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this fuckin old man, jesus christ

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"Would you two just sort your fuckin' shit out already, it's pissing everyone off!"

Carmy slammed the door to his office shut after his mini rant, leaving you and Richie inside. Richie opened it again and shouted down towards the chef, clearly annoyed.

"Yeah, just like your fuckin' attitude, cousin. Fuck outta here!"

"Get back the fuck in there now, Richie. Fuckin now!"

Richie slammed the door before Carmy could continue, leaving the two of you stood together in the office. Trying to look anywhere but at him, you fiddled with a few loose papers on the desk. There was definitely no way you were about to start conversation, that was certain.

"Well, sweetheart, get comfortable. There's no way we're sorting this out and he won't let us back out there until we do. Gonna be a long fuckin' night."

You scoffed. "Whatever. Don't call me sweetheart, either."

Richie raised an eyebrow. "Or what? You gonna run and tell Carmen? Such a fuckin' baby."

Not even dignifying his schoolyard taunts with a response, you rolled your eyes and just sat down, finding something to fidget with. Choosing one of Carmy's pens, a black ink one that had 'Chef Carmen B.' engraved on the side, you twirled it between your fingers and leaned back. Richie made himself comfortable, too. He pulled out his phone and scrolled away. 

The silence was heavy in the room as you both respectively ignored the other.

If you were being honest, you didn't even know why you and Richie argued. I mean, he argued with everyone so it was a given, sure. Richie just liked to pick fights, and he had hated you from the moment you walked in so it seemed like the natural course of action that would bicker. But it had quickly surpassed bickering and turned into full blown rage fests. 

In truth, you didn't even hate him, you reacted because it seemed as though he hated you. It was the constant insults and backhanded compliments. The purposely bumping into you and knocking stuff out of your hands, only to blame it on you when you dropped it. Petty little behaviours that got blown way our of proportion. 

You huffed, scribbling on a blank piece of paper, refusing to be the first to speak. Instead you began to draw, doodling away on the sheet. 

Richie put his phone away, looking down at his feet and losing himself in thought. 

If he was being honest, he didn't even know why you and him argued. Richie knew he wasn't the easiest to get on with, especially since Mikey's death, but why you were at each other's throats all day every day was weird. Maybe he felt threatened, or maybe intimidated by how fast things in the restaurant were changing, and since you were the most recent change as a new member of staff, he took that anger out on you. That was far from fair, and he felt bad about it. 

In truth, he didn't even hate you. He acted like this around because he thought you hated him. He was everything you were not. Richie was older than you by a considerable amount, divorced and incredibly sour for the most part. Life had hit him hard. You were pretty young, vibrant and had your future in the palm of your hand. Richie truly and honestly believed you could do anything, he knew that. 

Taking a moment, Richie decided to glance up at you to see what you were doing. You were sat at Carmy's desk with your hair down and flowing around your shoulders and pooling on the table as you leaned into your work. Your face was slightly scrunched up, concentrating on whatever it was you were trying to draw. Your bottom lip was pulled in under your teeth and you sat cross-legged. 

Richie couldn't believe it, but he found himself smiling. He had always found you pretty, even though it hadn't been the best start. You didn't get on with each other, but he would be a fool to deny how he thought of you. On a purely outside aesthetic, he thought you really were beautiful. Lost in concentration though, you looked even better to Richie. 

Your eyes darted up with the feeling of someone watching you. As your pen stilled, you questioned the man sitting before you. 

"What? You gonna laugh at me or something? Come over, you can take the piss if you'd like."

The venom in your voice wasn't lost on him, but he stood and came over anyway. Glancing over your work a smile spread across his face. A real one not filled with mockery or ill-intent. His eyes softened, turning the paper so he could see it head on.

It was a sketch of a man behind a counter, looking down as he worked on some food. There was a hand towel throw over his shoulder. Off center cups stacked high next to him and a soda machine were lightly sketched into the back. There was room for a sign above him that you hadn't managed to fully flesh in yet, and it clicked with Richie why it looked familiar. 

You'd drawn the front counter of The Beef. 

Whether or not you meant to do that or not, it had happened, and then his attention was drawn to the man you had sketched. He had short hair and an apron on, a short sleeved t shirt finishing the outfit. A shadow of a beard you hadn't finished filling in had started to take shape, and Richie didn't know if he was going delusional or not but it looked so familiar. 

Too familiar, maybe. 

"You know it kinda looks like me," Richie said, pointing to your drawing. "It's really good, too."

Narrowing your eyes, you look it over again. Shaking your head, you were trying to find fault somewhere; just anything, hoping you could prove him wrong. Your endeavor was pointless and you realized the worst thing you could. 

He was right. Richie was right as fuck. 

Your subconscious had drawn him, not only had you managed to draw him but it was so instantly recognizable, too. In the process of doing it, that didn't even click with you. But now it was clearly and undeniably Richie Jerimovich. 

Why the fuck did you do that? Mentally cursing, you stood up and stretched. 

"Is it good? Do you really think it's good or are you being nice so we can leave?"

Richie couldn't help but laugh. "No, I'm actually saying it is good. I am capable of giving you a compliment, you know?"

"No, I don't know. Richie, all you ever do is shout at me and argue with me, I can't remember the last time you complimented me. In fact, I don't think you ever have done."

Richie motioned to your drawing about to comment. "About two seconds ago-"

"Other than that, dickhead!"

Richie held his hands out in surrender, for the first time unwilling to start a screaming match with you. 

"You gotta work on that anger," Richie said, almost as though he knew it might infuriate you. He wanted to know what he'd done wrong for you to dislike him so much, but he sure as hell wasn't about to just ask. He had to be the most Richie about it that he could be. "That amount of anger in such a short person isn't healthy. You need an outlet."

"Oh fuck you," you replied, a wave of angry tears almost breaking through. 

"If that's what you need as an outlet-"

"No!" you shouted back, interrupting that train of speech before it could even depart the station. "I just don't know why you hate me so much. What did I do wrong?"

You were now around the other side of Carmy's desk, leaning the back of your legs against it as Richie stood a few feet in front of you. He looked at you, right in the eye, and a confused look washed over his face.

"Who told you I hate you?" he asked, softness in his voice. 

You shrugged. "It's felt like it for as long as I've been here. I only give as good as I get because it feels like you hate me."

Your voice was quiet and low, Richie almost struggled to hear you. This was about to be the first actual chat you two had partaken in since meeting, hopefully the first to not end in a fight. He let out the smallest chuckle, baffled by your statement.

"I thought you hated me," Richie spoke to you, hoping his words might get through. "I thought when you got here that you didn't like me. You got on so well with everyone else, even Chi Chi and shit, but me? I felt like we didn't talk because I did something wrong."

"No," you said. "No, you never did. I never talked to you because you were always engaged in arguing with other people. I never got the chance to say hello."

"You know I don't hate you, right?" Richie asked, like a child with a question about the universe. His voice was gentle, but it was a rhetorical question. "I hate the idea of you."

"How is that any better?"

"Hey, hear me out," he recovered his train of thought. "Hear me. I hate the idea of you because you were a breath of fresh air for this place. It has been gritty and shitty for so long, even before Carmy took over, but now he wants to change everything and you were a change and-"

"Fuck, Richie what the hell?"

"And I just panicked. Thought you were gonna be some professional chef or something! I hate that shit, I hate Carmy and his Noma shit, thinkin' he knows fuckin' everything. That is not what this place is meant to be!"

Your voices were now raising above the previous level, and clearly you were both getting irate. The civility had no chance of lasting long anyway, but it died quicker than you thought it might. 

"You can't just hate me because of some preconceived mess you have going on inside your brain, that shit hurts."

Richie chimed back. "Well fuck, I didn't mean it to!"

You were practically at the top of your lungs now. "Well it did!"

Then, the room fell silent.

Richie had taken two strides forward, his arms wrapping around your waist as his body pushed you back against the desk. Richie's hands held your face, and with such gentle touch he tilted your head up to him and kissed you. His lips were so soft, and the kiss was slow and calm despite the fiery feelings between you moments ago. 

You kissed him back, relaxing into him as your arms found a home around his neck. Dragging your fingers across his scalp, hearing a small groan come from him. Richie was the first to pull back, but not far at all. Instinctively, you jumped onto the tabletop, wrapping your legs around his torso. He rested his forehead against yours, one of his hands winding through your hair to push it out of your face. Opening your eyes, you found him looking at you with a completely new vibe. 

"Richie," you whispered out, still not quite over what just happened. "Jesus."

"Leave you breathless did I, sweetheart?" he smiled at you, a kind smile this time. "Considering how much you've clearly been thinking about me I'd say you liked it."

"How would you know I have been thinking about you?" you asked out of genuine curiosity. "Stroking your ego again, Richie?"

He laughed, the insults starting again but already feeling lighter. He leaned in closer to you, kissing you on your neck and lifted his head. Lowly, he spoke into your ear. 

"You can draw me from memory. That tells me enough."

Richie leaned back in and kissed you again, this time with far more passion and care. You weren't going to argue, nor were you going to complain. You were enjoying every minute of it, if you were to be honest to yourself. His hands found their way beneath your shirt, but went no further than just the skin on your waist. You kept him close with your legs, just savouring being here.

"This is not the outcome I expected," you admitted, and you felt Richie chuckle. 

"Are you complaining?" he asked, a playful tone lacing his words. 

"In a move that has shocked both me and the rest of the nation, no I am not complaining."

Richie let out a proper laugh, a full and happy laugh. It sounded so nice, it was the same kind fo laugh he had when his favourite customers were in, or when he was on the phone to Eva. That's how you know it was real. 

"Well then, sweetheart, come here."

In the aftermath of it all, you were just trying to move on.

While the very fabric of Hawkins seemed permanently frayed, you’d made a conscious, deliberate choice: you were going to have a normal year. Or the closest approximation possible in a town with a permanent, weeping scar to another dimension running through its center. You applied to colleges far from Indiana, threw yourself into the mindless rhythm of volleyball practice, and buried your nose in textbooks. You attended the somber, emergency Party meetings at the renovated Surfer Boy Pizza (now unofficially dubbed "The Squawk"), but your contributions were polite, minimal. You were a satellite, orbiting the core of trauma that bound Mike, Lucas, Dustin, and El together. You wanted to remain unblemished. You wanted to survive.

And it was Dustin Henderson himself who had made sure of it.

