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steviewashere · 2 months

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I'm Going to Hold My Breath, Maybe I'll Be Liked Then

Rating: General WC: 10,702 CW: Health Issues in a Newborn (Beginning), Childbirth (Beginning), Panic Attacks Characters: Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington's Mother, Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley, Other Characters Mentioned Relationships: Steve Harrington & Steve Harrington's Mother, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Tags: Post Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Has Absent Parents, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Robin Buckley is a Little Shit, Love Confessions, Getting Together, Character Study (of sorts), Being Yourself, Happy Ending, Steve Harrington Has Self-Esteem Issues

Originally Posted on Ao3: Link Here!

This is a long one, buckle up. An oldie, but a goodie.

💕—————💕

Steven Otis Harrington is born on Wednesday, February 22nd, 1967. He's birthed into a family of bulk-handed, cold-gazed, yet warm-blooded, ambitious, headstrong men. His mom though is a gentle human being, or at least however gentle her husband allows her to be. She's taught to coddle Steven until he's eleven years old. She's told to read him bedtime stories, but ones that would enable him to go after manageable dreams, not long-winded ones. She's given the option of harboring a crybaby or a man who will make people cry over the loss of him.

Steven Otis Harrington is born on a hump day. He's born slick and olive toned. He's born with all his fingers and all his toes. He's born with a straight spine, huge beating heart, and bigger soul.

Steven is born not crying.

Steve, as his mom calls him when he is taken from her, is born with fluid in his nose and at the back of his throat. And all his mom can do in that moment, is let men--who she hardly knows and trusts--take her baby, clean his nostrils, and pray to a benevolent God for "this boy to breathe and shiver." She cries so hard she has to puke. She tries to move to sit upright, but is promptly brought back down by the weight of gravity. She is covered in her own amniotic fluid and blood and the sheer force of want, the kind of force that elicits her baby to live.

Because all Mrs. Harrington has wanted since she was a little girl, was a son to dress up in little striped polos, straight leg jeans, and dark green sweatshirts. Who she kisses on the forehead. Who she cuts hair from. She has wanted a son that she can pour glasses of lemonade for, make soup for, and teach to swim. And she will fight God himself for this chance. If, in these terrifying few moments of no baby on her chest, she has to go to God himself and fistfight with the swing of Muhammad Ali, she will. Whatever thing has to be done to be able to go home and lay her baby in the new bassinet her neighbor gifted, she will do it. Trust on her Catholic beliefs and years of reading the Bible, back to front. She will do it all for little Steve to return to her.

Mr. Harrington is frazzled, standing ramrod straight, and twitching his fingers to move and pull at his hair. He's not a comforting person. Won't ever be. But he forces one of his hands to drag across his wife's head. He sucks in his breath via his nostrils and feels guilty on several astronomical levels that he's allowed to do something so mundane in the face of what his son is struggling with. This day, this god awful hump day, this moment, is the last time he will feel guilty over one of his son's failures.

But today, Mr. Harrington pets his wife's hair, prays and curses under his breath, forces his breathing to remain stagnant, and sighs when Steven returns.

Steven Otis Harrington is eight pounds, three ounces. He's got a full head of blonde hair that will surely fade to something darker, like his mother's. Has the eyes of his father and the moles of his grandfather. But mostly, he is kind in the way he cuddles close to his mother's chest, puffing air onto her neck, and letting both his parents know: I'm okay. I'll always be okay.

———— It's February 21st, 1987. Nearly one year since Vecna was slaughtered by the hands of a fourteen year old girl, two pining fourteen year old boys, a brother and his ex-girlfriend and his best friend, a group of oddball nerds with the help of an ex-jock and a fiery horror enthusiast, two breakout Russian prisoners, hysterical mother and lover, and a man who's romantic love is placed on a bottle of christened vodka when he goes back home.

Steve Harrington, now edging on twenty with hair just past his collarbone and enough green and indigo and blue sweatshirts to clothe the military, is working what seems like an endless shift at Family Video. Did it seriously survive the damage done by Vecna? Yeah. And that's probably the worst part of the recovery battle. The idea that he now has to go back to work with scars littered over his torso and a pension for swallowing down his panic; until he's safely nestled in the break room with his head hanging between his knees. No more is Steve Harrington who flirts with the ladies.

Robin is stacking VHS tapes to pass the time. It would be better if she'd put those away, Steve thinks. He thinks best when it comes to work. Runs the store like his own army, maybe the amount of sweatshirts is kept for a reason. He's scanning tapes that were overdue and making sure they get back on inventory before heading off to the shelves.

The store is quiet. Other than the stack of tapes. Seriously Robin, quit it, Steve wants to snap. But, he doesn't want to cause an issue. He wants to keep his cool. Wants to be able to apologize rather than be petty. Because tomorrow is his birthday. And he's got plans. Which really just involve him and Robin, a couple of tapes, and some cheap enough Chinese takeout.

The store is quiet until a tape falls and Robin seems to have enough. She's never one for silence.

"I'm bored," she whines. Her body flops back onto the glass case at the counter. Shoes scrape against the carpet as her legs stretch to their full length.

In another life, Robin is taller than Steve and he's jealous of her long legs.

Her shoes are covered in homoerotic doodles and little sayings of she'll go down not only on people's sisters, but also their moms. The other day she whispered, "careful, I have a thing for moms. I'll fuck her," to a young man who had a large enough anger problem over the pricing of renting a tape, nearly enough to snap one in half. Nobody heard her. Except for Steve. And the insult was weird enough that he only raised an eyebrow, froze his hands in place where they were reshelving tapes, then just shrugged and went back to work.

"That sucks," he huffs back.

Her body suddenly flings upright. She tips slightly forward with wild eyes and a crinkle to her nose. "We should play a game!" She shrieks into the comfortable, customer free air.

"No. And besides, haven't you been doing that?" He throws a glance out of the corner of his eye. She deflates over his left shoulder.

"No," she tries to protest. Her body continues to wither until she's leaned over the glass counter, chin in left palm, positioned to continue any argument with Steve, and hair floating into her eyes. Steve only turns around, crosses his arms over his chest, and sends a pointed look her way. "Whatever," she grumbles.

They go back to their respective tasks. Well, Steve does. Robin pulls out a magazine and looks at all the pictures where she's perched behind the counter.

