar maroon, no doubt, a Hail Mary in the form of Steve’s Hoosier State number plate. “It’s a small town.”

You breath out an wobbly laugh, replacing your headset over your ears. “Yeah,” you say, turning up the volume on your Walkman. Loud enough that it hurts, masks the stale honey ache with distraction. “I mean — I’ve only been here a few hours and already bumped into you.”

Robin laughs too, more awkward and less amused. “Must be fate,” she says.

You pretend not to hear her. And when she brushes past you to cross the road again, bumping hips with as much amicability as you she can muster, you wonder whether she’s been in Steve’s car this morning, or yesterday, the day before.

Because she smells exactly like the earthy, pinewood air freshener that’s always dangling below his rearview mirror.

You hate that you recognise it so easily. You hate that you have to pretend not to.

And it’s the hate, sharp pangs that bleed into heartbreak, that force your feet back, soles dragging as your turn. You don’t think you have it in you to finish your afternoon walk; the conversation with Robin was a half-marathon of willpower, and you need more than quick gulps of air to recover.

Head down, your eyes follow the tips of your sneakers. They gather dirt as they scuff wet soil, and you turn the volume on your Walkman a number higher with each step. The song ricochets through your brain like white noise.

Robin, now stalling beside the curb on the opposing pavement, ensures that you’re out of sight before doing a swift 180. A hurried-looking walk becomes a run as she rounds the corner, skidding along loose rubble as she turns again into the short cut. She isn’t anything close to a track star, so it’s a wonder she’s able to maintain the impressive pace till she’s home.

Her lungs still burn when she pushes open the front door, staggered movements taking her to the kitchen telephone. She dials Steve’s number on autopilot — aforementioned steadfast loyalty in motion.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Dude,” she greets between heaving breaths, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to concentrate. The bulk of her thighs are on fire, chest cycling between concave to convex with an alarming quickness. “Dude.”

Steve frowns, holding the telephone out a few spaces. Her breathing sounds laboured, which is never a good sign. “Robin,” he says placatingly, “did you convince yourself that creepy dude on Frankton Boulevard was following you again?”

“Okay, what’s with the tone?” Robin forces out, gulping down a pocket of oxygen. She takes a pause to prop herself up on the kitchen counter, leaning her head on the half-open cabinet behind her. Its contents rattle ominously. “He was following me.”

On Steve’s end, the bell above the front door to Family Video chimes. There’s an excited shriek as a family of patrons roll through, followed by the heavy-footed thud of an escaping infant.

“Alright,” Steve allows skeptically, sandwiching the handle between his ear and shoulder. “If that’s all, Buckley, someone’s just come into store —”

“Shit, no — wait!” Robin exclaims, raising a clamour of crackly static. Steve winces, readjusting to reach below the counter and grab the logbook. “Wait, wait, wait, I have news.”

She can hear Steve’s fingers drum against the cash register, catch the end of what sounds like a chastened child with their mother. “Okay,” he says impatiently. “Shoot.”

“So — okay, so, I was walking to the grocery store just before, right? Took that shortcut between my house and Maple — you know, the one that comes out just by the Wheelers’. And I was just like, walking and minding my business and totally just doing my own thing and it’s like, a weirdly sunny day out so everything — everyone — is super well lit which, in hindsight, would’ve been helpful when I first saw Frankton creepo taking the same shortcut last week —”

“Robin,” Steve interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose frustratedly. “Get to the point before Keith fucking fires me.”

“Shit, okay, yeah,” Robin agrees, grimacing sheepishly. Her legs dangle over the edge of the kitchen counter, knocking the cabinets below her, the corner of the dining table.

“So,” she tries again, twisting the black telephone cord around her forefinger, “I was walking to the grocery store.”

There’s a shuffle on the other end as Steve moves to the computer, handle pressed to his ear so he can pretends to look busy.

“And when I come out on Maple,” she continues slowly. Tentatively. “Guess who I see walking a little way ahead.”

Steve frowns down at the keyboard. A few beats away, a mother fastens her squealing infant into a stroller. “If this is another one of those Nancy interventions —”

“It’s not,” Robin interrupts quickly, sounding reasonably abashed. She’s spent the better half of Autumn attempting to push the two of them together, sure that Steve’s recent lack lustre is a symptom of his unrequited love.

She’s coming to realise that she’s half correct. Steve’s definitely pining for someone, just not who she was initially thinking of.

“Alright,” Steve says quietly, pressing keys at random as the stroller rolls forward. “Who?”

“Steve…” Robin trails off gingerly, chewing on her bottom lip. “Who else lives on Maple?”

“Shit Robs, I don’t know,” Steve mutters, resisting the urge to groan. “Can you just fucking tell me? We’re on a time crunch.”

Robin clamps down on her cheek until she tastes metal. “Who else,” she repeats slowly, “lives — lived — on Maple?”