Since the third grade, when you’d defended his careful, scientific explanation of a tadpole’s lifecycle against Tommy H.’s ridicule, Dustin had been your best friend. He was the brilliant, fast-talking nucleus of your world. You’d weathered his lisp, his awkward growth spurts, and his obsession with Hammer of Dawn together. He’d been fiercely protective, your personal knight in a baseball cap, using his wit as both a sword and a shield for you. When the weirdness started, he’d been the one to insist, with uncharacteristic severity, “You stay out of it. It’s not like a D&D campaign. The monsters are real, and I… I can’t have you on the board.” He’d code-named you “CIVILIAN” in his walkie-talkie logs. It had stung, but you understood. He was trying to keep a part of his world safe, clean, normal. During sleepovers in Mike's basement, he shared a sleeping bag with you, holding your hand when nightmares of demo-dogs and red-clouded skies plagued you. He was soft with you. Careful.

But that was before Eddie.

The Dustin who came back from the Battle of Hawkins wasn’t just grieving. He was fundamentally rearranged. The quick, gleaming smile was now a rare, brittle artifact. The endless stream of theories had dried up, replaced by a simmering, acidic silence. His humor had curdled into sarcasm, and his protectiveness had warped into something colder: dismissal.

Even now, sitting at the table in the cafeteria with your friends, you felt the sting of Dustin's complete indifference. But.. you had to persevere. He wouldn't let you be involved, so you had to find other ways to progress in your life. You were moving on. Being kept at arms length tended to force a person.

Turning to Will and Mike, you smiled.

“Guess what, guys?” you said, the forced excitement in your voice a little too bright.

Will smiled politely back, always kind, while Mike looked up from pushing his peas around his tray, his expression one of mild, distracted curiosity.

You took a steadying breath, your eyes deliberately skipping over Dustin, who was methodically dissecting a chicken patty as if it were a specimen. “I have a date,” you announced, the words hanging in the air. “This Friday. With Liam.”

Mike’s eyebrows shot up. “Liam? From the baseball team?” He sounded more surprised than judgmental. Will’s smile widened into something more genuine.

“That’s great, (Y/N)! He seems really nice.”

“Yeah,” you pressed on, the script you’d rehearsed tumbling out. “He asked me after chem. We’re just going to the movies. Back to the Future, which, you know, is supposedly safe from other-dimensional interference.” You attempted a light laugh. It fell flat.

The table’s atmosphere shifted. Lucas, sitting next to Dustin, froze mid-bite, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. But the reaction you were painfully, secretly tuned to came from your left.

Dustin’s hands stilled. He didn’t look up. He carefully set his plastic fork down on the tray. The action was too controlled, too quiet. It was the silence before the capacitor discharge.

When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, flat monotone that somehow cut through the cafeteria noise. “Liam Dunlap. His idea of a profound thought is whether to order curly fries or regular.”

He finally lifted his gaze. It wasn’t the cold dismissal you’d grown used to. This was hotter, sharper. A focused, analytical contempt. “He’s the poster boy of mediocrity. But sure. The movies. A classic, boring approach to getting what he wants from you and never speaking again. Fitting.”

Your face flushed hot. "You don't know anything about him!"

Dustin gave a one-shouldered shrug, a gesture so deliberately casual it was an insult in itself. "I know his type. He's a simple script." His eyes flicked over you, and for a split second, the contempt wavered, revealing something raw and pained beneath. "But I guess that's what you're looking for now, right? Something simple. Something safe."

The implication -- that you were choosing mediocrity on purpose, that you were running toward something bland just to get away from him and his complicated, grief-stricken world -- hit its mark.

Will's smile had vanished entirely, replaced by worried discomfort. "Dustin, maybe just... don't," he murmured.

But Dustin wasn't listening. He was locked on you, a storm of bitterness and something else -- something perilously close to jealousy -- brewing behind his eyes. "Have fun on your totally normal, monster-free date, CIVILIAN," he said, spitting the old codename like a curse. He pushed his tray away, the screech of plastic on laminate grating in the sudden silence. "I'm sure it'll be exactly what you wanted."

He stood up, chair legs scraping loudly, and walked away without another word, leaving his half-dissected lunch and the heavy, choking tension behind.

Lucas let out a long, slow breath. "Wow," he said softly. "He's... really not okay."

Mike shook his head, looking from you to Dustin's retreating back. "No," he agreed, his voice grim. "He's not."

You sat there, your own appetite gone, the excitement of your announcement completely shattered. The victory of moving on felt hollow and ash-tasting. Because Dustin's cruel, precise words had done the one thing he was always brilliant at: they'd found the fault line in your logic, the secret fear you hadn't even voiced to yourself.

And he'd hammered it wide open.

Without another word, your face burning hot, you scrambled up from your seat and left.

You'd called your mom and got yourself excused for the rest of the day. You had last period with Dustin, and you weren't sure you could stomach another flaying. He'd been more of an asshole lately, but he'd never gone in that hard on you. It made you want to disappear into the floor and burn into the core of the earth. You'd been patient with him, accepting, and supportive. You knew losing Eddie was hard for him, especially in the manner he'd been taken. It changed Dustin. But grief, in your opinion, was a process, and you didn't think he'd be this way forever.

But then again.. you'd also never thought he'd direct the rage towards you either.

In your room, you considered cancelling the date. You considered letting it go, letting things cool down and pretending they were normal. But the idea of it burned your stomach. You were taught to be yourself, to lead your life the way you wanted to. You couldn't let Dustin direct the rest of your choices just because the ones you made upset him. So, you got ready for Liam to pick you up at 8PM.

You curled your hair. You put on a little bit of makeup, inky black mascara and sticky pink lip gloss. You put a dress on and your most un-scuffed Mary Janes.

The doorbell rang at 8:03 PM, its cheerful chime a sharp contrast to the turmoil in your stomach. You took one last look in the mirror -- a girl playing at normalcy in her pretty dress and shiny shoes -- and went downstairs.

Liam stood on the porch, a bouquet of grocery store daisies in hand. “Wow, you look pretty,” he said, his smile easy and uncomplicated.

“Thanks,” you said, forcing a smile of your own. The words tasted like sawdust.

The date was a perfectly curated slice of the normal life you’d been chasing. He was polite, held doors, made light conversation about school and sports. At the movies, he laughed in all the right places. It was pleasant. It was fine.

It was agony.

Every second felt like a performance. Your mind, traitorously, kept drifting. During a lull in the film, you found yourself staring at the empty seat beside you and imagining Dustin there. He’d have whispered running commentary, dissecting the time-travel paradoxes with passionate indignation, his arm warm and solid against yours in the shared armrest. With Liam, there was just a polite, careful space between you.

The “nice”ness of it all began to feel like a suffocating blanket. When Liam’s hand accidentally brushed yours reaching for popcorn, you didn’t feel a spark -- you felt a vague, embarrassed jolt, like touching a static-filled doorknob. His conversation was a flat, featureless plain after the treacherous, fascinating mountains of Dustin’s mind.

Dustin’s cruel, precise words from the cafeteria echoed in your head, not as an insult now, but as a bleak diagnosis you were confirming with every passing minute. Poster boy of mediocrity. A simple script. You were living it.

“That was really fun,” Liam said as he pulled up to your house later, the engine idling. The rain had started, a light mist that blurred the streetlights. “Maybe we could go to the arcade next weekend? I’m pretty good at Dig Dug.”

You looked at his kind, hopeful face, and a wave of profound guilt washed over you. He was nice. He didn’t deserve to be someone’s rebound from a complicated, grieving genius. He didn’t deserve to be a prop in your failed attempt to outrun your own heart.

You had to lie, though.

"Sure. We'll have to figure out a plan." You smiled falsely. Then, you climbed out of his car as quickly as you could. Before he could awkwardly kiss you or something.

“See you Monday!” Liam called after you, his voice tinged with a hopeful confusion you couldn’t bear to examine.

You gave a weak wave without looking back, your wet Mary Janes slapping against the pavement as you hurried to your front door. The moment you were inside, the polite façade crumbled. You sagged against the closed door, the silence of the house a stark contrast to the riot in your head. The rain hit the roof loudly, sheets of it pouring down.

You’d done it. You’d gone on the date. You’d been perfectly, painfully normal. And it had been a complete and total farce.

The guilt was a physical weight, heavy and sour in your stomach. Liam was nice. He was fine. And you had just used him -- as a test, as a distraction, as a blunt instrument to try and prove a point to a boy who wasn’t even there. Dustin’s voice echoed, not in scorn now, but in tragic accuracy: A classic, boring approach.

Being normal, erasing the past year of your life, was wounding you more than it was healing anything.

As you gathered yourself enough to walk away from the door, you heard a knock. More like a slam. Heavy, aggressive, and demanding attention.

Your heart, already pounding from the frantic escape from Liam’s car, now slammed against your ribs like a trapped bird. Through the distorted fisheye lens of the peephole, the world was a warped, rain-blurred nightmare.

And there he was.

Dustin. He wasn't standing calmly. He was leaning into the door, one fist still raised from the pounding, his shoulders heaving. Rain streamed from his hair, plastering it to his forehead, and poured down the neck of his jacket. This wasn't the cold, dismissive strategist from the cafeteria. This was raw, unfiltered, electrical storm. You fumbled with the lock, your fingers clumsy, and pulled the door open.

The storm rushed in with him. A gust of wind-driven rain and the scent of wet pavement and ozone. He didn't step inside politely. He surged across the threshold, water pooling instantly on the entryway tile.

“You went,” he said, the words not a question but an accusation, ragged and breathless. He was vibrating with a frantic energy. “You actually fucking went.”

“Dustin, you’re soaked--” you started, but he cut you off.

“Did he kiss you?” The question was sharp, desperate. His eyes searched your face, your lips, as if looking for evidence. “At the door? In the car? A stupid, normal, goodnight kiss?”

“No! No, I didn’t--” you stammered, taking a step back from the force of him.

“Why?” he demanded, following you, closing the distance. The controlled monotone was utterly gone, replaced by a voice cracking under the strain. “Why would you do that? After everything I said -- after I showed you -- you still went with Liam Dunlap to watch a movie you’ve seen a hundred times? What is wrong with you?”

You were so confused. And so hurt. It should have made you angry. Instead, it cracked something open inside you. This wasn't scorn. This was panic. This was a system in catastrophic meltdown.

"Why does it matter, Dustin? It's just a stupid date! Friends don't shit on each other for going on dates, they're supposed to support each other!" Your words were pleading for understanding, your voice cracking.

His eyes impossibly darkened, his body heat fighting through the rain-soaked layers of his clothing to seep into you. He smelled like fresh rain, the scent of the cologne he'd borrowed from Eddie a year ago, and the mint gum he always chewed. Your senses were overloaded by him in a different way than they'd ever been.

"Friends," he repeated, the word tasting like ash on his tongue. He let out a short, harsh laugh that held no humor, only self-loathing, and tore his baseball cap from his head, throwing it onto the floor with a slap. "You think this is about friendship?"