Two more hours go by where Robin goofs off, does the occasional task, and then goes back to whining to Steve about any and every problem she can think of. It starts with being bored. Then, that the candy bar she stole from the rack and didn't pay for is too sweet. She garbles out a strew of, "the movie you picked is boring," and "this actress is so hot Steve. So hot." But, it all comes to a head when she talks about Nancy.

Steve's known about her crush on his ex-girlfriend. He's promised that he isn't mad. Just curious. Has heard all about Nancy's soft hands and pretty blue eyes and "the way she held that shotgun...I was ready to fucking beg to be a bullet or something." To which he responded, "Robin. Please, kindly, shut the fuck up."

But today? It's less about how pretty Nancy is and more about, "she wants to hang out with me tomorrow."

"Oh?" Steve questions. Though, some part of his heart is crumbling. Because he was really looking forward to his birthday tomorrow. And Robin hung out with him last year. He wants to do the same.

"Yeah, oh," she sucks in a large enough breath to puff her chest and then her hands start to gesticulate. "Like, THE Nancy Wheeler wants to hang out with me. Me, this band nerd who used to hate her guts and now I'm worried that I'll spill my guts and then she'll know how I feel about her. And oh my god Steve, what if she already knows? What if she's asking me to come over to like eviscerate me or something? Oh, but what if she knows and wants to kiss me?! I've never kissed anybody before, she'll basically be kissing a wall. And I don't want to embarrass myself, especially not in front of badass Wheeler. And also, what if she wants to kiss me but also feels like it's too soon because her and Jonathan just broke things off? What if she admits to wanting to kiss me and then I let things wait for a bit, but then she finds somebody else?! I'll be heartbroken, Steve. Absolutely heartbroken. Oh this is so bad, so, so, so, so, s--"

"Robin, oh my god. If you say 'so' one more time, I'm going to duct tape your mouth shut," he lightly snaps. She stops talking and looks down at the carpet from where she's standing. Her toe scrapes the floor. "Just. Go over there. Hang out with her. She knows what she wants. And I know for a fact that you know what you want. Let things play out, man. Can't rush everything."

And for the first time in probably fifteen minutes, Robin's rambles have silenced. Completely. She doesn't move, doesn't go back to the magazine or stack of tapes, or the shitty movie Steve has picked out. Doesn't do anything.

Steve's worried for a couple minutes. Should I signal that Vecna is back? He thinks hysterically. I know her favorite song, but what if I sound like a Muppet trying to get her out? Oh god, Tammy Thompson is totally going to get her stuck with Vecna, shit! He panics.

"I just don't want her to hate me," she chokes out. Her voice is thick with emotion; clogging up her throat, clinging to her eyes, bubbling in her nose.

Immediately, Steve's shoulders slump from where they've risen to his ears. He breathes a sigh of relief and fills his lungs with an air of sadness that he's now privy to. This feeling that Robin is portraying, this fear, this worry--it's one Steve has been feeling since Eddie got out of the hospital in May of 1986. Pining, hesitation, self-consciousness; they're killers.

"Robs, she won't hate you. No matter what happens, alright? She wants you in her home. She wants to hang out with you. Whatever she decides to do, whatever she doesn't do, it's not because of you. I'm sure," he strides over to her side and forces her head to rest on his shoulder. "You'll be okay. She'll be okay too. You just won't know until you go over there, right?"

Robin nods. And that's the end of that conversation.

Steve almost thinks it's the end of all conversations for the day. It's twenty minutes away from closing time. No customers have wandered or called in in the last three hours. That is, until Family Video's phone starts to ring.

He sighs, something weary and drawn out. Definitely overdramatic. He picks up.

"Thank you for calling Family Video where we can fulfill all of your movie needs. This is Steve speaking, how may I help you?" He drones in the phone.

"Oh don't sound too excited to speak with me, Stevie," a familiar voice drawls over the phone.

Like the sun peeking through the rainclouds, Steve perks up. "Eddie! Hey man, what's up?" He asks with almost too much energy. He tries to slump back down to his bored position, but he's already too riled at just the mere prospect that Eddie is calling him at work. Robin hears him from where she's melted into the counter and is over at his side in an instant. She smirks when he looks over at her, so he tries to swat her away. To no avail.

"Just calling to see if you had a couple movies in. But, I wanted to get your input on them. Figure out which one I should watch," Eddie states.

"Sure, uh, are you sure you want my input? Kinda shitty at recommending movies, man," Steve stutters down the line.

"Yeah of course I want your opinion. The movies I'm deciding between are Back to the Future and Animal House. Now, I know that y'all may have Back to the Future, but I have Animal House taped here at home."

Steve goes silent for a few seconds. What a fucking toss-up, he muses. "Uh, those are some good picks. How can I decide? Which one do you want to watch?"

"Either," Eddie answers. "But...I could watch both. Awful lot of time spent watching movies though, I'd get bored," he mutters. "How about I propose something?"

Though Eddie isn't at the store, Steve nods. Then he remembers Eddie can't see him and sighs down the line, "yeah, go for it." Robin covers her mouth and starts to snicker. Steve swats at her arms again.

"What if, you come out to the Hideout tomorrow to watch Corroded Coffin perform? Not usually your scene, I get it, but you could show up, get a Coke and some chips. Watch me perform, then I'll follow you back to your house and we watch these movies and I bring some beer. Of course, since I can't get that legally, it's sort of a gift from Wayne. That sound cool to you?"

He can't contain his excitement when he squeaks down the line, "yeah! That sounds awesome!" He wants to retreat for the way he shouted down the line, but why should he? Robin has plans with Nancy tomorrow, so otherwise, Steve would've been left alone in his big house. He would've opened his mailbox to a card with loopy, cursive handwriting from his mom and then slid it in the back of a dresser drawer, never again seeing the light of day.

"Cool. Great. You pick up Back to the Future and I'll see you tomorrow at 6:30?" Eddie questions.

"Yup," Steve replies. They say their goodbyes and then the phone is being placed in its cradle. He wants to run up and down the aisles, jump on the balls of his feet, kick the air, and scream at the top of his lungs. "I get to hangout with Eddie tomorrow!" He shares with Robin.

She cackles at his excitement and they discuss Steve's birthday plans.

Maybe his twentieth won't suck after all...

———— That statement quickly gets doused the moment the 22nd arrives.

So, it's February 22nd, 1987. Steve, not Steven, is awoken very rudely at seven thirty in the morning. His doorbell is rung five times in quick succession, enough for him to worry about it being broken if the ringing goes on any longer.