Steve stares at the computer screen blankly, the blinking line that proceeds a sentence of gibberish. “Who else?” he echoes bemusedly, brow furrowing. “I don’t know who you’re —”

“Hey,” interrupts the mother, rapping her knuckles on the front counter impatiently. “Can I have some help?”

Steve plasters on a customer service smile and turns toward her, peering down at the toddler flailing about in her stroller. His meaty fingers pry open a tape sleeve, hurling it over the counter with an animated squeal.

“Won’t be a moment,” Steve assures, catching it against his vest. He pretends to look at the computer over his shoulder, hunching over and speaking in a barely audible whisper. “Alright, I gotta go,” he mutters. “I’ll call you back, okay?”

He doesn’t give her a chance to respond, replacing the handle on it’s holder with a resonant click.

“Sorry about that,” he says, turning to the patron (and a half) again. “How can I help?”

“Yeah, hi,” she responds, crouching down and withdrawing the tape from small, sticky hands. “I’m just here to return this.”

She places it on the front counter expectantly, reaching into a stroller pocket to grab a zip-lock bag of apple slices. “Top Gun,” she adds. “Not a bad watch, to be honest.”

Steve freezes.

“Top Gun,” he repeats slowly. The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Yes,” the mother answers, emptying the fruit onto the stroller table. “It should be under Sally Prescot.”

“Right.” Steve blinks, looking down at the tape sleeve pressed to his chest. “Just — right. Give me a second.”

Underneath it lies a heart in disrepair. It pushes against his ribcage with the sort of pressure that’s sure to bruise, bleeding out reds and darker maroons, every memory he has of you.

He’s tried his best to bury them. Dates with new girls, coffee with his ex-girl, even non-girl related expedition to the gang’s favourite arcade. And there’s something to be said about Steve’s dedication to the cause — hanging around a bunch of mouthy kids in an attempt to forget his other half.

A month and a half on, he was sure they’d worked a treat. The ache your absence had left was growing weaker, less stale honey and more brown sugar.

Was weaker. Was well buried. Was consigned to oblivion, less so as recognition dawns.

Because it’s clear, as he places the sleeve onto the front counter, that the grave he dug was far shallower than he thought. He locks eyes with the furrow-browed hero on the cover, and Steve realises he’s trying to win a battle he’s already lost.

And then, “Shit.”

“Pardon me?” Sally bristles, wheeling the stroller back and forth reproachfully.

“Shit,” Steve repeats, because — shit, he knows who Robin saw this morning.

He scrambles to pick up the cover again, holding firm on the edges until his fingers blanch. It’s pressure in tandem to the heavy feeling in his chest, a cruel concoction of heartbreak and regret.

You. Robin saw you this morning, and now, Steve sees you too. He doesn’t have to close his eyes for the reel to play, flashes of your soft smile and pert nose, your beautiful face. Little details he didn’t know he’d memorised until now — the crease between your brow, the way your bottom lip is always chewed raw. The bruises he’d left on your collarbones, a bouquet of amaranthine that trailed to your neck. Sure to have faded by now, and Steve sees the teeth-scraping kisses that’ll get them back.

“Hello?” Sally repeats impatiently, rapping her knuckles on the counter again. “This is ridiculous. I need to speak with your manager immediately.”

Her warning is the final trigger. It doesn’t raise any panic, nor does Steve flinch, seeing the time you distracted Keith as a favour, instead. You’d used the same words that Sally did, just then, all wide eyes and saccharine smile as your elbows draped over the front counter. Steve’d managed to sneak past while his boss was pre-occupied, emerging from the break room a minute later like he wasn’t extremely late. And as the memory rolls through his mind, clear as day, Steve sees you, again, and he realises something.

Top Gun reminds him of you. Serving patrons at Family Video reminds him of you. The grocery store, Maple and Maine, the skatepark on the edge of Mirkwood reminds him of you. Every time someone brings up Skull Rock, or Lover’s Lake, every time Max holds her scuffed board to her torso. Every Walkman with a headset, every pair of Doc Martens, even the Farrah Fawcett spray that hides behind his bathroom cabinet.

Steve realises, looking over Tom Cruise’s handsome hair and unsmiling face, that the life he knew has split cleanly in two. Before his surroundings, his thoughts, his interactions, everything he sees is you, and after.

“Yeah,” he says suddenly, sliding his car keys out of his front pocket. “Yeah, sure, I’ll go grab him.”

He turns around and runs to the break room in a hurry, finding a surly-looking Keith heating up a bowl of soup. “I’m going on my half,” he states, not asking.

Keith raises his eyebrows, looking him up and down. “You’re not even an hour into your shift.”

But Steve isn’t listening, already halfway out the door with a mind like stale honeycomb. “I’ll be back,” he calls over his shoulder, breaking into a run, “in a half hour.”