He took another step, so close now that you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. The storm outside was a distant echo compared to the one raging in his eyes.

“Do friends,” he began, his voice a low, tortured rasp, “spend three hours researching the migratory patterns of swallowtail butterflies because you mentioned once, once, that you thought they were pretty? Do friends have an entire folder of theories about the Upside Down that they never showed anyone, because the first page has your handwriting on it and a stupid, sappy quote from a Hammer of Dawn lore book?”

Your breath caught. You remembered that. You’d said it offhand in seventh grade.

He saw the recognition in your eyes and a fresh wave of agony washed over his face. “Do friends,” he pressed on, his voice gaining a desperate, shaky momentum, “lie awake after a nightmare and calculate the exact decibel level of your scream, not to diagnose you, but to know how loud they’d have to yell to drown it out for you? Or hold your hand so it stops shaking?"

His voice cracked on the last word, the memory of those shared, silent horrors in Mike's basement hanging between you, more intimate than any touch. The admission was so specific, so Dustin, it bypassed all your defenses.

"All I wanted was to protect you. It's all I've ever wanted," his voice was low, almost a whisper, almost ashamed to admit his faults. "I watched my friend die right in front of me, I-I held him while he bled out," Dustin shuddered, as if the memory was physically hurting him. "If the filth on the other side of these walls ever touched you, I--"

He had to stop, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, they were red-rimmed and lost. "It would kill me. Fuck Vecna.. losing you would kill me quicker. I couldn't survive it. So I thought if I was mean enough, if I made you hate me enough, you'd stay safe. You'd stay over here, in the normal world, where you belong."

He shook his head, a tear finally breaking free and tracing a clean line through the rain on his cheek. "But then you started to actually go. You're going, because of me, and I don't know how to make you stay."

His raw, broken plea hung in the air, heavier than the storm outside. The last piece of the terrible puzzle clicked into place. He wasn't just pushing you away. He was trying to build a moat of anger around you, thinking it would keep the real monsters out. But the only monster you'd been facing was his own grief, wearing a mask of cruelty.

"You can't," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "You can't protect me by hurting me, Dustin. That's not how this works."

"I know!" he cried out, the sound ragged. "I know that now. But it was the only plan I had left. It was a stupid, terrible plan, and it's blowing up in my face. Just like everything else I touch."

He looked down at his hands, as if they were covered in Eddie's blood, in the ash of his own failed schemes. The genius was gone. In his place stood a seventeen-year-old boy who'd seen too much death and was terrified of seeing more. The silence filled the room again. You didn't know how to fix this, you didn't know what he wanted or how to help him. The boy in front of you was broken beyond what you'd even known -- he refused to let you in to see.

As if he'd sobered up, he sniffled, wiping his face.

"I'm sorry for coming here. I'm fucking dumb." He said, his voice hoarse and devastated.

Before you could stop him, he ripped your front door open and walked off the porch, the storm swallowing him up like a wave. The wind and rain fell onto him, soaking through his clothes and drenching his curls even worse than before. The slam of the door echoed in the sudden stillness of your foyer, a final, brutal punctuation to his confession. For a moment, you were frozen, staring at the empty space where he’d stood, the cold, wet imprint of his sneakers the only proof he’d been there at all.

He was leaving. Again. Running back into the storm, carrying all that broken weight with him. The thought was unbearable.

“Dustin!” The cry was torn from your throat. You didn’t stop to grab a coat or shoes. You ran.

You burst out onto the porch, the rain immediately needling your skin, soaking through your socks. He was already halfway down the walk, a dark, hunched silhouette against the rain-smeared glow of the streetlights.

“Dustin!”

He didn’t turn, just kept walking with a terrible, determined purpose, as if he could outpace his own pain.

You sprinted after him, the cold pavement biting your feet. You caught up to him at the edge of your yard, your hand shooting out to grab his sodden sleeve. “Stop! Please!”

He turned around, his face confused and dripping with anguish.

"What the hell are you doing? You're gonna get--"

Before he could finish his sentence, you thrust yourself into his arms, pressing your head to his chest in attempt to cement him to your own body. You shook violently -- both from the cold and the devastation you felt when you thought about him walking away again.

Finally, your own tears poured, blending in with the rain but making your face hot.

"Please," you sobbed. "Don't leave. You can be mean. You can yell and take it all out on me. But I don't want to be alone anymore."

The raw need in your voice finally cleaved through the last of his resolve. The angry, determined mask he’d worn to walk away shattered completely.

His arms, which had hung stiffly at his sides, came around you in a convulsive grip, pulling you so tightly against him you could feel the frantic hammering of his heart even through his soaked jacket. He buried his face in the crook of your neck. His arms, hugging you so tightly, broke the dam you'd built when he'd first started shutting you out.

You cried, loudly and wholly, gripping his clothes like they were your only life line. Your ribs popped with heavy sobs.

He held you through it. He didn’t shush you or tell you it was okay. He just held on, his own silent tears joining the rain soaking your shoulder, his hands moving in slow, shaky circles on your back. He was rocking you, just slightly, a wordless rhythm against the storm.

When the worst of the sobs subsided into shuddering gasps, he finally spoke, his voice a wrecked, tender rasp against your ear.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone. You’re not.”

He said it over and over, a quiet litany against your hair, until the words began to sink past the cold and the hurt, warming something deep and frozen inside you. Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to see your face. His own was pale and streaked, his eyes swollen, but his gaze was steady. He framed your face with his cold, wet hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a reverence that made you want to cry all over again. Then, he reached down to thread your fingers into his and lead you back to the front door. Back to the warmth and dryness inside.

The transition from the chaotic, soaking chill of the storm to the quiet, still warmth of your foyer was jarring. You stood dripping on the mat, the only sound the heavy plink of water from your clothes onto the tile and the distant drum of rain on the roof. Shivers wracked both of you uncontrollably.

Dustin still hadn’t let go of your hand. He looked down at your joined fingers, then at the puddle forming around your bare feet. His practical mind seemed to flicker back online, cutting through the emotional haze.

“You need to get dry,” he said, his voice rough but purposeful. “Right now. Hypothermia will only make us more miserable.”

He led you, not into the living room, but straight to the downstairs bathroom He knew your house better than his own at times. He grabbed a thick stack of towels from the linen closet, his movements efficient. Wordlessly, he wrapped one around your shoulders like a cape, its fluffy warmth a shock against your icy skin. He used another to gently blot at your hair, his touch surprisingly careful.

“Arms up,” he instructed softly, and you complied, still trembling. He peeled your soaked sweatshirt over your head, leaving you in a damp t-shirt. He did the same with his own jacket and hoodie, discarding the sodden layers in a heap on the floor. He was down to a t-shirt too, and you could see the goosebumps racing over his skin.

He knelt in front of you, taking your foot in his hand. “Socks are a lost cause,” he muttered, peeling the ruined fabric from your feet one at a time. He grabbed a fresh, smaller towel and began to briskly rub your feet, his warm hands chasing away the deep, aching cold. The simple, domestic care of it was more intimate than any kiss could have been in that moment.

Once you were both as dry as he could manage with towels, he led you to the living room couch. He pulled the afghan from the back and wrapped it tightly around you, tucking the edges in. Then he sat beside you, pulling another blanket over himself.

For a long time, you just sat there in silence, side by side, listening to the storm fade to a gentle patter. The shivering slowly subsided, replaced by a heavy, exhausted warmth. The emotional avalanche had passed, leaving a strange, quiet peace in its wake.

The ache in your chest pushed you to speak.

"What did you mean? When you said.. this wasn't about friendship?" You said, your voice quiet and ashamed to break the peaceful silence.

The quiet in the room seemed to deepen, growing heavier with the weight of your question. Dustin didn't answer right away. He kept his gaze fixed on the dark window, his profile stark in the dim light. You could see the muscles in his jaw working.

Finally, he let out a long, slow breath, a cloud of warmth in the cool air.

"When you had that nightmare at Mike's.. you could've gone to anybody. You could've gone to El. Her bed was right next to yours," he said, his voice still hoarse from crying. "Or Lucas. He was to the left of you. But you came all the way across the room. You had to jump over Max's sleeping bag and you tripped four times. But you came to me. You got in my bed and you fell asleep holding my hand."

There was a fondness in his eyes, a refreshing fondness that was so rare lately. The line of his lips was softer, its usual frown nearly gone.

"It was the most loved I'd ever felt. I felt so special and so.. needed." His voice softened, the raw edge of confession smoothing into something more wistful, more tender. "I didn't sleep the rest of that night. Not a wink. I just... laid there. Listening to you breathe. Feeling your fingers twitch in mine. And I thought... this is it. This is my place. Right here. Being the one you reach for in the dark."

He looked down at his hands, as if he could still feel yours in them. The fondness faded, replaced by a quiet, profound sorrow. "And then Eddie died. And the dark wasn't just in our heads anymore. It was everywhere. And my place... it didn't feel safe anymore. It felt like a target. I thought if I was the one you reached for, I'd just get you killed too."

His eyes moved from his hands onto you, soft but mournful.

"I was scared. But even then.. I was so sickeningly in love with you. I am." He whispered into the air, as if he didn't want you to hear it. "I have been since third grade."

His confession hung in the air, so quiet it was almost stolen by the soft patter of rain on the roof. I have been since third grade. It wasn't a dramatic declaration. It was a simple, devastating fact, laid bare after years of being buried under layers of friendship, shared trauma, and his own stubborn fear.

The words settled in the space between you, warm and heavy. You didn't move, barely breathed, afraid to break the spell. He had finally said it -- the truth that had been the silent bedrock of your entire relationship.

"Why third grade?"

A faint, rueful smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained closed. "Tommy H. was making fun of my tadpole speech. You stepped in front of me, hands on your hips, and told him off." He let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. "You were so mad. Your face was all red. I just remember thinking that you were so cool.

You couldn't help the soft, tearful laugh that escaped you. "I called him a butthead. I don't think that qualifies."

“It did to me,” he said, his voice impossibly soft. He finally opened his eyes, and they held yours with a gravity that stole the breath from your lungs. “You were my first. Before the Party, before any of this… it was you. Standing between me and the world.”

He shifted on the couch, turning his body fully toward you. The blanket slipped from his shoulders, but he didn’t seem to notice. “And then you just… stayed. Through everything. Through my toothless lisp, through my weird growth spurts, through the demogorgons and the Mind Flayer and… and all of it. You stayed.”

He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, a touch so reverent it made your heart ache.

"After Eddie…” His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “After Eddie, the only thing that felt more real than the grief was how much I loved you. And it terrified me. Because loving something that much, in a world with monsters… something was going to take you away. So I tried to push you away so it couldn't.”