He pulls on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt and stomps down the stairs. The left part of the front door swings wide open when he rips it from the jamb.

There, on his front porch, is Robin. She's dressed in cuffed suit pants, her super homosexual Converse, a nice plaid button-up tucked into the pants, and enough jewelry to open her own store. There's also an ominous, large duffle bag slung over her shoulder.

"Oh my god! Robin, how many times do I have to tell you that you can't ring the doorbell that many times?!" He scolds.

She at least looks a bit sheepish before schooling her expression. "Oh whatever. I'm here because we need you looking nice for Eddie's concert!" Her hands wave as she talks, Steve's fond of that.

Steve's expression falters from one of irritation to apprehension to dimmed sadness. "Why do I need to change the way I look? Aren't my clothes just fine?"

Robin sighs over exasperated, "Because your clothes are going to make you one, stand out and two, look like a major douchebag. Plus, don't you want to look nice for Eddie?"

He nods, but his expression gets gloomier. "I mean, yeah...but I thought that I looked nice anyway? Shouldn't I just be myself?" He asks quietly. He's starting to curl a bit in on himself, letting his shoulders guard his ears, and his head bow closer to his collarbone. His hair brushes gently between his shoulders.

"You can be yourself, you just can't look the usual. Gotta spruce it up, look nice for the fellas?" She teases.

That's how he finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed, watching Robin root through his closet. She makes a pile of shirts that are "too preppy, Steve!" It's all the polos his mom bought him. All of the sweaters he likes to layer over t-shirts. All of the henleys that his mom said made him look like, "such a wonderful young man, my precious boy."

Though his parents are consistently absent, he still adores his mother. She showed her affection in the food she used to make and the gifts she would bestow and her chaste, wet forehead kisses.

When they'd come home from the department store with several new polos and two different colors of denim jeans, she'd declare that Steve put on a fashion show for her. He'd go into his ensuite bathroom and change into all his new clothes, reentering his bedroom in a fashionable outfit. She'd say, "pose for me Stevie, Mommy wants to see how good you look!" And he would do it every single time. They'd laugh and laugh. Then, when his dad would be home later in the day, they'd show him too. He wouldn't pose for him, but his dad would think that he looked very dapper and put together.

For those little moments in time, the Harrington family would be a family. Afterwards, his mom would serve up a new casserole with green beans and mashed potatoes. Mr. Harrington would talk about business and gloat about his new clients. He'd tell Steve that he was smart and that, "one day, you'll take over the company. And I think you'll do just fine. You'll be greater than okay." Even though Steve eventually grew to hate that idea, he'd soak in the praise he would be drenched in, he would glow with pride that his dad thinks so highly of him, he'd feel a little older and a lot bigger and more ambitious.

Now that his parents are gone though? He doesn't chase the dreams his dad had laid out for him. He sits in the silence of his home, lingering in the doorways of what-ifs and could've-beens. While eating TV dinners or a bowl of macaroni and cheese, he reminisces on the meatloaf his mom made some ten years ago. The empty rooms now gathering dust tend to haunt him at night. Every card sent in the mail is shoved in crevices he'll never clean. His Beemer sits as lonely as he is. Though, he finds comfort in his clothes. In his hair. Things that his mom would participate with him in. Those things that tell him, I'll be okay as long as I know how to do this.

And he does. That's why he hates the idea of having to change how he looks just to go out with Eddie. The thought trickles down his spine and makes him twist with nausea. It doesn't help that a good majority of his clothes are deemed too-highly for someone like Eddie. He likes to think that Eddie doesn't mind; he's never commented on Steve's clothes. Maybe he doesn't like when people point out his clothes, he wonders.

Steve loses himself in the thoughts of his mother. That is, until Robin chucks a pair of acid wash jeans--they have a few rips and holes--at his face and he blinks back to existence.

"You're gonna put those on! And..." she wrestles with the various items that clink in her duffle bag. "This!" She exclaims, throwing a t-shirt at Steve's face.

He unravels it. On the front is the album cover of Metallica's Ride the Lightning. It's a plain black with the album design. He crinkles his nose.

"Where'd you get this? This wasn't in my closet," he points out.

"Oh, just Eddie," she smirks. "Told him that I wanted a metal shirt so that I could maybe sneak into his show. He threw this one at me and told me to get out. Guess I woke him up too early. I don't think six is that early," she claims.

"It's pretty early," Steve states bluntly.

"Whatever. Just put the stupid clothes on. Then..." she hoists the bag up onto Steve's bed. "I can decorate you!" The bag's contents spill over his mattress. There's a variety of chains and studded bracelets, eyeliner colors and eyeshadow palettes, and a pair of large, chunky, black combat boots.

Steve rolls his eyes, but goes to the ensuite to change anyway.

To say he likes the look would be a false statement. He hates it. So much so, he considers banning Robin from his house for the next week and banishing the clothes to the back of his closet. The jeans are tight in too many places, his skin is exposed to the cool air of the Harrington home. His arms with drag scars are on full display. Steve wants to climb into his bathtub and hide in the dark. Wants to wrap a towel over his body. This doesn't feel like me at all. Why can't I just wear my clothes? Steve questions.

He leaves the bathroom with the confidence of a timid deer in headlights. He tugs at the sleeves of his shirt, attempting to hide his scarring. Pats at the open areas on his jeans, thinking that his hands could magically sew the denim back together. In some odd, possibly because he's so exposed way, Steve finds that he just wants to cry.

"I don't like this outfit Robs," he admits quietly.

"It doesn't look that bad, Steve. Just get over here so I can make you look good!" she says louder than needed.

Make me look good? Steve wonders.

Now he feels like the eleven year old boy his parents left behind. Like he's standing in the foyer, listening to his father demand that he sharpen up. His dad looms over him, standing at an intimidating 6'4". He pushes the words from his mouth so hard that spit sprays into Steve's little hazel eyes. In his dad's hand is his report card. It features all the Cs and Ds that burn into his soul like a brand. His dad reams that "you'll never be smart. Never. Such a disappointment." Steve's mom stands behind his dad with tears clogging her eyelashes, but she pushes at the corners to keep her makeup pristine. She doesn't go to Steve and tell him to stay himself, doesn't offer to go get him a new outfit to have a fashion show. She mutters something about learning a lesson and having to make his food and keeping himself in line, unlike his father. She tuts and worries, but not enough to comfort Steve. This was all so much worse when they came home to learn he didn't get into college. His dad had said, "you have never been good enough for me. Your mom and I only wanted the best for you and you betrayed us. You're going to get a job and learn your lesson."

