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rustedhearts · 8 months

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dazed and confused (70s!childhood best friend!steve x fem!reader)

summary: steve's been your best friend all your life. but friends aren't supposed to think about friends the way you think about steve.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the only living boy in indiana ✶ main masterlist

tags: 70s!steve, childhood bestie!steve, fluff, pining! we're pining!, tid-bit of jealousy from us, this is short but sweet. not edited as usual.

recommended listening: you're lost, little girl —the doors; sweet leaf —black sabbath

buy me a ko-fi! ♡

somewhere in indiana. october, 1977.

The slow riff of The Doors’ You’re Lost, Little Girl trickled through the cinderblock basement. The Strange Days album spun on Steve’s turntable, the right door left open to reveal his cautiously-crafted selection. An array of colors and bands, all organized into what Steve considered his “most prized possession.” A music man above all else, you sort of admired how much he cared for the craft of careful listening.

You wriggled your fingers through the gaps of one of the Harrington Afghan blankets, where an orange stripe turned to brown. Steve hummed along to the start of the lyrics—a low, rumbling sound. You peeked over the edge of the sofa, ratty and old and shoved down here when Mrs. Harrington bought something sturdier at the start of the decade. You remembered the day she instructed Steve’s father to bring the old one down here; it was the first time you wandered into a room alone with Steve. Just the two of you, other neighborhood kids neglected on the lawn down the street.

He asked if you wanted to stay over and play a game, and Mrs. Harrington brought a bowl of pretzels to share while you hunched over Monopoly. Now, the basement was your place—yours and Steve’s. Four walls of cinderblock and concrete floor, softened with a shaggy brown rug once found in the living room, and posters purchased at the record stores and concert merchandise stands, and seasonal decorations Mrs. Harrington rotated every few months.

When it didn’t smell like the linen and laundry beating against the pea green dryer, the stench of Steve’s Winston cigarettes took over. It was always cold, and always home. You often found yourself here instead of at your own.

“You’re lost, little girl,” Steve cooed lyrically, cigarette withering and smoking between his two fingers.

He was lying on the hard ground, one palm pressed over his sweater-clad stomach and the other held open against the air where his cigarette waited. The maroon red of his shirt made his hair look dark and luscious, and the paleness of his Midwestern-cold-season skin warm again. If he opened his eyes, now pinched shut to marinate in the song like he so often did, you knew they’d be soft and puppy-like. He only ever looked at you with a smile.

So how was it that you never kissed?

You found yourself asking that a lot lately. When he picked you up for class at the community college with a thermos full of hot coffee on bitter cold days. When he slung his jacket around your shoulders when you shivered at football games. When he popped a kiss against your cheek out of pure excitement and whirled away like he hadn’t just burned your skin in the most delightful way.

And that tingling delight only appeared this year. When he started to fill out his brown leather jacket until it creaked. When his voice started growling through you like a firework. When his hands grew rough from work on the Pontiac in the driveway, inherited from his father for his eighteenth birthday. He spent the summer fixing it up, and that first scorching day you came up the driveway and saw him slicked with grease…you were done for.

Now, you only ever thought about kissing Steve.

“Penny for your thoughts, little girl?” Steve mused from the floor. His eyes were open now, head tipped to catch you staring.

You jerked away, blushing into your knees. “Sorry. Just zoning out.”

You continued your poking ministrations in the blanket before tossing Steve a bewildered look. “And don’t call me that.”

Steve chuckled around his cigarette, growing smaller by the minute between his lips, puffing smoke with every sharp ejection of amused breath. His socked feet scuffed against the floor as he pressed up, sauntering toward the rear of the couch in his brown corduroy pants.

“Jeez.” He yanked the cigarette from his mouth and slung one leg over the back of the couch beside you. “Who pissed in your Cheerios today?”

You shifted away from him when he settled on the top edge of the couch, huffing as you went. Crowded against the padded and pillowed arm, you frowned into your fist propped under your chin and glared at the poster of Led Zeppelin ahead of you.

You hated your own body for betraying you this way—for making you ache for your best friend. It was wrong. Everyone knew that dating a friend never ended well. You knew too much about each other, had seen too much of the bad for the food to feel unadulterated and sweet the way it did with someone you’d known for far less. But you’d known Steve nearly all your life. Introduced as two curious and adventurous six year olds, you saw each other through elementary, middle, high school, and now college. You’d comforted all the bad dates and heard the rundown of every parental fight. You knew about the rash he had from a new laundry detergent last winter, and you knew he liked to jerk off with his left hand even though he was a righty because it “feels like it’s not even his.”

You knew too much.

So why did he look so handsome sitting next to you like that?

“Hey.” Steve’s voice was soft now, murmured just under the stereo. “Are you—you’re not mad at me or something, are you?”