A tear, silent and perfect, rolled down his cheek. He didn’t brush it away. “But you’re not safe anywhere else. And I’m not safe without you. I see that now. I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m sorry I was so cruel. I'm a dumbass.”

He nudged closer to you. The scent of him enveloped you.

"I'm an idiot. I was too scared to tell you the truth. Eddie even told me to. While he was fucking dying."

The new confession hit like a physical blow. The air rushed from your lungs. Eddie even told me to. While he was fucking dying.

You could see it. The tragic, bloody scene you'd only heard about in vague, hushed terms from the others. Eddie, his life bleeding out into the Upside Down's poisoned soil, and Dustin, holding him, broken. And in those final moments, amidst the chaos and the fear, Eddie had used his last breath not for himself, but to push the boy he saw as a little brother towards a future. Towards you.

And Dustin had carried that final wish like a curse, letting it fester into something cruel.

"Dustin," you breathed, the word barely a whisper. Your heart cracked wide open for him all over again. For the boy who’d lost his hero, who’d been given a final, loving command he felt he’d failed before he even began.

He was crying in earnest now, silent tears tracking through the earlier streaks on his face, his shoulders shaking with the force of a grief so profound it had twisted his love into something unrecognizable. "He said... he said, 'Don't be a fucking coward, Henderson. Tell her.'" A ragged sob tore from him. "And I was. I was a coward. I let him down. I let you down. I'm so, so sorry."

You knew the apology wasn't just for you. He was calling out for his friend, hoping he'd hear. Your heart wrenched. You didn't try to shush him. You didn't offer empty platitudes. Instead, you shifted, pulling him with you until you were both lying down on the couch, facing each other in the dim light. You kept your arms around him, holding him close, letting him cry it out against your shoulder -- the grief for Eddie, the guilt over his words, the sheer, exhausting relief of finally telling the truth.

After a long while, the violent shaking subsided into occasional hiccuping shudders. He was spent, hollowed out. You gently wiped his face with the edge of the afghan, your touch as soft as you could make it.

"He would be so proud of you," you said quietly, your voice certain in the stillness.

Dustin sniffled, his eyes searching yours, wanting to believe. "For what? For being an asshole for a year and half?"

"No. For being brave." You said simply.

Dustin's eyes softened further. He leaned into your touch, the feeling of him coming closer almost suffocating. Pleasantly so. The cool steel of the rings on his fingers met your skin as he placed a hand on the side of your face. The touch of the metal against your cheek was a shock of sensation, grounding and electric all at once. It was a distinctly Eddie detail on Dustin's hand, a piece of the friend he carried with him, now offered to you as part of himself. His thumb stroked your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your breath catch.

"You're the brave one," he whispered, his voice rough but clear. "You called me on my bullshit. You ran into the rain in your socks." A faint, wobbly smile touched his lips. "That was maybe the most grit I've ever seen. And I've seen El throw cars with her mind."

You let out a soft, watery laugh. "It got your attention, didn't it?"

"Yeah," he breathed, his smile growing just a fraction more sure. "Yeah, it did." His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, a silent question hanging in the space between you. There was a string of tension between the two of you, tightened by Dustin's gentle hand and his intense stare.

His thumb stilled its gentle stroking, resting against the curve of your cheekbone as if holding himself back by that single point of contact.

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. The faint, wobbly smile had vanished, replaced by a look of raw, unguarded need. "I want to kiss you," he breathed, the words barely audible, more a confession of a desperate state than a request. "If it's okay. I know I'm not a Steve or a Lucas, but I--"

You didn't let him finish the self-deprecating comparison. You leaned in and closed the distance, silencing him with the softest press of your lips to his.

It was just a whisper of a kiss, but it was enough to make him freeze, a sharp intake of breath the only sound he made. When you pulled back, just an inch, his eyes were wide, stunned, his lips slightly parted.

"You're not Steve or Lucas," you whispered, your breath mingling with his. "You're Dustin. That's all I've ever wanted."

That was all the permission, the roadmap, he needed.

A sound escaped him -- relief -- and then his mouth was on yours. The hesitancy was gone, burned away by the certainty of your words. This kiss wasn't gentle or questioning. It was deep, and hungry, and full of a year's worth of suppressed longing. It was the kiss he'd been too scared to give, the one he'd imagined in a thousand quiet moments. His hands came up to cradle your face, his rings cool against your skin, anchoring you to him as he kissed you with a focused, passionate intensity that left you dizzy.

His hands moved to your hips, lifting you onto his lap so that he could feel you closer, so he could cover himself with you.

The world narrowed to the points of contact: his hands firm on your hips, the solid weight of his thighs beneath you, the desperate, searching pressure of his mouth. He kissed you like a man discovering water after a long drought -- with a grateful, consuming intensity that stole the breath from your lungs and the thoughts from your head. Every place your bodies met felt electric, charged with the pent-up longing of years.

One of his hands slid up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades to press you even closer, until there was no space left between you. The other hand remained on your hip, his thumb making slow, possessive circles on the fabric of your sweatpants. He broke the kiss only to drag his lips along your jaw, down the column of your throat. You wondered how he was so good. To your knowledge, he'd never actually kissed a girl.

When you finally came up for air, both of you panting, your foreheads resting together, his eyes were dark and blazing with a possessive wonder you’d never seen in them before. Yours were blown with shock and hazed with love.

"Where the hell did you learn that?" You laughed breathlessly.

A slow, smug, utterly Dustin smirk spread across his kiss-swollen lips. The rawness in his eyes shifted into something more familiar --mischievous intelligence.

“Research,” he said, his voice a low, pleased rumble against your mouth. He kissed you again, quick and soft. “Extensive theoretical research.”

You pulled back just enough to raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Theoretical?”

He shrugged, the motion making you sway gently in his lap. His hands stayed firmly on your hips, anchoring you. “I read a lot. Watched movies. Analyzed the data.” His smirk softened into something more sincere, more vulnerable. “And I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. About you. The practical application was just… waiting for the right variables to align.”

You laughed again, kissing his cheek, then his jaw, then his neck.

"You're a nerd. More than that. A geek."

He tipped his head back with a soft sigh, giving you better access to his neck, a shudder running through him at the press of your lips against his skin. "Your geek," he corrected, his voice thick with pleasure. His hands slid from your hips to your lower back, pressing you even more firmly against him. "And you love it. Admit it. You love that I overanalyzed kissing you for, like, a huge portion of my adolescence."

You nipped lightly at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, feeling him jump beneath you. "I love you," you murmured against his skin, the words vibrating through him. "The overanalysis is just a… charming bonus."

He let out a laugh, his fingers tightening in the fabric of your shirt. "Charming. See? You're already adapting to the parameters." He guided your face back up to his, his eyes sparkling. "This is going to be the most well-documented, peer-reviewed relationship in the history of Hawkins."

"Shut up, dork." You smirked.

“Make me,” he challenged, his voice dropping to a low, playful growl, his eyes dancing with the dare.

You didn’t need to be told twice. You captured his mouth with yours, kissing him with a fervor that was all the answer he needed. He met you with equal passion, his hands moving to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as he kissed you back, deep and sure. The laughter faded into something richer, hotter, a shared current of joy and desire that hummed between you.

════════════════════════ You found Steve obnoxious, there was no way around it. He was always too loud, too eager to command attention, and incapable of not making things about himself. For example, when he suggested his house for Christmas dinner because it was bigger,

It was sweet that he wanted to do this, that he took the kids seriously, that giving them a memorable Christmas was so important to him.

Even so, you weren't sure you would pull it off. 

The kitchen —his kitchen— was a mess of flour, bowls, spoons, and the thawing turkey you didn’t want to think about.

Okay, no, you needed to think about it. Forgetting to thaw the turkey was one thing, but being such a bad cook and not following instructions properly? That bordered on sinful.

And he found it oh so funny, cheeks flushed and white teeth bare for everyone, in this case just you, to see.

You had to stand close to him as you called your house, hoping your mom would give you good news regarding the still-frozen turkey. He lowered the volume of the Christmas music he insisted needed to be playing throughout the day, and leaned against the counter, looking at you.

For a moment you wondered if he’d finally follow your instructions, if perhaps he was looking at you expecting some kind of guidance. Such a notion left your mind as soon as it arrived when he reached over and sprinkled flour on top of your hair.

As you hung up the phone, you sighed deeply and glared at him. “Why don’t you finish with the decorations, hm?”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Are you kicking me out of my kitchen?”

“No, not at all, but the decorations are halfway done,” you said, trying not to grit your teeth, “and everyone will be here sooner than we need them to be.”

His eyes were barely slits as you finished your explanation, but then, miraculously, he shrugged. “Won’t take long!” he announced as he left the kitchen.

You let out a relieved breath and put yourself to work, cleaning up the mess so you would have a blank slate. In no time, you had made the big kitchen your own, setting the timer for 30 minutes so you could change the cold water on the turkey while measuring flour for the cookies.

Steve turned the music up as you mixed the cookie dough, but you didn’t have it in you to complain. It was his house.

Now, Steve couldn’t stand you himself. Eternally sweet and kind, seemingly so innocent, always the favorite of the kids even though he was the one who drove them around, the one who gave them advice. But no, you, with your cooking, and your smile, and your stupid sense of self-preservation, were the favorite.

He puffed air through his mouth, trying to get a strand of hair off his forehead as he gauged the order he would hang the stockings in. 

There was almost no sound apart from the music and the occasional sound of a bowl hitting the sink or the pouring of liquid as you changed the water to thaw the turkey. 

As he finished decorating, he stood in the middle of the living room, admiring his work. His house had never looked so inviting, so warm.

Silently, he approached the kitchen. 

You were washing a whisk and he watched as you meticulously dried it, wire by wire. Once seemingly happy, you grabbed a bowl against your body and started whisking something.

Every few seconds, you changed the direction in which you whisked, checking the mixture by lifting the whisk and inspecting it. Unlike his, your hair remained away from your face, letting him see every detail of your expression.

You set the bowl down, dropped the whisk onto the sink, and washed your hands. Once you turned around, wiping your palms on your red apron, you became aware of his presence.

Steve stood at the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Should I leave the tree for the kids?”

You considered the question. “Maybe just set up the lights and we’ll let them arrange the ornaments?”

He nodded at your suggestion but made no move to leave. You looked away. You heard him sigh, and he lingered, but he eventually went back to the living room.

When the turkey was finally in the oven, you stuck your head out of the kitchen, wondering what he was doing.

Steve was sitting on the living room floor, using the coffee table as a gift-wrapping station. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he folded the paper.

As to not startle him, you cleared your throat. “I told you I could do it.”