They don't speak anymore. Steven Otis Harrington is left home alone at age eighteen with the inability to breathe on his own. With demons that his blood family can't know about. He wishes he could explain that he's good enough or at least okay.

Steve wonders if he'll ever be good enough for anybody. He wonders if just his clothes are good enough for the people he loves, adores, would die for. But do they like the way Steve expresses himself? Make me look good? I think I usually look okay, Steve holds onto.

He sits on his bed anyway. For several hours. Lets Robin hold his jaw to apply eyeliner, hook several chains into his belt loops, rip bigger holes in his jeans, wrap bracelets about three inches up his wrist, gel back his hair, and spray him with a musky cologne.

Robin chirps out, "looking so good! This may be your best look yet!" Before leaving though his front door and setting his mail on the kitchen counter. It's only three in the afternoon.

Steve is freshly twenty years old, sitting in a bedroom that his mom decorated so many years ago with plush toys and soft wall art of Winnie the Pooh. He is exiting his teenage years a more broken man than his father ever was at this age. He's standing in the kitchen, flitting through mail, and shifting from foot to foot because his shoes hurt his heels. Steven Otis Harrington gets one letter and a Pooh colored package from his mom.

In the reflection of the kitchen window, he sees himself clutching his mother's mail to his chest. Standing at 5'11", much shorter than his dad, but with his eyes. They're rounded out by black, smudged eyeliner. They'll never see eye-to-eye. Steve contemplates scrubbing it off with a harsh tea towel. In the window he also doesn't see himself. He looks down at his clothes. They fit tight and too loose, clink if he moves a leg, threads pressing into the soft open areas of skin. His arms are itchy from being exposed to oxygen. The hair that his mom taught to always maintain volume, is slicked down hard enough that he can squint and see the shape of a shaved head.

He hates it all. But it's to impress Eddie, right? All Steve wants is to be loved, so he'll do what he can. If he has to fight with God, throw his arm like Muhammad Ali, he will.

———— It's now 6:00. Steve's driving over to the Hideout in hopes that he can get a soda and a booth before it gets too packed. He's going at this alone. Alone and in an outfit that doesn't define him in any sort of way. Makes him feel more like a sore thumb and he prays to God that nobody asks about the album on the front of his shirt. He'd only be able to say, "Master of Puppets," and then crumple in despair as he gets laughed at.

Metal music. Overcrowded bars. Loud concerts. Black clothes and chains and all the other miscellaneous things thrown on his body.

None of this is Steve Harrington or even Steven Otis Harrington.

He wants to go home and eat a sad microwave meal while dressed in clothes his mom would approve of. Ones that he approves of. Clothes that feel like comfort that's been absent since he was eleven years old.

But he has to support Eddie. That's his duty, he decides. Because no matter what people think about him, he'll support all of the things people that he loves likes. But does anybody like anything that Steve Harrington likes? Or do they just like what he can do for them? Y'know, the car and arcade trips, concerts and loud music, rambles and advice.

Does anybody like Steve Harrington? His parents don't even approach the word.

Steve files into the bar as fast as humanly possible. He pays for a Coke with too much ice and a bowl of half stale chips. Eats them anyway, doesn't want to cause a scene because he already feels so out of place. The booth he chooses to sit at is sticky and musky with sweat and cigarette smoke. One of the Corroded Coffin boys is up on stage, plugging in various instruments, tapping on different mics, and scanning over the setlist. Do they play originals, do they play just metal music, do they know that I'm here? Steve wants to ask.

He prays to that same God. Asks that nobody, but Eddie, knows him. Begs for mercy while he's trapped in the booth.

His arms stick to the seat's vinyl. It rips at his scars and makes tears bead in the corners of his eyes. He keeps his line of sight downwards so he can carefully dab at them with a rough napkin. Like his mom taught him when he learned about manners. There's eyeliner on the corner of the paper, it'll probably steak over his cheeks if he cries anymore. So he steels his expression, sucks in a hefty breath, and faces the stage once more in hopes that his facade won't crumble.

The sleeves of the Metallica t-shirt are tugged at once more. His fingers play with the threads on his pants. He hates this, but he loves Eddie.

In a short few minutes, Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin enters the stage light. He slings his guitar over his torso and plays a few starting chords. Jeff, the boy with short sheared hair, he announces the first song of the night. Then, the concert starts.

Steve doesn't enjoy the music. It's loud at every single second and makes his ears ring like the after effects of a concussion. Everybody in the room is pressed too close in and sweating against each other's backs and torsos. He's lucky he chose to sit down. After so long of conforming to social standards and throwing parties and being absolutely nasty, Steve's almost content with being a wallflower. Content with the idea that probably nobody recognizes him. And he hopes it stays that way.

That is, until a patron walks by and sneers at him, "you don't belong here, meathead!" They cackle to themself, reach over for the cold cup of Coke water, and pour it over Steve's lap. Is this what it was like when I did this shit? Steve ponders with tears once again building in his eyes.

His resolve is crumbling and he can't stand the smell and heat and crowd of the bar. He flees out of a side exit door and practically sprints over to his car.

And there he sits. Contemplating. Should I go home? Should I wait until Eddie is done?

He chooses to go crawling back to his vacant house and hopes that Eddie understands tomorrow morning. He hopes that Eddie doesn't see him this way, that he forgot that he invited Steve in the first place, hopes that maybe Steve just got caught too busy at work to even slip out for a night of "fun."

At twenty years old, Steve hides in the sanctuary of his bedroom. It's only seven in the evening. He doesn't take the uncomfortable clothes off though. Lays on his duvet with his hands tangled over his belly. His hair is starting to crisp and knot and crunch. There are blisters the size of quarters on the backs of his heels. Eyeliner smudged everywhere around his eyes and eyebrows and bridge of his nose.

He rolls over with tears in his eyes.

At eleven, Steve was scolded for crying at every last little thing. His mom was also chewed out for raising such a sensitive boy.