"No," you murmured, eyes turned down toward your lap.

Steve watched you a moment, elbows on his knees, waiting for more to utter from your mouth. It was so unlike you to grow quiet in his presence. Your mouth was always running, spilling some secret you promised to keep with "the exception of Steve," or retelling some story with adamant vibrancy. If you were ever quiet, it was only so you could bathe in the peacefulness of your alone time together.

You had never been quiet like this. Well...not since that time in high school when your boyfriend dumped you.

"Well, hey, did I show you the Masters of Reality I found at the record store? It's sick, I've never seen this version of the cover before."

Steve hopped off the couch, stubbing his cigarette out in an old mug on the end of the coffee table as he went. He disappeared up the stairs with a rushed be right back, and you listened to his footsteps thump above your head. When he was gone, you dropped your head into your hands and sighed.

✶ ✶

You parted ways for the day a few hours later, the span of uncomfortable time in which you sat shoulder-to-shoulder silently watching The Price Is Right. You couldn't think of a thing to say to him, and he didn't know how to take your quiet.

On the trudge home, you scolded yourself for having such romantic thoughts about him. For wondering what his lips would feel like on your own, and how his hands might feel beneath your clothes. It was wrong. And you were certain that if Steve knew how you were thinking these days, he'd be appalled. You'd lose your best friend forever.

There's no coming back from unrequited love.

You spent the night tossing and turning and glaring at your Donna Summer poster in the dark, wondering why your brain wouldn't just shut up about Steve. Steve's hair and Steve's eyes and Steve's ass in those Levis. You slumped from bed the next morning (thankfully a Sunday) with scratchy eyes and a head full of Steve.

So pardon your irritation when you dressed and dolled yourself pretty for the few short paces down the street to his house, only to find the rear of a long head of auburn hair looking up at Steve. You skirted to a stop at the end of the driveway, nose already turning cold from the nip of autumn air, new brown boots scuffing on the pavement. The gurgle of Steve's radio could be heard even from there, winding up an eight track. The Pontiac windows were rolled down to stream out the sounds.

And there Steve was, propped against the hood, grease-stained rag thrown over his puffy-sweatered shoulder, gazing down at this short little thing like some new kitten. He had his arms crossed the way he does when he wants to be handsome—and Christ did it work. But they were on her.

Over her shoulder, Steve caught the edge of your coat. He swiftly shifted gears, pushing off the car to wave a hand at you. You watched his mouth move in a murmur toward the girl, who rubbed her hand along his arm as she sidestepped toward a goodbye. You still lingered, hands tucked and balled tight in your fuzzy pockets, waiting for some sort of instruction.

Steve always had girls around, but suddenly, while watching this tiny little inkling of a girl sashay her way away from your best friend, you felt like screaming. You wanted the girls to stop coming around.

"Hey, c'mere," Steve called through the distance, and with a start, you realized the girl was fading down the street, and you were just standing there.

You shuffled your way over, inhaling deeply as you went. As the gap diminished and you approached, you caught a whiff of sharp autumn leaves, and the smoke of a Winston recently put out. Somewhere underneath, the amber musk of his cologne. You'd drool if you bothered to open your mouth.

"Hey." Steve grinned, hands rubbing around the greased cloth. His familiar, heather grey sweatshirt looked soft, hood a bit rumpled at the nape of his neck.

Once, you fell asleep on a three hour road trip, and woke up on the edge of Ohio with your head in his lap. He was playing with your hair, and when you blinked up fuzzily and furrowed your brows, he soothed you awake like some sort of child. You could still feel the warmth of that sweatshirt.

"Hey," you returned, a little too sharp. "Who was that?"

Steve's sneakers whooshed over the pavement, kicking up gravel and crunching fallen leaves as he headed toward the tool box. He was polishing up, checking fluids and odds and ends. Sometimes, you thought he just liked standing next to his hot ride.

Steve glanced toward the end of the drive where the mystery girl disappeared to a few moments ago. "Who?"

You rolled your eyes, huffing. "The girl, Hair."

Steve scoffed at your ill-intended nickname, heading toward the driver side door. He hung halfway in, reaching for the knob on the stereo.

"Somebody, nobody. I don't know yet."

You kicked at a rock near your foot, frowning. "What does that even mean?"

Steve continued to fiddle inside the car. "It means, she could be somebody. I'm seeing where it goes, takin' my time."

You pushed your head back toward the sky, head shaking. Steve took the moment to look at you through the windshield, memorizing the colors and shapes of your outfit. Camel brown coat, chocolate brown boots, black turtleneck, purple corduroy jeans. You had lipgloss on today, and the color made your eyes beam.

Steve pulled out of the car and headed back toward the tools before he could look any more. You tipped your head back into place just as he slid under the car, the soles of his sneakers bared to you. His socks didn't match. Something about that made you smile.