“You kicked me out of my kitchen,” he defended himself, as if you had it out for him, “I needed to do something!”

You picked up a gift, wrapped in blue paper with Santa Claus images. You didn’t find anything wrong as you turned the gift in your hold to inspect. “Wow.”

“Give me some credit, will you?”

Perhaps for the first time that evening, you truly looked at him. His cheeks were flushed, hair disheveled which was so unlike him you stared for a little too long. “You, uh, you did a good job with these.”

He blinked up at you. The bitterness from his voice was gone as he mumbled, “Thanks.”

You scurried off back to the kitchen, busying yourself with mashed potatoes. As you heated the milk and cream, you decided that Steve was frustrating on top of his obnoxiousness.

No matter how much you tried to be cordial with him, he always glared at you and made stupid comments about how he should be everyone's favorite. Something he already was. 

Opening cupboards, you searched for something to serve appetizers on. You found trinkets you'd never seen before, enough molds to fill up a small house, and three different incomplete collections of knives, but never a serving platter.

You hesitated for a moment. Then, in a few steps, you stood at the doorway and called out, “Steve?” 

He whirled around, a silver bow in hand.

“Where are the serving platters?” 

“Uhmm.” He scratched the back of his head with his bow-less hand. “I dunno.”

“Well,” you said, giving him a reassuring smile. “I'll find something.”

Steve only stared at you, and didn't even attempt to say something. 

You tried your best not to scowl at him and went back to searching 

You didn't understand what you did to him. He was the only person from the group who disliked you this much — he was also the one you spent most time with. Because of the kids.

And because of the kids, you put that aside as soon as they arrived. They immediately invaded the kitchen, demanding snacks and looking around at everything you had cooked.

You might have become the actual favorite the moment you pulled out cookies to decorate. However, the inevitable happened and they invited Steve to take part.

He was bad at it. Disastrously bad. And the kids loved it. They laughed at him and with him as he decorated cookies with 5-year-old-like skills.

Steve smiled triumphantly when you announced the icing needed to dry up and the kids groaned. Ever the savior, he suggested they should finish putting up the tree with him.

Dustin was the first to follow, as expected, but none of them showed any resistance. 

You wasted time decorating a few cookies and cleaning. Steve and you had agreed that homemade appetizers would be unnecessary, so now you were just waiting for the turkey to be done.

With a soft sigh, you started setting up the table. As you arranged the plates, you felt eyes on you, but nobody offered to help you. Not that you expected them to do so. They were having the time of their lives decorating the tree and yelling at each other not to ruin their hard work. 

As you glanced at the clock, you wondered if anybody else would show up. You had a feeling they wouldn’t. 

You waited almost an hour, and sure enough, your feeling was right. No one even called to apologize. Steve didn’t seem bothered by it.

Setting the carving board next to the turkey, you attempted to transfer it. You almost splashed yourself in turkey juices and fat from the butter. 

“Steve?” you called out.

“What is it?”

You groaned. Couldn’t he have the decency to enter the kitchen to acknowledge you? “Come.”

His groan was louder than yours, as if he was making a spectacle of his annoyance. 

His attitude changed as he approached you and realized what was going on. “Let me,” he said quietly.

You nodded and stepped to the side. “Do you want to carve it on the table, or…?”

“Yeah.” He transferred the turkey onto the board with ease. Maybe he had done this before. 

“I’ll get started with the gravy, then. Won’t take too long.”

He nodded. “I’ll make ‘em wash their hands.”

“Please.”

Steve instructed the kids to wash their hands. For once, they didn’t complain and made a line at the bathroom sink.

You served them their sides in the order they sat at the table, and Steve carved the turkey and drizzled the gravy on top.

Once everyone was sitting at the table, you started to consider Steve and you hadn’t done a bad job. From your seat, you had a perfect view of the decorations in the living room and the colorful tree next to the fireplace.

Moving to the living room, you sat near the window. Fog danced around the lights outside, pushed by the wind.

The kids suggested a few games and Steve and you shared a look but nonetheless agreed. First, you played a game that Dustin won, and Max demanded a rematch that she still lost. 

A beat passed, and then Dustin, who couldn’t help himself, blurted, “Can we open our gifts?”

“No,” Steve and you said at the same time.

Then, you added,” Your parents wouldn’t like it if we let you do that.”

Steve nodded in jerky movements. “And speaking about your parents… it’s getting late.”

“It’s not!” they stubbornly insisted.

“We still have to clean up,” Steve explained, “and I gotta drive her home later.”

You tried to hide your surprise. He would drive you home? Since when did he care enough to bother?

“Now pick up your gifts and jackets, and get in the car.”

You laughed upon hearing the kids complain. Steve had a point, it was, in fact, getting late for the kids to be out, and the night would only grow colder.

You packed their cookies in sandwich bags and handed them to them as they exited the house, wishing them a Merry Christmas.

It took them a lot of effort to point out it wasn’t Christmas yet and to mention they would see you the next day. You appreciated that they didn’t shatter the illusion.

While Steve drove them home, you transferred leftovers to containers and washed dishes. It felt strange now that you were all alone, in a home that wasn’t your own, cleaning the kitchen of someone who disliked you. 

At least you had managed to work together for the day. You would count it as progress if you didn’t know he only did it for the kids. But that was still something.

On Steve’s part, he was dreading putting the decorations away and pretending nothing had happened. All his hard work, and the kids’, would only be immortalized in the few photographs he got to take. He wasn’t even a good photographer.

Once he was back, he removed his jacket and dropped his keys with a sigh. The kitchen island was full of lukewarm food and you were at the sink, scrubbing a pot.

“Need help?” he offered.

“Nah. Almost done.”

He stood beside you, watching as you took care of the pot his mom barely used like it was your own. As he lifted his gaze to the backsplash, he realized you had cleaned it up too.

“Just have to scrub the stove. It won’t take long,” you assured him, rinsing the pot. 

Steve absentmindedly dried the pot while you disassembled the stovetop. He had never seen anyone do that. He logically knew stoves had to be disassembled and cleaned, yes, but he had never cared enough about it to go out of his way to watch someone do it.

He put the pot away in its place and focused on your face as you treated the stovetop with even more care than the pot. 

For a moment, he just watched you, until he saw the grates on the sink. Rolling up his sleeves, he grabbed a sponge and started scrubbing them.

“You’ll ruin your sweater.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Steve, it’s okay, I can do it.”

“I can do it too.”

You sighed. “If it gets too much, just—” “It’s just two grates.”

That shut you up. 

Both of you worked in silence until the kitchen was spotless. Turning the light off, he rested his hand on your upper back to guide you back into the living room.

You stood at the threshold in silence, admiring the decorations once more—the inviting lights, the fun colors, the sweet faces in the ceramic figurines—but you were sad that they would all soon be thrown into boxes.

“You did good today,” you admitted. “They loved it.”

“So did you.” His hand remained on your back as he angled his body to face you. “I thought we wouldn’t pull it off.” 

You looked up at him and nodded. “So did I.”

He huffed a laugh. It wasn’t much, but his eyes sparkled with something. He looked so approachable and you found yourself wishing he was always like this with you, that he would let you see the person the kids adored.

“Steve, I…”

He rested his free hand on the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek. “It’s okay.”

“No.” You shook your head for emphasis, and in consequence, nuzzled against his hand. Purely by mistake. “I’m sorry for kicking you out of your kitchen.”

This time he laughed, warmly. He readjusted his hand to cup your cheek, thumb resting on your lips. “Shhh.”

Tracing your bottom lip, Steve said, “Sorry for being a dick.”

“It’s your house.” Your voice was barely audible. You didn’t remember ever feeling shy, much less nervous around Steve. Yet here you were.

He tapped your bottom lip. “I meant in general.”

What were you supposed to say? That he had his reasons? That you didn’t mind? That you were too distracted by his closeness, and perhaps too comfortable, to care?

The lights from the tree, only a couple of feet from you, cast a gentle glow, making the room seem and feel warmer than it was. You entertained the idea that you wouldn’t even be cold outside with Steve so close.

“So?” he pressed gently, “is my apology accepted?”

You nodded, eyes once again on his. The shininess of his hear caught the reflection of the colorful Christmas lights as he moved, shoulders shaking with a soft laugh.

“What’s so funny?” you found yourself asking in a teasing manner, lips grazing his thumb as you spoke.

“You’re really pretty.”

“The exhaustion of the day must be getting to you,” you said. And despite that, you felt your cheeks warming up.

Steve brought his other hand up and cradled your face, each hand cupping your cheeks. “I’m being serious.”

“Oh, so this is the part where you say you were being a dick because you like me?”

His answer took you both by surprise, “I don’t know.”

“Steve…”

“I know,” he assured you. “But… maybe…” He let out a sigh. His eyes landed on your lips as he gathered his words. “Can I? Just once?”

You nodded, but he didn’t move until you said, “Yes.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as he leaned in. Steve lowered a hand to your shoulder, still cupping your cheek in his other palm. 

His lips were a little chapped and his kiss tentative. As the newness wore off, the kiss deepened yet remained sweet, gentle despite its firmness. There was no rush to escalate things, nor to part. 

As you both eventually needed air and slowly pulled away, Steve’s hands lingered on you and just then you realized you were grasping his waist.

He smiled, and so did you.

“How about ice cream tomorrow?” His eyes twinkled with hope, overshadowing the glittery ornaments on the tree. 

“Sounds good.”

He dared to peck your lips before adding, “We should probably put all the ornaments away. My mom would hate the colored Christmas lights.”

Despite how sad you found that fact, you nodded and kept it to yourself. “Did you keep the original boxes?”

you take a moment to gather yourself, and you let the sheets ripple under your fingertips as you drag the pads of them against it. the act of it grounds you, helps to pull yourself out of that subspace you'd dropped into.

you'd been doing it for so long that honestly indepently coming down from that post orgasmic high has gotten easier.

taking in a deep breath, you ignore the ache as you stand up with a groan.

there's a pleasant stiffness to your body as you amble around the room for your clothes, and preferably something to wipe up the mess between your legs.

you're not sure if you should use one of eddie's shirts or your own, and you're forced to bend over to search through the discarded clothing that had been tossed haphazardly around the room during the heat of the moment.

"As much as I enjoy seeing you naked, what are you doing?"

you don't startle, throwing him an acknowledging look over your shoulder before finally finding your own shirt to use. you'd probably just end up going home in one of his shirts anyways.

"Cleaning myself up." you state as if it's obvious.

you're sure that's something eddie has already done himself, because he's clad in nothing but black boxers, his once skewed hair tied back in a lazy bun that hangs low at the back of his hickey bruised neck.