He doesn't cry as much in hopes his mom will learn to forgive him. In hopes that maybe, his mom will still like him. Or maybe, his mom will demand a fashion show and hold him gently against her chest, and allow him to breathe. He isn't sure how to breathe on his own without the help of other people, but he thinks that there's a possibility that breathing is overrated. That there's a way for him to just wither to dust if he doesn't inhale. If he exhales, he's sure he'll cry.

So he doesn't. He holds his breath and promptly falls asleep in the tightest curl. He imagines that the empty space beside him is where his mom lays. That she's tapping on his spine and cooing softly into his hair. That she made soup and it's waiting for him downstairs. That all she's waiting for is her little Stevie boy, her precious baby, to roll over and puff breaths into her neck.

———— Only two hours later, at nine, Steve startles awake. There are sounds coming from downstairs. He doesn't move to check it out. It could be a demogorgan, his brain mutters. He ignores it.

He ignores the ball of light crackling in his chest at the sheer though that his parents came home. For the first time since June of 1985. They call, always, to say they're on their way back. But something is always delayed. Or his dad is always cheating. Or his mom is always throwing a fit.

He ignores the idea that they came home just for him, to wish him a happy birthday, to welcome him into pure manhood, to watch him open the parcel he received earlier in the morning.

A voice rings out, "Steve?"

The pure streak of excitement coating Steve's soul in neon green dies out like a candle flame. A candle he hasn't blown out since he was ten years old.

Steve curls tighter, if possible. His door remains shut. The bed is still empty behind him. His clothes are digging into the meat of his thighs and slight chub to his stomach. A chain rattles, but he doesn't reach out to silence it.

"Steve? Dude, are you home? It's Eddie. You left the door unlocked," the voice rings louder. He sounds raspy and exhausted. Steve really wishes he hadn't agreed to hang out or that he just called Eddie to say he didn't feel good. He wishes that Eddie didn't come all this way to see his buddy in such a melancholy state.

Footsteps trample up the stairs and to the wood outside of Steve's bedroom door. There's a set of three knocks. They're quiet, but firm.

"Sorry if I'm waking you up. I brought the movie and some beer and some pizza. Another thing too, but it's a surprise. Do you still want to hang out for a bit?" Eddie's voice comes soft through the door. It envelops Steve in a way no voice has in a long while. "We don't even need to watch anything, we could just talk in your room. If you want," he offers.

Steve uncurls slightly, enough to bring his head up and speak. "You can come in," he croaks.

The door creaks open. Several things are placed on Steve's desk. Then, Eddie is sitting on the end of his bed, elbows on his knees, face turned to not look at Steve.

"Missed you at the show," Eddie admits.

Steve doesn't respond. Just breathes shakily and brings his head back down. His body curls again.

"It was cool. We played a Queen song. I weaseled it onto the setlist; wanted to play it just for you," his voice whispers.

The room is silent again. There's rain drizzling down outside and Steve continues to attempt to hold his breath. He really doesn't want to cry. Especially because Eddie is in his room right now.

Eddie scoots closer so that his hip is touching the bottom of Steve's socked feet. He tentatively brings a hand to wrap at his ankle, thumb rubbing at exposed skin.

"You're dressed up in some gnarly clothes," he points out. Steve stifles a whine. Don't cry, idiot, he chastises. "Were you planning on checking out the show?" Eddie asks kindly.

Steve nods. He whispers, "I was there for a little bit."

"Oh," Eddie breathes. He sounds somewhat disappointed.

"I'm sorry. I wanted to stay and watch, but I couldn't. I'm sorry I didn't do what you wanted. I'm sorry if I made you mad, I didn't mean to," Steve rushes out, breaths growing wild, dazed, ragged. Eddie stops rubbing at his skin; he pulls his hand away entirely. "I just. I wanted. I didn't..." he stammers. His lungs hurt, his nose burns, there are tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

Steven Otis Harrington has been taught to not cry in every circumstance. He had been told at a young age that he was born without a single scream, not even a sigh. His dad admitted that it scared him. But he was quick to tell Steve that now it was a good thing if he kept quiet, if he didn't cry. Especially if he was yelled at. Especially if he was overwhelmed. Especially if he was talked to unkindly or hit or humiliated. "Don't be sensitive," Steve's dad had warned.

There are tears streaming down his face even though he continues to hold his breath. His body doesn't budge. Won't even shiver.

"Stevie?" Eddie's concerned voice washes through. "Shit," he mutters. His hands make their way to Steve's torso, trying to shove his arms to the side, turn him onto his back, whittle him into an upright position. To no avail. "Steve, sweetheart, I need you to breathe with me," he urges.

Steven Otis Harrington was born not breathing.

There's panic laced in Eddie's words, in his tone, in his movements. But, Steve shakes his head vehemently. I can't, he thinks. I don't know how, he wants to admit. Did you know that I didn't cry when I was born? He wants to ask. Is this it, am I doing it right? Am I good enough? Am I disappointing you, more than I already have? He can't question.

All at once, the world is shifted. Steve is against his bed's headboard with his legs bracketing Eddie's crossed ones. There are hands on his exposed knees, but he doesn't have the words to tell Eddie to stop touching him. So he shifts as much as he can away.

"Steve," Eddie's voice surges. "You can do this, I know you can," his hand brings Steve's to his chest. Though there's panic in his heart--Steve can feel it through the soft shirt--his breath is slow. "Just match what I'm doing, okay?"

He counts. He inhales and fills up any empty space in his chest. He exhales hot over Steve's arm. He does it again and again and again, not once does he give up. But, it's not enough.

"You're doing really well Stevie, so good," he praises. His voice is feather light, still raspy, but calm. "Not gonna stop, keep breathing with me."

Steve thinks Eddie makes it sound easy. Even though he knows it isn't. Knows that at one point he scared his parents by the lack of air traveling through his body. Scared Robin the same way too, when he was passed out on the floor of that cold Russian bunker. He makes people feel panicked, pained, exasperated. Rarely do people care about him so fervently outside of situations like this. His parents made that known. His own body does that to him.

Eventually, though it takes nearly fifteen minutes, Steve's breathing is set. Shaky and hiccuped, but rushing into the room easily enough.

"Scared me," Eddie mutters. And he sounds so exhausted. Steve just knows it's because of him.

"I'm sorry," he timidly states. There's an ache in his chest, his fingers, behind his eyes. He's still crying. And he wonders, is this it? Have I been born again?