"Why are you so cranky anyway?" he called from under the hunk of blue metal. "Yesterday, today—you havin' your monthly—"

Kicking his foot hard with the toe of your boot, you glared down at the portioned part of Steve Harrington you could see. "Don't finish that sentence, Harrington."

Steve jolted. "Ow! Alright, alright, Jes-us."

You pulled away, pacing the patch of grey ground in front of the car. You tight-roped the crack for a while, watching your feet overtake the severed cement, glancing occasionally toward Steve when things clattered.

"How'd you meet her?" you found yourself calling out.

Steve paused a moment. You continued to pace. He sniffled and rolled up his sleeves, shifting under the car. "Uh...record store. She asked my opinion."

Oh, you inwardly groaned. She was a cool girl. Trying to swallow down your frustrations, you sniffled away a cold drip snot and hummed.

"What's she listen to, ABBA?"

Steve shook his head, chuckling. "Yeah, actually. But I can't be a music snob, honey, that's not how I roll. Chicks can play whatever they want when we're doin' it, I don't mind."

Scowling, you thought about going over and kicking him again for good measure. But the poor kid just didn't have a clue, did he? He was handsome, lived in a two-parent home, his father still had a job, and he had a job waiting for him when he was done fooling around. It wasn't his fault he had everything.

You just wanted him to have you, too.

"Hey, grab my smokes for me? On the front seat."

Tapping your foot, arms firmly crossed over your chest, you spent a moment boring a hole into Steve's foot. Another kick? No. Your mind wandered to that Tuesday evening, straight after school your senior year, when Nancy Wheeler dumped Steve behind the gym during fifth period, and Steve came running home and did everything he could to stop crying—but you held him in your arms and told him he could cry all he wanted.

Steve didn't think "chicks" could "play whatever they wanted when they were doin' it." Steve didn't think women were playthings. Steve wanted to be loved.

You could love him well.

Huffing, you stomped toward the car, coat sleeves swinging with every bound. You snatched the crumpled back of half-empty Winstons from the leather of the front seat and rounded the square-nosed hood of the Pontiac. When you came into view, Steve slid out from under the car and sat up.

"Thanks—whoa!"

But you threw the pack at his head, heard the small clatter of cardboard against skin as it pinged off his brow and into his lap. His brows creased as you spun sharply on your heel and crossed your arms again, heading for the end of the drive. Steve scrambled to catch up, tripping over his feet as he went.

"Wait, wait—stop!" Steve rushed you, snatching you by the elbow to pull you to a sharp stop.

When you turned—or he made you, rather—you looked anywhere but his pretty face. Glaring at the collar of his sweatshirt, doing all you could to hold your breath and bring down the simmer in your cheeks. Suddenly, you couldn't speak. Suddenly, all those feelings were coming to a boil, flowing over and spilling out.

But you couldn't put into words just what you were feeling. You couldn't find it in you to open your mouth and speak.

"What's goin' on?" Steve chuckled, but his tone lacked the humor. "What did I do, what's wrong?"

Balling your fingers into fists again, frozen numb and trembling with a hungry ache, you tossed your eyes his way. Steve could see the anguish on your face, pinched in the center sourly. But what was wrong? Steve couldn't put his finger on it.

Stomping your booted foot, you gave a soft, petulant whine into the brisk air. And before Steve could laugh or shake his head at your childish antics, ones he's seen plenty of before when you haven't gotten your way—you smashed your mouth on his.

Leaning up on your boots, creasing the leather toes, creaking with your weight; planting your hands on his firm, bulging arms growing bigger by the day; squeezing muscle mass with an eager grasp. You pressed your mouth right to his and breathed him in. The stereo in the Pontiac gave a whir and a click, and then the hoarse cough of Ozzie Osbourne cut through the quiet of the street. Sweet Leaf slipped from the car and fueled Steve with a fire like no other.

So, when you pulled back with a sharp smack of spit and swollen cheeks, Steve didn't let you get far. A step back and to the side, a slow and incomplete rotation toward the front of the house—until Steve snatched you by the belt loop just above your ass and tugged you back.

"Hey."

You crumpled into him, arms caged against his chest—and yes, the sweater was just as soft as you remembered. His hands slid through the groove of your waist and down the round globes of your ass, squeezing with firm pressure and eager palms. Big biceps pressing you into him by the shoulders: pulling you in, holding you close. He tasted like Coca Cola, glass bottle now rolling into the grass, blown away by the wind.

If he asked, you were searching for more of in his mouth, parched from the cold.

Against your mouth, you felt the lines of Steve's lips widen. When he pulled away, it was just far enough to still feel his breath against your chin, close enough to see the flecks of jade in his eyes.

And he was grinning a half-cocked, handsome grin.

"About damn time."

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