"Okay." the 'y' at the end is dragged out incredulously with his eyebrows furrowed, and he places the damp towelette you hadn't seen him holding down on the bed, uncaring to whether or not it gets comforter wet.

"Well... I don't know what you and other people have done after sex, but there's this little thing that I like to do called aftercare." he approaches you slowly, and grabs your hand. "And that doesn't include wiping down with a shirt."

it's strange how easy it is to let him tug you along behind him, to allow him to gently shove you down on the bed. you let out a light giggle when you bounce, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fine." you say softly, but there's no reluctance to it, just a sliver of minute acceptance, though it's riddled in confusion.

not that you didn't know what aftercare was, you weren't an idiot; but a majority of the time after a hookup, they'd just toss you a shirt or a towel to wipe yourself off before taking you home or offering to pay to get you there.

you're as naked as the day you were born, but that doesn't seem to matter when he sits at your hip, turning his body towards you to tug a leg over his waist to open your legs.

there's nothing inherently sexual with the way he rubs at your sore inner thighs, and he casts you an apologetic glance when you let out hiss as the cool cloth finally meets your puffy, heated core.

you flush instinctively. everything about this feels so intimate, from the slow way he's massaging your calves to how he keeps looking up at you through his long, tantalizing eyelashes.

"What?" you murmur through half lidded eyes. you can feel yourself sinking down deeper into his dented mattress. "Nothin'," he mutters, "Just thinkin'." you raise a brow. "About?"

"Nosy." he chides with no bite, and if anything, his smile grows a little bit bigger. "But I'm just surprised 's all. I didn't think you pegged me as the type of guy to just... leave you there."

you reach out to grab one of the hands on your legs, and his rubbing comes to an abrupt stop.

"It's not like that. I just..." you swallow down a lump in your throat. "I'm not used to it. Aftercare isn't something that I did often so, I just didn't expect it from you."

he stares at you for a moment, just searching your face before sighing through his nose.

"Right, well, you're with me now, so look forward to a lot more of this alright?" a tired grin stretches across your face, and a playful finger follows his faux scowl. "And don't think you're getting out of the super sonic amazing cuddles I'm about to bestow upon you, either."

that finally pulls a laugh out of you, and you throw your head back from where it rests on the pillow, feeling lighter than you had the entire night.

"Sounds like plan."

‘’The guy dies at the end. I’ve seen it a thousand times,’’ you said, turning off the tv and moving to get up, but Steve grabbed you and pulled you back on the bed. He pushed his face into your neck and kissed it. ‘’Steeeve…’’ 

Your mom was at her bookclub meeting and Dustin at Mike’s for DnD night. His curfew was at 9pm, so he was going to be there very soon. And if you wanted to keep him out of your business for longer, Steve needed to get going. He’ll stall at the door anyway, trying to get another  — and another — kiss or hug, and end up leaving right as Dustin would turn your street. It was always like that. 

‘’Can’t you come to my place?’’ he asked, his arms wrapped around you and refusing to let go. ‘’Robin went out with Vickie and probably won’t be home until late. If she comes home at all.’’ He kissed under your jaw, and up to your lips. 

You kissed him back, unable to deny him. ‘’I can’t. I have work in the morning and if I stay over at your place, I won’t get any sleep.’’ 

He raised an eyebrow at you. ‘’I keep you up all night?!’’ 

“Yes.” 

The last time you stayed over, you only got three hours of sleep. It may be enough for some people, but even with coffee, getting through your day at work was hell. You almost fell asleep behind the cash register twice. 

A smirk curled on Steve’s face. ‘’Can you blame me?’’

There was a small silence that lingered. Gareth leaned to the side to look at you without his easel obstructing his view. “You said that last year,” he snickered, Looking at you, and then his eyes fell on Jeff who tried his best not to break out into a fit of giggles. 

“And the year before that,” Jeff chimed in, jokingly counting on his long fingers. 

“And the year bef-” 

“I get it,” you cut in gruffly, waving your brush at them and letting the leftover water hit them in the face like a cat and spray bottle.  Gareth and Jeff knew all about your crush on their leader, they teased you at every opportunity but never once revealed your secret. Gareth was the one that formally introduced the two of you during your freshman year. 

“Eddie this is Y/N, she agreed to help with the new Hellfire Club logo,” he introduced in the quiet art room. 

The metal head loomed over you, his beautiful face adorned a small smirk. You clutched your sketches tightly to your chest, afraid of what he’d say about your art. “H-hi,” you greeted, internally cursing yourself at how nervous you sounded. 

He looked you up and down before a small crooked smile appeared, “Hi,” he greeted smoothly. 

“This is my senior year, my last chance to tell him how I feel. This is it,” you sighed as you hunched your shoulders and looked at your blank canvas. 

You managed to chicken out every year, ignoring the rose table and carrying on harboring your crush on Eddie. Your sophomore year, you stood with the red info card in your hand, getting ready to scribble the senior's name when you had the intrusive thought about him laughing in your face. You shoved that card in your back pocket and let your moment with Eddie slip away. Your heart was crushed when you realized he was graduating. 

Fate had stepped in and brought him back the next year, sitting next to you in your sixth period history class. You promised yourself you’d send him a rose, you had to because he spoke confidently to his friends about graduating. When February of ‘85 rolled around you panicked and told fate that they were wrong, he would never like someone like you. He’d laugh at the card telling him you sent it and throw the rose away. Your fear won last year. 

But fate was a frigid  bitch, and you got the opportunity to stare at your long term crush during third period. Third time’s the charm or whatever that saying was, you had to send Eddie a rose.  Time was ticking. 

February 14th, 1986 

You stood nervously in front of the frilly table, picking at the strings of your pink sweater. “Turn it in now and it’ll be delivered during third period,” the girl told you kindly, handing you a red info card and a stubby yellow pencil. Your heart pounded as you stepped away from the crowd and leaned against the brick pillar, looking down at the card that would seal your fate. A small spot for the sender, the receiver, and even a small box for a note were staring at you, taunting you. “I can’t do this,” you whispered to yourself, shaking your head in defeat. 

You went to put the card back when a strong grip around your wrist pulled you away, “Chickening out?” Gareth snickered as you turned to face him, “send the stupid flower, y/n.” 

“What if he laughs at me?” you sighed as he let you go. 

“He won't.” There was a shift in his expression as he spoke, his features had softened and his lips dipped into a small frown. “He’s never gotten one before,” he informed you before walking away, hoping his words would be enough to convince you. 

It was enough. His words echoed in your mind as you wrote down his name and slipped it into the box before your brain could tell you not to. For you, it was hard to believe he’d never received one—there just had to be other girls pining after him and not just you in this town. He deserved the most expensive flowers from the best shop in Hawkins. Eddie Munson deserved the world and a silly high school tradition would be a small effort to prove it. 

After the fear went away, you felt excited to be the one to give him his first rose. You got lost in your daydreams that morning, running through every scenario of how he could react. Would he smile? Effortlessly twirl it and press it to his nose, wondering about its sender? Your thoughts followed you all the way to third period, sitting and waiting. 

Eddie came in a few minutes after, uttering a false compliment to your disgruntled teacher, and sauntered to his desk beside yours. “Hey,” he greeted you as he took a seat, instantly slouching and stretching out his long legs. 

“Hey,” you grinned, sitting up a little straighter. 

The anticipation started to eat at you, your eyes couldn’t stay focused on your notes or the chalkboard, instead, they drifted off towards the door. When the door finally opened, you clenched your pencil a little tighter and bit back a gleeful squeal. The room instantly filled with the smell of the freshly cut roses that lay on the cart, the poor freshman interrupting the teacher. The wrinkly old woman scowled and huffed out a few words before allowing him to pass out roses. 

You shifted slightly in your seat to get a better view of Eddie. You continued to smile bashfully to yourself as the names were called one by one. Some got four and others got two while Chrissy managed to get fifteen. There was one rose left on the rust covered cart. This is it, you thought while you held on to your pencil for dear life. Eddie just sat there, doodling mindlessly in his notebook. 

The freshman looked at the card, his eyes narrowed, then went wide, then narrowed once more as if he was checking to be sure. “Eddie,” he cleared his throat, “E-Eddie Munson.” The brunet’s head snapped up, yet his face was unreadable.  The kid took the flower and skittishly walked over and passed off the flower. Eddie rolled his eyes at the kid's behavior and leaned back, his brown eyes studying the red petals. “There was no sender name…sorry.” 

That’s right. You didn’t put your name on it. You had hoped to save a little of your dignity if he decided to crush your hopes and dreams. It was easier this way, or so you had hoped. 

You could finally breathe once the stem connected with his calloused fingers. “Alright, shows over… where were we?” Your teacher intoned, turning her back to the class and picking up where she left off. You began to relax, allowing yourself to rest your elbows on your desk with your chin resting in the palms of your hand. 

Taking another daring glance, you saw him twirl the flower between his fingers and let the petals fan out. He didn’t look angry, which soothed your nerves but he didn’t crack a smile either. He looked stoic, his low eyebrows were the only thing giving you some kind of hint as to what he was thinking. His body still remained relaxed, his limbs splayed out. He must have hated it. Disgusted at the fact someone would give in to the capitalistic holiday. Your shoulders slumped in defeat and tears of embarrassment had begun to well in your eyes. Good thing you didn’t put your name on the card. 

Eddie’s mind was a mess. He’d seen how this day played out for the past six years, he didn’t mind though. Not getting a silly little rose never bothered him, he was used to girls avoiding him in the hall and on the street. A couple of older girls that came to see him at the Hideout offered him some attention but it was never as innocent as someone giving him flowers. After six years someone finally sent him one just to mock his lack of love life. 

The flower was burning a hole in his hand, he carried it with him to lunch and spun it in his hand while he slowly ate. Hellfire sat around and stared at their leader in awe. “Should we ask?” Mike whispered to Dustin who sat just as confused beside him. The curly haired boy shrugged, unsure of what to do and even more unsure of how Eddie would react. 

“So, Eddie,” Mike coughed, sitting up straighter in his seat. Timid eyes flickered to his half-eaten mystery meat. Eddie’s brown eyes slowly left the soft petals and looked unamused at the freshman. “You, uh, got a rose.” 

Eddie leaned further back in his chair and threw his head back, pressing the rose to his nostrils. “That’s right,” he sighed deeply. “Someone decided to play the ol’ prank on me.” 

Gareth and Jeff shared a glance from across the table. 

“Who would prank you?” Dustin asked with nervous laughter, eyes shifting to the other guys. They all remained silent in fear, Eddie could spring from his seat at any moment and cause one of his famous scenes. He slapped Mike’s shoulder gruffly and gave him a stern glance. 

“Y-yeah.” 