—

The rush of adrenaline begins to wear off on Maine, and as he turns onto Maple, it’s replaced by diffidence.

What if you don’t want him to come by so soon? What if you aren’t interested in catching up? What if you slam the door in his face, tell him you aren’t giving him a second chance?

What if, what if, what if, and the diffidence melts into a dreadful ache. He edges the curb as he slows down to park, halting just short of your second kiss front porch.

“Okay,” he mutters, hands shaking as he unbuckles. “Okay. She’s fine. You’re fine.”

He gets out of his car and rounds the hood, not bothering to lock it behind him. The curtains that frame your window are drawn, a broken pot plant just visible on the ledge. Running beside it, a sturdy pipe rattles threateningly in the Autumn wind.

Two knocks. Steve isn’t prepared for you to open the door so quickly, and he definitely isn’t prepared for your singlet and sleep shorts. They’re separated by a taunting sliver of skin, soft and bare and begging to be touched. He shoves his hands into his front pockets roughly.

“Steve,” you greet slowly, and his name on your lips is a heart-rending pressure. He’s missed your voice.

“Hi,” he breathes out, stepping forward gingerly. “Shit — hi. Hey.”

He hasn’t thought this through. You blink up at him through heavy lashes, shifting just enough for your singlet to ride up, and as the sun makes your soft skin shine, he realises he really hasn’t thought this through.

“What are you doing here?” you ask tentatively, taking inventory of his features. He looks as though he’s arrived in a rush, cheeks flushed and Family Video vest in disarray. There’s an inch of empty space between your chest and his, though the way your pulse bounds makes it feel like far less.

“I — shit,” he flounders, retrieving his hand from his front pocket to comb it through his hair distractedly. Wrong move, because when he lets it drop to his side, it nudges the bony prominence of your wrist. The action doesn’t quite make you flinch, but it may as well have; goosebumps bloom across your skin, and you hug your torso on instinct.

Tight, pressure enough to force the oxygen out of your lungs. Steve’s hands feel clammy. He resists the urge to reach out and replace your arms with his own.

“Heard you’re back,” he says, watching them fall to your sides again. You look bare, unfairly exposed without them. “Just wanted to, uh, come say hi.”

“Oh,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip awkwardly. “Right. Hi.”

“Hi,” Steve returns, attempting to regain his composure. His eyes move over your face with care, your torso, your bruise-free legs and woollen socks. “How’ve you been?”

“Yeah, okay,” you answer, shifting self consciously. There’s a chill in the air, cruel like your summer break, but your body still feels overwhelmingly warm under his gaze. “You?”

“Same old.” Steve shrugs, stepping closer still. You’re the same, devastating mix of lavender and patchouli, faint notes of something else that makes him wants to kiss you. Hard on the mouth, softer as he follows your jaw.

He’d prefer not to talk. He doesn’t know where to begin or where to end, doesn’t know if he’ll be able to do his feelings justice. He thinks his lips would do a better job than his vocal chords, long, ardent kisses that’ll leave you well taken care of.

Every string he owns is humbly attached. The tips of his sneakers nudge your woollen socks.

“Listen,” he adds. “Do you think we could catch up?”

You hesitate, looking over his face searchingly. “Why?”

“Please?” he asks, not answering your question. His brown eyes are as sincere as you remember, wide and startlingly bright in the sun.

You swallow, picking at the chipped nail polish on your thumb. “I’m not here for long,” you say, sounding unsure of yourself.

“Tomorrow, then,” he wagers, feeling his heartbeat quicken in a panic. “Or whenever. I’ll make myself free.”

“I’m busy tomorrow,” you lie. The base of your throat feels thick and sticky.

“The day after?” he tries, combing his fingers through his hair again. “Or — or even today. Right now. I’ll just tell Keith I feel sick, or something.”

You nail freezes against the polish on your thumb, solemn eyes widening as you look up at him. “You came from work?”

“Yeah.” Another pocket of sun peeks through grey clouds, and when it makes your cheeks glow, Steve adds, “Of course I did.”

“I — okay,” you say, shifting again. “The day after.”

“10am?” He asks, his features relaxing a little. “I can pick you up.”

You frown. “I can drive.”

“No, really,” he insists. “Let me pick you up.”

Steve feels pathetic for asking. But his BMW has been pinewood and musk since summer ended, and sue him, he wants to replace it with something sweeter.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say gingerly, clasping one wrist with the other. Your poor pulse doesn’t know what to do with itself, jolts forward and crashes before skipping again.

“But I want to.”

“Steve.”

“Caprese,” Steve returns, the corners of his lips pulling up. “C’mon, please?”