There's a brief pause after the apology is said. Eddie gazes at him, eyes wide and hurt. He doesn't move away, but he doesn't let himself linger either. Steve thinks he did something wrong, if a pimple has made itself known on his face, or even worse, an Upside Down creature lingers behind him. He begins to panic again.

"Hey, no, no," Eddie reassures. "You're alright. You're okay," he sighs. "Was just lost on the fact that you're apologizing to me."

"Well, yeah," Steve says. Like a solution, like a fact. The sky is blue, asphalt becomes hot under the sun, and Steve apologizes for scaring Eddie. "I scared you. I didn't see your whole show. I disappointed you. Made you mad," he lists.

There's that face of shock and hurt washing over Eddie. He's so outwardly expressive, it terrifies Steve.

Eddie's mouth opens and closes like a gaping fish. He grunts before trying again. This time he's firm when saying, "you don't need to apologize to me. Not for something you can't control. For something you need other people to help you with.

"You don't need to apologize for scaring me. I just panicked, I didn't know what was happening, but I got my bearings. All I wanted was for you to be okay.

"And you didn't disappoint me by not watching the rest of the show. And you didn't make me mad either. I'm just tired, but I'm always tired after I perform. I'll get over it," he assures. "It's your birthday, the big twenty, I wanted to do something nice for you. But I couldn't cancel or move my show. Had to compromise," he smiles.

"Oh," Steve exhales. He doesn't know what to do with that much information. He's been taught for years to not cry so hard or openly. He's been the main source of so much disappointment and anger in his life, he wonders how he's survived this long. He doesn't know how to comprehend someone being nice to him after something as explosive as what's happened. "Oh," he states again.

Eddie watches him with curious eyes. His thumbs twitch where they rest over his own knees. After another second of lost thought, he asks, "why didyou leave so early?"

Steve doesn't want to tell the truth. Wants to hide behind the chains still shifting over his jeans, place his hands in the holes on his knees, tug at the sleeves of the t-shirt again. "I got heckled, I guess. This dude told me I was a meathead, that I didn't belong at the show. He poured my drink over my crotch. I was already so uncomfortable," he admits with his head tucked into his chest.

"That fucking dickwad," Eddie seethes. He drags a hand down his face and tucks hair behind his ears. "Why were you so uncomfortable? I mean, you don't have to answer that. I already knew it wasn't your scene, but maybe it'll help if you talk about it? You seem...extremely distraught."

"I guess it was everything," Steve whispers. "The music was loud and made my ears ring, like when I get a concussion? And there were too many people and it was so hot. The booth I sat at was really sticky and kept pulling at the scars on my arms. And," he stops to breathe. "And the clothes," he finishes quietly.

"Who's clothes? Your clothes?" Steve nods. "I have to admit, they're not really your style. What's the matter with 'em?"

Steve huffs and throws his hands up to gesture at the entirety of his outfit. "All of it!" he exclaims. "I hate everything about this outfit. And no offense about the shirt," he glances towards Eddie.

"None taken. Was wondering where you got that. Robin, that liar."

"Well, the shirt doesn't cover the scars on my arms, so I feel them stick to everything in my vicinity. And the pants are too tight and too much skin is exposed. The makeup makes my eyes look wrong. I like my eyes. I don't like my hair slicked back. My heels have blisters on them now from the combat boots that Robin forced me to wear," he's cut off.

"Forced you to wear? If you didn't want to wear any of this stuff, why'd you stay in it?" Eddie ribs.

"Because I wanted to impress you!" Steve exclaims, nearly shouts. His face turns beet red with shame and he covers his mouth. He glances away.

Eddie seems taken aback by the small outburst. Be he doesn't linger on it for too long. "Impress me? Steve, you don't need to change your look to impress me."

"Then how are you supposed to like me? Nobody seems to like the stuff that I'm into. People think I'm a douchebag based off of the normal clothes I wear. I like my clothes! My mom used to pick them out for me, and I know that sounds lame, but I liked it when she made me try them on. I liked the way she used to compliment me and dote over me. I miss it," Steve points out, quietly. "I miss my mom all the time. My clothes. My hair. They're the last things connecting me to her. Except for the birthday cards and I guess the one package she sent today."

Steve tries to hide in on himself. Why did I say that? He wonders. He plays with the hem of the t-shirt. It should be comforting, considering it's Eddie's. But all he wants is to rip it off of his chest and throw it across the room.

"Stevie, I already like you," Eddie sadly whispers. "I like how confident your regular clothes make you feel. I don't like the way these current clothes seem to make you shrink. I think it's bogus and frankly crazy to ask you to conform to my aesthetics. They're not for you. And I don't mean that in like a weird, you can't enjoy what I like way, but rather, this isn't you." He reaches out to hold Steve's hands, rubbing circles into his knuckles, and massaging his veins.

"You like me?" he asks.

"Of course," Eddie concedes. "I love you," he states. Like a fact. The sky is blue, asphalt becomes hot under the sun, and Eddie Munson likes, loves Steve Harrington. Steve smiles.

They sit for several minutes, Eddie gazing at Steve's form. And Steve basking in the attention he's being given.

"Y'know...I saw the package over there on your desk," Eddie starts. "Why don't you shower to get the gel and eyeliner off? And then you can come out here in your comfortable clothes and you can open up some gifts?"

———— That's exactly what Steve Harrington does at 9:45 on his twentieth birthday. Then, he reenters his room in his own sweatpants and sweatshirt. The bottoms are a light grey. His shirt, a saturated indigo. Eddie sits patiently on his bed with two packages laid out in front of him. The Pooh gift from his mom and one wrapped in bright blue paper with the words "Happy Birthday" thrown about; the paper is wrinkled in some places like Eddie had a hard time smoothing it across the corners and edges. The birthday card from his mom is there too.

"Come on birthday boy! You've got gifts to tear into!" Eddie exclaims, patting at the empty spot across from him on the bed. His hand hits the mattress hard enough to jostle the packages, which he quickly resituates. "You should open mine first," he sings.

Steve sits down on his bed, legs crossed in front of him. He reaches out for the blue package and gives it a shake.

"Don't shake it, you cheater," Eddie says. Steve chuckles.

He's careful with the wrapping. Always is. His mom taught him to tear the paper in one clean sheet so that later, he can cut a square and keep it before the rest has to go out to the recycling. Though he can see Eddie jittering out of the corner of his eye, possibly with anticipation to just lean forward and rip it up into shreds, he takes his time.