The metal head started to laugh, shaking his head at them. He sat back up and gently placed the rose next to his tray. “Do you see any maidens willingly lining up to have a shot at little ol me? No, boys—I didn’t think so.” Because who would send Eddie the freak a rose willingly?  

“Was there a name on the card?” Lucas chimed in, earning nods of encouragement from his friends.  

Eddie grinned mockingly, “No.” 

Another glance passed between Jeff and Gareth, their confused expressions communicating silently. “There really wasn’t a name?” Gareth whispered to himself. It was meant to be a thought, unheard by their leader, but Eddie’s ears had heard the boy. Eddie leaned forward and cocked his head, striking fear into him. 

“What do you know?” He grumbled. 

“N-nothing,” Gareth stuttered, feeling like he was about to break his middle school promise with you. You had shoved him against the bike rack after you let it slip that you liked Eddie and pointed your house key at his face, telling him to swear on his mother that he would never tell another soul. He kept tight-lipped, even when he became one of Eddie’s closest friends he never even gave him a hint. 

“You know something about this,” Eddie motioned towards the flower. “Who played the joke on me?” 

Eddie stood up and placed his hands behind his back, looking up to the ceiling as he sauntered around the table to cause tension within the group. “Gareth, Gareth, Gareth,” he sighed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Isn’t it a rule in Hellfire Club to not keep secrets?” 

“But that’s only in the game.” 

“Shut up!” he huffed. “It applies here, so start talking.” Eddie walked over and clapped a hand on his shaking shoulder. 

Jeff looked on with wide eyes. He’d seen Eddie riled up before, but it was never like this. He looked flustered and frustrated by the entire ordeal. It was just a silly Valentine’s Day tradition, there were more serious things that Eddie got this way over. “Eddie,” Jeff said calmly. “It wasn’t a joke.” 

The calm in his voice managed to alleviate Eddie’s anger. His head whipped down at him, “Leave,” he said, shooing the others away. The freshman scattered, leaving Jeff and Gareth to deal with the wrath of Eddie Munson. 

“Who sent the rose?” he asked, calmer this time as he took his seat. 

“I can’t-,” Gareth said meekly. 

“Did you send this to me out of spite because I wanted that guitar solo?” Eddie narrowed his eyes and clenched his fist. 

“It was Y/N Y/L/N,” Jeff blurted out quietly, hoping not to alert you at the other side of the lunch room. 

“Y/N,” Eddie repeated. He knew you. The girl in the art club, the one with the sunny disposition and dried paint lingering on her fingers. You didn’t speak often, but when you spoke even a couple of words he felt like smiling. 

He remembered a few days ago when you were standing on the old wood ladder that looked like it was about to collapse under you. 

You were hanging up one of the Valentine's Day banners while your helper chatted to a girl. “Andy, can you hand me the tape?” you called from above, your voice strained. “Andy?” you repeated. 

You glanced down and saw him, one wrong move to collect the tape from the stool next to you and you’d be falling to your death. “Jesus, Andy!” 

A hand tapped your leg. “Here,” the smooth voice said. Butterflies erupted in your stomach as Eddie walked to the other side of the ladder to face you, ring-clad hand holding up the roll of tan-colored tape. His beautiful brown eyes met yours and you had to grip the top of the ladder a little tighter. 

“Thank you, Eddie,” you said happily. 

“You’re welcome, anything I can do to help the neglected clubs of Hawkins High,” he chuckled as you fixed the banner. 

You laughed in response and cautiously descended the ladder before standing next to him. “Does it look ok?” you asked, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. 

Eddie looked at you as a comforting heat spread through his body. “It looks good,” he answered. He never once looked at the banner; just you. 

“Shit,” he whispered, looking at his friends with the softness in his eyes returning and a rose colored blush rising to his cheeks. He regretted how he acted towards his friends. “I’m sorry. I just… no one-” 

“It’s all good man,” Jeff smiled reassuringly and patted his back. 

“She sent me one because she wanted to… because she likes—me.  That’s what we’re agreeing on here?” Eddie needed just a sliver of confidence before his next question. The two guys nodded.  “Has she ever?” his words trailed off, they were all beginning to feel so foreign. He never gave a girl flowers or went on a proper date. He felt so unsure of himself. 

“No,” Gareth told him. You had never received a rose either. 

A moment passed while Eddie’s thoughts collected together to form a plan. What did teenagers do on Valentine’s Day? “Boys,” Eddie put a hand on each of their shoulders and pulled them in, “I’m gonna need some help.” 

The sun finally started to set, meaning the day was almost over and you could start putting the shame of sending an anonymous rose behind you. You had your Walkman’s headphones covering your ears, the mixtape of sad love songs on repeat while you painted the bouquet of dried flowers that sat on your desk. 

Your eyes watched your paint filled brush add texture to your painting, but your mind was louder than the music potentially ruining your eardrums. All you could think about was Eddie staring mindlessly at your flower. Not one smile, not one frown or vocalization. He didn’t even look at you the rest of the day. It felt like he was avoiding you. 

You didn’t hear the chipper doorbell ring. Your mom’s heels clicked along the wood as she clasped her string of pearls while she hurried to the door. She was met with a very nervous Eddie holding a dozen roses of varying colors. “Mrs. Y/L/N?” he asked. 

She nodded, eyeing his ripped jeans and leather jacket. Instantly she knew who he was because she had spent hours listening to how Eddie said this and how Eddie did that. “You must be Eddie Munson,” she smiled brightly. 

He nodded sheepishly, “I was, uh, around and wanted to leave you these…for Y/N.” 

Your mother giggled and stepped aside, “She’s in her room if you’d like to give them to her yourself.” 

Eddie wanted to shake his head and run for the hills, his hands had a death grip on the dethroned stems of the flowers and his feet felt like cement. “Sure,” he gulped. After getting the directions he made his way up the stairs, heart pounding against his ribs. 

Swallowing the nerves, Eddie knocked once then twice then once more for good measure. After getting no response he slowly opened the door and cautiously stepped in. Your back was turned as you worked on your still life. A small smile tugged on his lips, you looked comfortable in the oversized sweater that looked like a painting in itself. He tapped your shoulder. 

“I don’t want anything, mom. You and dad go have fun,” you huffed without turning around, your hand skating across the large canvas. 

Eddie tapped again and took a step back as you ripped the headphones off your head and whipped around to look at him with annoyance. “I said I- Eddie,” your voice instantly softened. Your heart’s desire stood there in your room with roses pressed against his heaving chest. 

Suddenly you jolted at the realization, standing up from your chair and intertwining your fingers over your lap. “Hi,” he breathed. 

“W-what are you doing here?” You asked. Never in your wildest fantasies would he be here. 

“Your mom let me in,” he told you, pointing back towards the door. “I wanted to tell you thank you for the rose.” 

You ducked your head, “You found out,” you said sadly, “did Gareth tell you?” You should have known one day the fluffy-haired kid would crack. 

“No!” he gasped, “I forced it out of them. Jeff was the one who spilled, I wasn’t very nice about it. I thought someone was playing a prank on me.” 

A prank? Your chin lifted abruptly. “Eddie I would never,” you reasoned, taking a step closer to him. “I’ve been wanting to send you one since freshman year,” you confessed, “I’ve just never had enough courage to do it.” 

It was Eddie’s turn to duck his head out of shyness, a boyish smile appearing on his lips and his rosy cheeks lifting closer towards his eyes. He looked at you through his lashes, he would have started dreamily swaying side to side but his train of thought stopped him. “Really?” he squeaked out. 

You nodded, “Mhm,” you smiled shyly and scratched your head with one of your hands. “I have a crush on you… I’ve had a crush on you since middle school.” 

A silence filled your bedroom, the smell of roses and acrylic paint creating an odd scent in the air. He looked at you and you looked at him, everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. “Wow,” was all Eddie could manage to say, his mind running rapidly. You liked him. 

“Why are you here?” you managed. 

He presented you with the flowers, “I wanted to return the favor—I wasn’t sure what color you liked so I got them all,” he said quickly. You took them in your hands and looked at the variety of flowers staring at you. Beautiful yellow, pink, red, and white roses were organized beautifully and tied together with a red ribbon. Tears of relief and joy prickled at your eyes. 

“They’re beautiful, Eddie,” you said with a waiver in your tone. 

Eddie stepped closer and let his hands cover yours, the bouquet between you being the only thing that prevented him from coming closer. “Thank you, Y/N, for the rose. No one’s ever done romantic shit like that for me before.” 

You stood on your tippy toes and quickly kissed his cheek, causing his face to redden even more. “You deserve it,” you smiled. 

His eyes looked down at the flowers before looking back up, “I also wanted to know if you had any plans for Valentine’s Day? I was sure you had a date or something.” 

You looked around your lonely room and your painting set up. You bit your lip and shook your head, “No,” you laughed, “I do not.” You felt him come closer so you let the flowers fall at your side and allowed him to put his hand on your hip. 

“I’m sure everything’s booked up but maybe we can grab something from the diner and watch the stars or whatever,” he retracted his hand, regretting his ideal valentine's date. 

You smiled widely and nodded in response, instantly missing his touch. “I would love that.” 

“Can I kiss you?” he asked. 

It made your smile grow wider. Your heart nearly exploded at the contact of your lips meeting his, they were softer than you thought and they fit yours perfectly. His free hand found your cheek and yours found the side of his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. The flowers fell to the ground with a soft thud and you wrapped your arms around his neck while his arms found your waist to draw you in. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Eddie,” you said breathlessly as you finally pulled away for air. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Y/N,” he muttered before reclaiming your lips. 

When Robin joined the group, she tried to warm you up more to it. Despite warnings from the group, whispers of she doesn’t like that, she’d continued to offer you her friendly physical affections as long as you reassured her it was fine. It worked, to an extent. You would now at least return the hugs received (even if it took you a few moments to do so), and you wouldn’t hold your breath at a friend’s head on your shoulder or lap. It was all baby steps — timid movements in the right direction, an accomplishment of letting your softness flow through your fingertips as you tried to adjust. 

Argyle also tried to wear you down. A casual arm around your shoulder in greeting, frequently sitting close enough to you on movie nights that your side would press into his as you both enjoyed the pizza he’d brought. You still froze, still struggled to thaw, but you never shooed him away. You’d only exchange a secret smile with him, a private acknowledgement between you two that you knew what he was trying to do, and it was okay. Maybe it would work. Robin had, after all, made some baby steps. Maybe Argyle could help you take fuller strides. Maybe, just maybe, this could propel you. 

The night you drunkenly braided Argyle’s hair had been a memorable success, but it never progressed past that. The roots remained, the timid natured reigned, and so your friend group simply celebrated what little victories they’d earned and moved on.