Perhaps it’s the nickname that throws you off. It tumbles out of his mouth, familiar and bittersweet, and perhaps it’s the fact that he uses it with such ease. At your silence, his grin broadens, all handsome and boyish and terribly unhelpful, and you realise that it isn’t one, specific thing that has you beat. It’s him, all of him, his stupid hair and stupid smile and every stupid emotion he makes you feel. Your breath catches. You wonder whether the force with which your skin burns is visible.

“Alright,” he says, slapping his hands on his thighs. Less clammy, more self-satisfied. “The day after tomorrow at 10am.”

You nod slowly, returning his smile with one of your own, far weaker. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Steve echoes, and then he pauses, swallowing slightly. His expression grows solemn as he ducks to eye level, wind-mussed hair flopping over his forehead. The clasp you have on your wrist tightens. “Listen,” he adds, an intensity in his tone that turns your knees to jelly. “Thank you.”

“For what?” you ask weakly, breathing out a nervous laugh. Steve chest rises and falls in tandem with yours.

“For,” he pauses, exhaling shakily. He sounds unsure of himself when he adds, “for making the time.”

—

Steve wishes you hadn’t decided to wear a dress.

It’s ridden up a fair bit since you settled in the passenger’s seat, soft, exposed thighs and a concerning lack of hem. You shift forward as the radio crackles, knee nudging his hand on the centre console, and as his nerve-endings burn, he really wishes you hadn’t decided to wear a dress.

He shifts into third gear and withdraws his hand quickly.

“So,” he says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel absently. “Have you heard that new Duran Duran single?”

“Don’t think so,” you answer, frowning bemusedly. “How new?”

Small talk is easy. Lingering touches, less easy. The warmth of his presence, heady cologne and familiar pine, difficult enough for your mind to short-circuit.

The rest of the car ride conversation occurs on autopilot. By the time Steve’s parking and turning off the ignition, you aren’t sure you’re capable of remembering any of it. There are other things, far more distracting, that have filled your brain with balls of cotton.

That time Steve’s hand knocked yours accidentally, searching for the gear shift and finding heart-attack soft leg. That time his arm found the back of your headrest, solid-looking muscles that stretched the sleeve of his polo. That time you reached for the volume dial at the same time. You swear Steve’s touch left a mark on your fingers.

“It’s just up a bit,” he says, unbuckling and getting out of his car. His feet stutter as he rounds the shiny, red hood, deciding against opening the door for you at last minute. He has to play this cool, or he’ll lose.

Steve Harrington needs a win.

“Okay,” you say, stepping into his side. He locks the car over his shoulder with ease, shirt riding up so bare hip lies adjacent to your hand. You find yourself hoping the place is more up than a bit. You’re grateful that your jacket has two large pockets.

Steve’s picked a simple diner with a simple-looking menu, simple pastries and simpler sandwiches in the cabinet beside the register.

Good. You need simple. Everything else about this situation is complicated and messy, and you need a neat surface to fall back on when it cracks your poor heart open.

“So,” he starts, sliding into your booth with two, tattered menus. “Coffee with vanilla creamer? The blueberry muffins here are killer, too, and they’ve usually got a bunch warming up in the oven.”

You blink. “You remembered.”

“Of course,” Steve says easily, as if he’d be crazy not to. “It’s why I wanted to bring you here.”

“Doesn’t Nancy feel awkward that you’re thinking about bringing other girls to tucked away diners?” you joke, smiling at him weakly.

Steve’s eyes widen, startlingly brown and deep enough to warrant a life raft. “Nancy?” he echoes, shaking his head slowly. “I — why would she?”

“You and her,” you say lamely. You fold your arms atop the table neatly, mirroring Steve’s, less timid and more solid. “Sorry. I just thought, after our last conversation —”

“No,” Steve interrupts quietly.

Silence. Tense and intrepid and difficult to stomach. You open your mouth to apologise again, but the intensity of Steve’s gaze has it clamping shut before you can.

“No — shit, no, we aren’t —” Steve falters, running his fingers through his hair roughly. A strand falls over his forehead, and you itch to reach out and comb it in place. You wonder fleetingly whether he still hides his Farrah Fawcett behind his bathroom cabinet.

“— sorry,” he finishes after a beat, his forearms edging closer. There’s a menu worth of space between your skin and his. “Can I start again?”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you say quickly.

What you mean is you don’t want to talk about it. What you mean is that stale honey ache is still there.

Steve wants you to know that he feels it too. He says, “I don’t mind. Can we talk about it?”

“Can we ease into it?” you almost beg, reaching for a menu with careful hands.

“Okay,” he says, leaning forward in tandem. The tension ebbs. “Yeah, shit. Of course. How’s college been?”

“Good,” you say to your menu, hiding the heat blooming over your cheeks. “How’s Family Video?”

“It’s Family Video,” he answers with a shrug, stretching his legs out beneath the table. An ankle nudges the side of your calf, a tendril of soft touch that jolts into his chest. He straightens in a hurry. “Same old. Had a lady come in today to return Top Gun.”