Inside is a plain white box with lid. It's cardboard. Like the kind you get from a department store when purchasing a nice blouse or button-up for a kid's Christmas gift. Steve removes the tape from the edges and pries the lid off. Under a layer of wrapping tissue is a dark green, like the forest of trees behind his house, sweatshirt. His eyes widen, the lid held close to his right shoulder, and he doesn't speak.

"I, uh, I figured this would be something you'd like," Eddie quietly states. "Wayne took me to Macy's out in Indianapolis? I had to get a button-up for a cousin's wedding. Passed by this and knew that Robin mentioned something about your birthday coming up...I have the receipt if you need to exchange it. If you want to exchange it," he pulls the receipt from his wallet, slides it across the mattress, and pats the crinkled paper.

"I love it," Steve responds just as quietly. He looks down at the receipt very briefly, seeing $29.99 stare at him in bold black lettering. He glances back at the sweater and unfolds it. It's soft in his grasp, almost like it's been worn, but the tags are still attached to the collar. "I love this a lot."

"Good, I'm glad," Eddie says. "Now open the card and gift from your mom. Then, you can put on a little show for me!" He shoves the yellow package closer with the card set on top.

Steve rips the envelope open. He's always been less gentle with letters. Years of yearning for parents who have only grown absent and regretful through words on paper, that will do it. He looks at the front of the card. A snapshot of a lake, rippling under a sunset, shadowed by the graceful presence of hundreds of trees. And just like he guessed, inside is her loopy handwriting. Though, in previous years it's only said "happy birthday Steve," with a wad of cash.

This time she writes:

Dear Steve, How are you darling boy? Mommy hopes that you're doing great, better than okay. You've always been just okay. I want better than that.

There's a lot to say and not much room to write, may have to write on the back of this card. Hope you don't mind.

First, I'm sorry.

Steve stops reading in favor of breathing. He didn't realize he had begun to hold it once again. Never in a million years did he think he'd see the words I'm sorry written just for him. Written just for him from his own mother. He continues.

First, I'm sorry. For how long I've been away from you. It's not because of who you are, what has happened. I don't think saying I'm sorry will ever be enough.

And it better not be, you deserve better. You deserve kindness and presence and care. And I wish I didn't stop giving any of that to you.

Your dad...he's the same as he's always been. Cold, angry, bitter. He told me not too long ago that he doesn't love me. And now I think I better understand how you've been feeling for the last ten years.

I'm sorry he doesn't say that he loves you. I'm sorry that I can't reassure you that he does. But I know one thing.

I love you. I've always been proud of you, I was just so scared to say anything against your father. I like everything about you. How kind you've always been, the way you continue to dress up and style your hair, how much better you are than anybody else in the Harrington family. You're my light, my star, my sunshine. I prayed for you fervently as a kid, I prayed for you when you weren't breathing, I pray for you every night before I go to sleep. And that's true. And you may not believe me, the same way you don't believe in God. But even if your faith in religion is nonexistent, one day I hope you'll be able to, over the phone or through writing or just looking me in the eyes, say "I believe you."

Because I believe you. I believe in you. Wherever life takes you.

Now, Mommy got you something. I picked out the packaging because it reminded me of your nursery. Makes me weep thinking my baby boy is a grown adult now. And I know. I missed so much of who you are; I feel like we're strangers and that's not your fault. But I hope this can be the start of some sort of rebuilding.

Go ahead and open your gift, then continue the rest of this card.

Steve puts the card down and wipes his eyes. He doesn't want to cry again, but his mom had always been one to encourage him to be emotional. the release feels right for something as big as his mom apologizing to him. Even if the apologies don't soothe every wound on his torso.

"You alright Stevie? We don't have to continue if it's that bad," Eddie softly states. He gently touches the back of Steve's hand with his fingertips, pressing ever so slightly into his warm skin.

"No, no I'm good. It's alright," Steve waves off his concerns. "She got me something, she's saying stuff I thought I'd never see."

He grasps the package and stares at the box in wonder. His mom has to constantly be thinking about him in order to pick something out like this. To see a box like this and be reminded that she has a son back home. How often? Steve wonders. Every night she said, his brain supplies.

The box is pried open by the flaps. Inside are several layers of thin, light red, almost pink wrapping tissue. after throughly trashing his bed, Steve unveils a pair of dark-wash Levi jeans. Not blue enough to be considered nearly black, but blue enough that they're almost purple.

Eddie audibly goes awww, when Steve unfolds them to their full length.

"What?" he says. Is he making fun of me now? Steve ponders.

"Turn them around, there's something on the pocket," Eddie states, smile heard in his voice. He's giddy, warm in the way he speaks.

So, Steve turns the jeans around to look at the back-pockets.

There, in light yellow and red embroidery floss, is little Winnie the Pooh holding a balloon. These definitely didn't come with that on the butt, Steve notes. He hastily picks the card back up from his mom. He scans through the first part of the writing and continues to read on.

Ta-da! New jeans!

Steve can hear her butter soft voice ring out in his bedroom. Can hear the wave of her hands, the curl to her nude-pink painted lips.

Now, I'm not sure of your current size. I had to sneak a look at a pair the last time I was home; which, that was too long ago. And once again, I'm sorry. However, I've left the address for a nice little lady and her tailor shop on the back of this card. Just tell her that your mom sent you over and she'll do any alternations necessary. She'll bill directly to me, so you don't need to worry about paying her or your father getting upset.

But, I did the embroidery myself. Mommy used to do this all the time when you were just a tiny thing. I had to put your name in everything you wore or took to school, it was easier for me this way. Though, I thought I'd do something different to mark that these jeans are yours and only yours.

I hope you like them. Maybe you can snap a photo and send it to the address on this card? Or, better yet, I'll be on my way home mid-March. You could do a little fashion show for me, right baby? Your father won't be with me, so we can do whatever your heart desires. You could scream at me if you want, I wouldn't mind.

Oh, on another note, I saw something about the Munson boy? I'm so ashamed that the town thinks so poorly of him, even though he's been found not guilty. They always think so terribly about people different than them, they used to think of me differently. You know, before I married your father? I hope you don't treat that boy terribly; I know you won't. You're too kind for that. The Munsons have always been nice, I used to know Wayne in high school. If you run into either of them, show them hospitality. Be kind, my little star.

Anyway, it's late where I am and your father is getting irritated that I'm keeping the light on.