You peer at him over the menu, eyes crinkling at the edges as you smile in recognition. “Did she like it?”

Steve can’t remember. The memory is obsolete, at this point, all you you you with little else worth mentioning.

“Probably not,” he lies. He’s angling for a glimpse of the rest of your pretty face, adding, albeit selfishly, “Shit film, really. Don’t know how it could be anyone’s favourite.”

You reward him with a sudden peal of laughter, menu thrown down as you faux-glare in response. “Take it back,” you chide, and Steve doesn’t hear you at first, mind still reeling over the soft, breathless sound. He’s missed it. “It’s a good fucking movie, alright?”

“It’s not,” Steve says, looking extremely pleased. “It’s just got Tom Cruise in it.”

“Tom Cruise is a good actor,” you argue.

Steve raises his eyebrows “He’s a pretty face.”

“Okay,” you concede. “That too, I guess.”

“But you’re a prettier face,” Steve adds, well aware that he’s pushing his luck. “Shouldn’t that, like, cancel out?”

Your lips part in surprise, overwhelmed by the soft, gooey something in your stomach. “Steve Harrington,” you say, your poor heart a mess. “You haven’t changed one bit, have you?”

“I have,” Steve says, and it’s with a different voice to the one he was using before. Less roguish, more sincere. “My feelings haven’t.”

You don’t have it in you to unpack that just yet. “How’s the gang?” you ask, attempting to change the subject. “Weren’t they about to start high-school?”

“Oh,” Steve answers, not quite frowning, but more subdued. “Right, yeah. They’re good. Max was asking about you the other day. Something to do with those skateboard stickers you gave her before you left.”

You soften, smiling just enough for your cheeks to lift up. “That’s sweet. I’ll have to make a trip to the skatepark at some point.”

Steve nods, angling back a little. He has the luxury of a few inches more torso than you, allowing him to take in all of your figure at once. The jacket you’re wearing drapes your shoulders loosely, revealing the spaghetti straps cutting into your bare skin. They’re flimsy enough to permit a finger to slide under, rough and calloused and hot to the touch. Steve’s hands twitch atop the table.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing slightly. “Everyone’s good. Nothing’s changed.”

Except me, he wants to add. I’ve changed. And nothing matters as much as the fact that you’re to blame.

“Nothing at all?” you ask carefully. Steve knows you mean him and Nancy.

“Nothing at all,” he affirms, pressing his palms into the hard surface. He leans forward tentatively, enough for your expression to falter as he does so. “You went to college, and I stayed here. Right where you’d left me.”

You nod, slowly, like it’s taking all of your energy. “Right.”

“And,” Steve pauses, squeezing his eyes shut as he gathers his thoughts. His heart thuds against its cage threateningly, forcing him to take his time. “And all I’ve done since then is regret how things ended between us.”

You swallow, clasping your hands together and squeezing tight until your knuckles blanch. “Steve,” you say quietly. “There was no us.”

“There was,” he responds resolutely. “There was, and I was an idiot for acting like there wasn’t.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“Steve,” you repeat, almost begging as you wring out your wrist. The pulse within it disappears, heavy with the pressure of your clammy fingers. “It’s in the past.”

“I don’t want it to be,” Steve says in a hurry, leaning forward another inch until you’re close enough to touch. And God, does he want to touch you. Your neck is unblemished, smooth collarbones underneath it, and God does he want to cover them in rough, bruising kisses.

“But,” you take a pause, exhaling shakily. “But you’re hung up on your ex.”

“Not anymore,” Steve says, and when you flinch, he grimaces. “I mean — no, shit, that’s not what I meant —”

“It’s fine,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “You — okay, yeah, not anymore. But you were all through summer, even up until I left. And,” you falter as your voice cracks, swallowing thickly before continuing. “And I don’t think I can be with someone who wasn’t into me from the beginning.”

Steve wants to scream. He wants to reach into his skull cavity and turn his brain into a movie reel of memories. Because if you watched them, end of May to present moment, you’d see you’re the only girl on his mind, your eyes and your lips and the feel of your skin on his.

“I was,” he says, his chest aching as it tightens. “I just — I didn’t understand it till you left. I mean, shit, I can still see you in that candy aisle, clear as day. You were wearing these super white Keds with frilly socks, and I honest to God remember thinking, she’s too pretty to be in Hawkins.”

You close your eyes, slouching forward a little. “Steve.”

“Even Robin called it,” he adds earnestly, nodding his head. “After you came into Family Video for the first time, she got all suspicious and weird about how ‘it doesn’t sound like no strings’.”

“But it was,” you accuse. “I’m sure you told her that it was.”

Steve winces, conceding with reluctance. “Okay, yeah, I did,” he says. “But I was lying without realising it. Because I was already in too deep the week before, at the grocery store, and everything happened so quickly I didn’t have time to take it in.”

“Everything,” you echo.

“Me,” he explains, eyes falling to your lips. “Falling in love with you. Serious fucking love that tore my heart in two when you left.”

You feel the L-word like a heavy blow to your chest, right through your skin and straight into your heart. It squeezes warmly, and an onslaught of butterflies erupt from within it. “You let me leave,” you say quietly.

“And I’ve regretted it ever since I did.”

It isn’t enough. Steve’s desperation manifests through the way his hands twitch, a beat from yours and itching to pull you toward him. But as you search his features, helpless as they were the last time you saw him, you realise that you don’t have it in you to settle.

The end of summer was a cruel onslaught of pain, and you’ve barely managed to bandage up the hurt his lack of reciprocity caused. It bleeds and aches and fills you up like deadweight, fresh enough for you to draw back and shake your head.

“Yeah, well,” you say bitterly, letting out a defeated sigh. “That doesn’t erase the fact that you did it.”

Steve swallows thickly. “I know,” he agrees soberly. “I — yeah, you’re right. I fucked up, big time. But I want to make it right.”

“I don’t think you can.”

“If you gave me a second chance —”

“I,” your arms fall away from the table, dropping to your sides as you stand, “don’t think I can.”

When you leave, stomach empty and chest heavy, it’s with that same, stale honey ache permeating through your skin. Steve doesn’t try to stop you, nor beg to drive you home, sure that you’d much prefer walking the route, anyway. He remembers, from the long strolls you’d take back in summer, how much you revere the fresh air, the hot sun on your back.

He hopes that the time alone soothes your broken heart. And as punishment, he strives to keep his own in disrepair.

—

It’s a week before Steve braves your front porch again.

Instead of blue, the sky is deep velvet hues. Steve isn’t wearing his Family Video vest, this time around, donning a white, long-sleeve that’s fraying at the hem.

He doesn’t knock. It’s a little after twelve when he stumbles back and looks up, vision blurring as he squints up at double curtains and double pot plants.

He frowns. “Caprese!” he whisper-shouts, heading for a familiar pipe with a heavy-footed slovenness. When he attempts to climb it, it clangs and rattles unhelpfully, loud enough for you to open your eyes blearily.

You haven’t been sleeping well.

The simple diner and not-so-simple conversation has bled into every one of your thoughts, seeped through peace and replaced it with restlessness. You can’t concentrate on anything but Steve, and what he said; the regret and the L-word and the heart-squeezing pressure it left.

Wearied, you turn on your bedside lamp, dragging your body out of bed and toward the source of the commotion.

And when you peel open a curtain, squinting down at the clamorous pipe, you aren’t sure what you were anticipating, but it certainly wasn’t him.

“Steve?” you say incredulously, eyes wide and unblinking. “What are you doing here?”

“Sweetheart,” he exclaims. There’s a slur to his words that makes you wince, movements heavy as he angles back and staggers to the side. “S’me. Steve. Can I come in?”

You sigh, running a tired hand over your face. “Are you drunk?”

“S’me?” He asks, shaking his head in a hurry. “Nope. Just had a bit. Not drunk. Maybe a little. Doesn’t matter.”

He takes a pause, brow furrowing as he gathers his thoughts. “I just… just needed to see you. Talk to you. Can I come in?”

“No,” you say, not sounding as sure of yourself as you want to. “Go home, Steve. We’ll talk when you’re sober, okay?”

“Shit, no — listen,” he urges, scrunching up his face momentarily. “I need to get this out when m’fucked. I don’t know if I’ll have the balls tomorrow.”

Your expression falters. “What out?”

“I fucked it,” he says. He’s almost yelling, now, messy, passionate words that leave chalk in your mouth. “Big time fucked it. With you. Should’ve never let you leave.”

“Steve,” you say weakly, no real fire to the way your voice edges. “Stop.”

“And I know,” he adds pleadingly. “I need y’to know that I know. You’re all I see and all I think about and you’re all I want and I fucking know.”

You swallow dryly, and Steve stumbles closer and squints harder. “Christ, you’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbles, just loud enough for his words to drift up to your ears. The tips warm as they settle, bring a familiar sense of longing to the centre of your chest. “I’ve missed those PJs on you. I’ve missed you. You’re — God, how’re y’real?”

You need to control your breathing. One step at a time. “Steve,” you say carefully, “how’d you get here?”

“Walked,” he answers, shrugging. The long-sleeve tautens and stretches over his muscles, broad and solid and begging to hold you. “S’fine.”

“From your house?” you ask tentatively, searching him for bruises he might have acquired whilst stumbling here from his own front porch.

“S’not that far,” he says with a nod. “Nice walk. You like walks.”