Write to me. Let me know about every great thing in your life. Hopefully, one day, I'll bear witness to them.

Love, Mommy (drawing of a heart)

Steve once again sets the card down with tears in his eyes. He chuckles, "she wrote about you."

"Oh?" Eddie breathes. He picks up the card. "Can I read what she said?" He implores.

"Yeah, just read under the sentence, 'you could scream at me if you want, I wouldn't mind.'" He watches Eddie flit back and forth between the words and then read it over two more times. He breathes out a hefty sigh.

"She doesn't even know me," he states quietly.

"She doesn't know me either," Steve whispers. "But I like to believe she's always had good judgement of character."

The room is once again silent. Steve sniffs every once in a while. He think over every single word his mother wrote. Every sentence punctuated. The thoughtfulness she still carries, even if it doesn't take her home as often as she wants, as much as Steve needs.

For the first time in several years, he feels like he can breathe. Like he can start to do it on his own. That he can hear her walk through the front door, take her shoes off, tiptoe up the stairs, barge into Steve's room, and wrestle him to tears with tickle attacks. He can feel her fingers through his hair, hear the small snips of styling scissors, the pats on his chest as she laid the collars of his polos flat.

He doesn't admit anything to Eddie about being born again. About his lack of breathing that's been haunting him since the moment he was ripped from the womb. He basks in every moment that's lost to time, where his mom existed and could've survived had she held hope against her chest the way Steve had been held. He rubs his fingers over the embroidery. He smooths his hands down the front of the sweater and denim legs, over and over and over.

Eddie suggests, "try the clothes on. I want to see you in all your glory."

———— At ten, Steve Harrington saunters out of his ensuite bathroom in the forest green sweater and Winnie the Pooh jeans. He slips on his white and red Nike Bruins to complete the outfit.

Eddie whoops and claps his hands loudly as he cheers, "there he is! That's Steve Harrington!" He gestures towards Steve's clothes. "Pose for me man!"

"Alright, alright," Steve giggles out. He puts his hands on his hips, pops his legs, puts one foot in front of the other, makes goofy faces. "Is that good enough for you?"

"Yeah," Eddie nods. "It's better than good enough," he gets off of the bed and makes his way over to Steve. "How do you feel right now?"

Steve looks down at his outfit. He stretches his arms out, brings his legs up, and places them back down. He nods, "I feel amazing." He twirls and twists, giggles slightly delirious at himself, and sighs in relief.

Eddie smiles, all teeth and gums, dimples, and eye crinkles. "You look amazing."

"Yeah?" Steve breathes.

"Mhm," Eddie hums. "You look amazing. You look comfortable. You look happy."

"Does that mean I impressed you?" Steve asks. He means it to be somewhat flirtatious, but there's an undertone of rippling anxiety. The worry of not being enough for somebody as eccentric as Eddie.

"Impressed? You knocked me flat on my ass is what you did!" He exclaims. "I like this on you Steve. I love this Steve."

"Like, you love the outfit? Because I think I've already picked up on that," Steve says.

"No, silly. I love you. I love quite literally everything about you," Eddie assures. "Which, I believe, includes your clothes."

Steve giggles. He thinks about his clothes and his choice in movies and the tapes in his car. He ponders on the cookies he bakes for Christmas and the costumes he wears at Halloween. Thinks back to sports in high school and the way all his training has applied to the Upside Down. The love he has for the Party and Robin and Joyce and Hopper. The love he has for Eddie.

"Even the sports?" Steve teases.

"Hey I may not understand the whole ball in laundry basket thing, but come on. Guys in shorts that are practically underwear? Stevie, I think if you spared a glance at me the one year we had gym class together, I would've came in my pants," Eddie passionately admits.

Steve crinkles his nose. "Gross," he bluntly states. But he holds the biggest smile this world has ever seen. "You really love me, huh?"

"Yeah Stevie, I love you," Eddie breathes.

"Good," Steve whispers. "Because I love you too," he puffs onto Eddie's lips.

But because Eddie can't be serious for a single moment in his life, he swats Steve's ass and exclaims, "alright hot stuff! Let's go heat up some pizza and party."

Steve rolls his eyes fondly. "Way to cockblock your own cock of interest."

"Oh, whatever. The quicker we eat, the faster you can have some dessert," Eddie says while wiggling his eyebrows.

"I hate you," Steve states.

"No you don't, you loooove me."

"Yeah Eds, I do."

———— Steve Harrington is born again on February 22nd, 1987. He's birthed into a family of people who treat him with constant, consistent kindness and adoration. His mom is still gentle, still lovable, still ready to fight God if necessary.

Steve is reborn with a new outlook on breathing and living. He conforms the way he knows how and doesn't let other people direct how he shouldlook.

Though his father never praises or loves him like he did when Steve was little, Mrs. Harrington is there despite it. She rushes back in like a tornado in late March, a brand new Winnie the Pooh stuffy under her arm with a whisper of, "you're never too old or sensitive for a soft bear."

She learns about Robin Buckley, the ramble-on, quick-witted, two left feet character that is Steve's platonic soulmate. She reintroduces herself to Nancy Wheeler, who she believes will be an excellent news journalist one day. She rekindles her high school friendship with one Wayne Munson and tuts over Eddie Munson the way she did to Steve. Though, considering the time period, it takes a while for her to fully understand Steve's relationship with Eddie, she doesn't ignore it. In fact, she embraces that part of her son. She's happy that despite how lonely his growing up had been, how empty all the rooms had seemed, how miserable dinners were; Steve Harrington was consistently loved, doted over, and cared about.

Steve Harrington has his father's eyes, mother's hair, and grandfather's moles. But he isn't cruel, not anymore. He isn't anything other than Steve Harrington with his polos and sweaters and Levi jeans. He's who he needs to be; and that impresses everybody.

"I'm proud of you star shine," Mrs. Harrington whispers into his hair one night after a brutal nightmare. He hadn't been breathing until she calmed him down. "I love you."

"I love you too Mom," he puffs into her neck.

Yeah, Steve Harrington will always be more than okay.

💕—————💕 Already posted my steddielovemonth fic, but I thought y'all deserved an extra treat in the form of one of my favorite fanfics I've ever written. Posted last year!

#stranger things #steve harrington #Steve Harrington's mother #steddie #platonic stobin #eddie munson #robin buckley #angst and hurt/comfort #Steve Harrington is a Mama's Boy

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