“Not at twelve am,” you mutter, reaching for your car keys despite better judgement. “Not on the coldest night in fucking Autumn.”

And then, you grab the old hoodie that drapes your swivel chair, looking down at Steve with stern eyes and a sterner brow.

“Wait there, okay?” you say, keys jingling as you motion for him to halt. “I’m coming.”

Steve frowns up at you bemusedly, watching your figure disappear from the window. When you reappear, it’s on your front porch, skin soft and glowing in crescent moonlight.

“Come on,” you call expectantly, already heading toward your parked car. “I’ll drive.”

Steve hadn’t anticipated such close proximity. His breath is strong whiskey and fainter mint, heavy and misting as he stumbles into your side. Rough fingers brush a strip of goosebumps across your thigh. He’s all body heat beside you, but it still causes a shiver.

“R’you cold?” he whispers, edging closer until his broad bicep presses into yours. “Can I hug you?”

You ignore him, ignore the tight squeeze of your heartstrings. “Get in and buckle, okay?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says seriously, sending you a mock salute. Once he’s in, he fumbles with the seatbelt for a bit, eyes resolute on your features instead of the buckle underneath him.

“Pretty,” he adds when he hear the click, reaching out and bumping the curve of your jaw with his knuckles. Your breath hitches, the tendril of touch shooting straight into your stomach. “It’s like y’get prettier every time I see you.”

“You’re drunk,” you say, refusing to look at him. More to keep your own composure, than act any sort of disinterest; he looks terribly at home in the passenger’s seat, wearing that sweet, boyish smile that you’re sure will melt your insides.

“And you’re beautiful,” he returns, dropping his hand to the centre console. “Don’t deserve you.”

You exhale shakily, hands an airtight seal on the steering wheel. “Steve. You need to stop.”

“Can’t,” he says, with a sincerity that makes you ache. “S’the truth. Don’t deserve you taking me home.”

“It’s fine,” you say quietly. “Stop.”

“Thank you,” he adds, ignoring you. “M’the worst.”

You sigh. “You are.”

“But only for you,” Steve insists, sending you a lopsided grin. “Sensible for everyone else. S’how I knew.”

“How you knew?” you echo, furrowing your brow. You wager a glimpse at his features, all soft and vulnerable as his whiskey breath permeates. “What do you mean?”

There’s a pause then, Steve’s face scrunched up as he gathers his thoughts. When he breaks the silence, it’s with a careful quickness, as though he’s trying not to slur his words, and failing.

“What I mean,” he starts, frowning with the force of his concentration. “S’that, when I was with Nancy, I was sensible. Not messy. Not this. M’only like this with you. It’s like I don’t have control of myself when you’re around. Y’know?”

Your expression falters. “With me?”

Steve nods intently, placing his hand atop yours on the centre console. It’s sloven weight like he can’t help himself, ardent and firm and solid on your skin. Your pulse leaps. “With you.”

“You’re drunk,” you repeat weakly.

“Drunk words.” Steve squeezes your wrist before he lets go, a warm, fleeting pressure that trickles down to your toes. “Sober thoughts.”

You place your hand back on the steering wheel. The rough feel of his palm lingers, achingly familiar.

—

Steve groans at the animated sound of birds chirping, feeling as though someone’s stuffed cotton wool down his throat. He braves a bleary peek at his half-open curtains, sees a sky of brilliant blue, and groans again.

Croakier, this time, less weary and more apprehensive, fragments of last night’s adventure rushing to the surface.

They brings with them a cloying sense of dread, thick and heavy and definitely not helping his hangover. A headache pounds through his ears forbiddingly.

He thinks he should hold the Hawkins’ record for most fuck-ups in twenty-four hours.

And an hour later, when he’s standing on your front porch with flowers, he amends his initial thought to most time spent begging for a second chance.

You’re still wearing last night’s pyjamas when you open the door.

“Hey,” Steve breathes out. He holds out the bouquet of vibrant cerise, reds and purples, separated by a few, somber-looking white snowdrops.

You blink up at him tiredly. “What are you doing here?”

“Saying sorry,” he says, allowing it to drop a few inches. A pink petal falls, lands on a woollen sock. “Again.”

“Not for what I said,” he adds quickly, searching your features in earnest. “Everything I said was the truth.”

You don’t want to ask. But Steve presses the flowers to your chest, using them as an excuse to step closer. “For what, then?”

“For coming by so late,” he answers sheepishly. Your fingers find the green stems just above his, pinky-on-pinky pressure that has you feeling a little lightheaded. “For being drunk enough that you had to drop me home.”

“It’s fine,” you say quietly, fidgeting with the hem of your plaid shorts.

“It’s not,” Steve responds. “It was shitty of me to do that. All I’ve been since August is shitty to you, and I need you to know that you deserve better.”

You swallow, hand dropping to your side heavily. The flower petals tickle the edge of your bare thigh, raising enough goosebumps for a shiver to run through your spine.

“Are you cold?” Steve asks, back-tracking with a frown. His fingers already grip the end of his hoodie sleeve, ready to pull it off and wrap it around your shoulders. Let his arms linger, just enough for his strong muscles to press warmth into your skin. “Here —”

“No, no, I’m good,” you assure, holding the bouquet behind your back instead. Re-exposed, the sliver of hip between your singlet and shorts taunts him.

Steve isn’t convinced. But if he tries to be hard-headed about this, he’ll lose. So he acquiesces with reluctance, saying, “Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“You deserve a million hoodies, you know.”

“Right,” you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes. “A million hoodies is what deserving better looks like, huh?”

Steve eyes fall to your lips, and he inches closer still. The tip of his left sneaker finds the petal on your sock. “More than that.”

Your breath catches. “Humour me.”

“You deserve,” Steve pauses, running his fingers through his hair roughly. “You deserve a college guy with a big time degree and a cushy job lined up. Someone who’ll take care of you with more than sour patch kids and free movies.”

“And I know,” he adds, brown eyes growing deeper, rich, somber-looking molasses that makes your head spin, “that that won’t be me, anytime soon. But is it selfish of me to hope that you’ll take me before I’m all of those things, anyway?”

“Steve,” you whisper softly, lips parting in surprise. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m shitty, alright?” Steve says, shaking his head. “I’m shitty and I’m super fucking selfish and I want you, anyway. I was an idiot for messing you around for so long and I know that a second chance is a long-shot. But I — you have to know that you drive me fucking crazy. Like, can’t think about anything else crazy. If I don’t keep trying to get you back, I’m going to break. That’s why I’m here, again, because — because I’m yours, okay? I’ve been yours since before you asked me if I was, yours since before I even knew what that meant.”

Your heart squeezes, and you feel a wonderful warmth bloom across your chest. “Steve —”

“I’m not done,” he interrupts, dipping his head and dotting his nose to yours. His strong arms cage you into the door hinge, muscles rippling at your ears, and you feel perplexingly at home within them. “You deserve better, and I want to be that better. I want to hold you, and kiss you, and bruise you until you’re mine. I want to meet your parents, all of your college friends, buy you a fucking necklace with my initials on them. It’s dumb and possessive of me, I know, but I want to show you off and tell you you’re beautiful over and over. I want you. Do you hear me? So fucking much it hurts.”

You exhale shakily, lashes fluttering at the feel of his hand cupping your cheek. It’s pressure that firm and devastatingly familiar, thumb swiping under your eyelid in slow, soothing circles.

“Do you hear me?” he repeats softly. His words are hot and heavy on your skin.

“Steve,” you manage to breathe out, feeling your skin burn with anticipation. “Please kiss me.”

Steve’s heart pulls, and he finds the curve of your waist, squeezing roughly. “Yeah?” he says, lips touching yours, only just. “You’re sure?”

You respond by wrapping your arms around his neck, back arching so your chest osculates his firmly.

When he kisses you, it’s like picking up where you left off. Not the first time he’s experienced the soft abandon of your lips, no shyness left as his tongue drags over yours. Quick, messy pecks that juxtapose longer bouts of pleasure; you kiss so pretty he aches, pushing into you a little harder.

“Fuck,” he curses roughly, speaking between drawn-out kisses. “Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

His hot tongue slide over your bruised, bottom lip, trailing to the corner of your mouth, your jaw.

You sigh, tangling nimble fingers in his hair. “Missed you too.”

Steve’s nips a trail of fire along the slope of your throat, rough hands pushing up your singlet until you shiver. They’re warm on your exposed skin, squeeze and knead and palm as he explores.

“You’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not real,” he murmurs, over and over, leaving a mess of purple love-bites on your skin. It’s a makeshift necklace until he can buy you a silver one; ensures everyone knows that you’re his, and his only. His lips stop just below your earlobe, sucking on the spot he knows makes you moan.

When you do, he draws back with blown-out pupils and heavy brows. “You’re going to get me in trouble,” he murmurs, reaching up to blanch the neck bruises with his thumb.

“Shut up,” you say breathlessly, fighting a sheepish smile. When your bright eyes flare, Steve knows he’s done for.

“You are,” he scolds, giving your waist another squeeze. “Serious fucking trouble, walking around all pretty in next to nothing.”

“Steve Harrington.”

“Caprese,” he returns, in the same, reproachful tone. When he grins, you know that you’re done for, too. “God, I’ve missed being yours.”

—

tags: @fallen-from-earth @familyvideostevie @aurumbelis @redgetawaycar @variant-lokitty @myharrington @annoyingpessimist @localbnbg @michlovesjensen @thatstoomuchman @lovemaya @scenesofobx @goddamnbabysitter @r0s3mm

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