They’d accepted you may never be a touchy person. And that was fine — all that you lacked in physical touch, you more than made up for in every other avenue in expression of your fondness. 

Until Eddie.

The moment he’d joined your circle, Argyle and Robin were already exchanging knowing looks. Eddie was touchy; the boy was practically starved for it. Overexcited hugs as greetings and the way his hand would reach for the nearest shoulder when he was overcome with joy for the small things. He couldn’t sit alone during movie nights, he’d often lounge with his legs stretched out over the nearest laps, he’d jokingly cuddle into people without a second thought.

And even more than that, his touch was wild and burning. Embers never to be contained. He was overwhelming, they all knew this and so did he, and they feared that if he attempted to embark on the same journey that they had that he may scare you away. That all the baby steps in the right direction would become leaps backward, sending you right back to where you started. 

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

You’d first noticed that Eddie treated you differently, more restrained, during a movie night. Argyle on one side, a small empty space on the other. You’d witness everyone endure Eddie’s cinematic cuddles on multiple occasions, and amongst your roots had bloomed buds of wistfulness. A strange yearning every time he’d tuck his face into the neck of whichever friend was nearest, jokingly squealing how he needed them to protect him. They saw him as a pest (a lovable one, but still) — and you’d never wanted to be pestered more in your life. 

That small space beside you was the last open seat. You thought surely, he’ll sit here. You were optimistic at the likelihood of Eddie sharing your space, of feeling his curls tickle your cheek and neck, at his breath on your shoulder. For the first time in your life, you were painfully giddy at the prospect of someone touching you. When he entered the room with Jonathan, carrying bowls of popcorn and loudly telling everyone to turn on the horror movie chosen for the night, your entire body had buzzed. You would have leapt off that couch and crawled inside his chest right then and there if it wouldn’t have been so startling to not only him, but your entire circle.

He took one look at the empty seat, a pitiful excuse for space, and had paled.

Please sit next to me. Please, please, ple-

“Spread your legs, Harrington,” Eddie had suddenly bursted out, throwing himself on the floor in front of Steve at the opposite end of the couch, “I’m using your knees as collateral from Krueger.” 

He chose the floor over sitting at your side. And it ached. 

You were unaware of the spiel that Robin and Argyle gave him, the staunch warnings from Nancy, the (sort of) joking threats from Steve and Jonathan. Eddie Munson had been warned off from touching you, was obeying those warnings, and it just left you miserable. 

You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand — his choices nor your feelings. 

But that night, the burn of Argyle’s arm brushing your shoulder from where it laid along the back of the couch became overwhelming. Until you’d scooted yourself into that space you’d carved out for Eddie, and pouted, like a goddamn child.

Argyle assumed it was just a bad day for touch.

No one realized the yearning blooming within you. You’d never wanted to take a baseball bat to Steve Harrington’s shins more than when you watched Eddie Munson wrap his fingers around them and bury his cheek against them. 

The second time, it stung even more.

Months passed and the yearning never faded. You told yourself, over and over, this will pass. This is temporary, and it will pass. 

But it didn’t. The more time you spent with Eddie amongst your friend group, the more you craved the same casual touch from him that he extended to everyone else. He wouldn’t even brush past you in enclosed spaces — he treated you like a traumatized dog, bound to snap and bite him if he made the wrong move.

You fucking hated it. You hated that you hated it.

You’d gone years without needing touch, so you cursed that unexpected sting in your chest that night at the bowling alley. When Eddie rolled his first strike (and reported it was his first ever), he’d hugged everyone.

Everyone but you.

When it came to what should have been your turn for a bear hug, your mind was buzzing with adrenaline. This was it. You pictured him wrapping his tattooed arms around your chest, lifting you at least a little bit, swinging you a little due to the force of his affection. You were convinced his high off of the strike was going to make him forget his mission to never touch you. Maybe he’d be embarrassed after. Maybe you could finally offer a small smile that said it’s okay, I’m okay with it.

He only stopped dead in his tracks, arms freezing for a second before they dropped, his lips pressing tightly together before he let them spread back into a smile, and only lifted his brows at you excitedly. 

That’s it. That’s all.

Fuck. 

“That was pretty metal, Eddie,” you tried to egg him on, bouncing on the soles of your shoes a little, practically begging him with your eyes to just hug you. 

He’d been bashful, grinning and hiding his face behind a random curl, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.” 

If you’d known of the talks behind your back then that had ruined that moment, you would have wrecked absolute havoc on your friends. The need, the yearning, the want became impossible to handle. You used his strike as an excuse for him to cover your turn, saying he was on a roll right after exclaiming that if you didn’t go to the bathroom right that second, you’d piss yourself.

When you were alone in the stall, you’d silently screamed and tugged at the roots of your hair. 

You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to catch you off guard in larger than life hugs. You wanted to feel every emotion that thrummed beneath his skin and you wanted to breathe in his cologne, to finally know how sturdy his chest felt beneath his shirt and if his rings really were as cold as Nancy always complained. 

You’d finally returned to the group, not able to have a full breakdown in the bathroom without worrying your friends with your absence. Subtly, you’d tried to tuck yourself into Robin’s side when you returned, sitting down a bit closer than you normally would have, just to fill the void. It was almost as if you were encouraging her to reach an arm around you, to let you curl up and press a cheek to her collarbone. Try to alleviate the need for human touch clawing its way through you.

“You okay, babe?” she questioned suspiciously when she felt you squished entirely up against her. There was plenty of space on the bench, there was no reason for your proximity.

No, you wanted to scream, I’m not okay. There is an itch beneath my skin right now that can only be scratched by the affectionate touches of the metalhead sitting across from us who’s joking with our friends, completely unaffected and unaware. He won’t even look me in the eye. And so now I’m trying to get you to just touch me, to just put a goddamn arm around me, to do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of me. But you can’t. 

It was an unfair situation to every single party and bystander involved.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied. 

You can’t, because the only person who can fill this gaping void inside of me is Eddie.

You were the farthest from fine. You were in flames. And no one would understand it, least of all you, because this wasn’t like you.

You didn’t crave touch. You didn’t need it to survive. So, what the hell was this that you were feeling? 

The craving for Eddie’s touch evolved into something more, and that’s when you knew that you were surely in trouble. 

Audible denial only worked for so long. Festering, longing, and yearning could only be withheld for so long until suddenly, with your mind on fire and your bones aching to the core, you realized that it was more than wanting Eddie to reach out for you. The want became a two way street. More often than not, you find your hands to be fists at your side, shaking with the effort to not bridge the gap. 

After a year of friendship, he had had no choice but to occasionally brush past you. Touches that must have been fleeting to him, but lingered for you. They’d settle into your skin, tender like a fresh bruise, ghosting over you at night when you couldn’t sleep. It was more than just touch, at this point. You wanted everything from Eddie. The denial of his touch had led to you missing out on more than just hugs and movie night cuddles — Eddie didn’t joke with you as much as he did the others, didn’t always turn to you in crowded rooms for comfort, wouldn’t call you up if he was up late and bored like he would Nancy, Steve, Robin, Argyle, fucking everyone in Hawkins except you. The distance was unbearable.

Because you did. You did look for him at every quaint hang out. You did seek him out in every room you entered and you did resist the urge to call him when sleep evaded you. You could imagine his voice over the line, a lullaby over the receiver as he’d ramble about his day. It was like a poison, infecting those roots you’d long since made friends with rather than try to dig up. 

You were fucked. Plain and simple. You had a big, fat crush on Eddie, and for once in your life, you’d learned of the panging hunger to be touched. 

“Does Eddie have a girlfriend?” you asked as you sat with Robin at a diner, having completely zoned out with the conversation between her and Steve, lost in your daydreams, “Or boyfriend? Just- Is he single?” 

Both of your friends went dead silent, staring at you in awe.

Robin cleared her throat, but remained choked up until Steve spoke, “Uh, yeah. He’s single. Why?” 

The way your eyes darted down to the table of the booth you three occupy gave it away.

Robin suddenly squealed, “Oh my gosh! You have a crush on him!” 

“Do not!”

“Oh, you so do!” she grinned wildly, leaning in close, “Tell us everything — now.” 

“Eddie?” Steve’s nose scrunched up, “Really?” 

“I don’t have a crush on him!” you uselessly defended yourself, “I just- Look, no, I know that look. You can’t tell him or meddle, Robin.” 

“How would I tell him or meddle if you don’t have a crush on him?” 

Steve was still confused, and Robin’s eyes glittered with mischief. You would have been better off keeping your mouth shut. 

You noticed the way Steve had gone silent, pointedly sipping on his coke rather than looking you in the eyes. As if he had something to say.

“What is it?” you asked him, furrowing your brows, already defensive. A stark contrast to the light-heartedness you usually treat your friends with, “You’ve got something to say. Say it.” 

“I just…” Steve sighed, looking off into the distance, “I don’t know. It’s a weird pairing, y’know?”

Your stomach threatened to sink. “What does that mean?”

“You two are just… different,” he continued on, and your stomach really did sink. Right along with your heart, “I mean, he’s really big on physical touch — it’s definitely his love language. And you…”

You don’t like being touched. You actually hate it. Avoid it ardently.

The unspoken ending to that sentence could have shattered your bones that day. You knew. You knew.

You stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. You couldn’t find the words to explain the yearning that invaded your chest all those moons ago, you couldn’t physically bring their hands to your chest and force them to feel the hunger that had begun to eat you alive. You couldn’t scream at your friends, I can change! I can change! I can change!

“I think they’d make a cute couple,” Robin finally broke the tense silence. Steve looked a bit regretful, but you both knew he was right, “Besides, touching is overrated.” 

To emphasize her point, she scooted away from Steve until she sat on the very edge of the vinyl seat they shared, a narrow air of separation between them. 

You smiled and laughed, and so did Steve, but the fact of the matter still remained.

Your roots have been there since the beginning of time. And maybe, they ran so deeply that you were a fool for thinking you could ever excavate them. 

“I need your help.” 

Robin looks up at you shocked. You’d never looked quite so determined, so one-track minded as you did in this moment, right in Steve Harrington’s kitchen. 

“You need my help?” she nearly yells, fumbling with the empty bowl she was about to fill with chips, “Are you sure you need my-“

“Positive,” you cut her off, “I need your help because you didn’t laugh in my face when I said I liked Eddie.” 

Her shock fades, an awful trace of pity in her eyes as she looks at you, “Oh, hon — Steve wasn’t laughing at you. He’s just a dingus, y’know? Doesn’t always think before he speaks, but he has the best of intentions-“

You wave a hand, physically dispersing her words into the air. That conversation at the diner last week didn’t phase you anymore. In fact, it fuels you the more you think about it.

“I know, I know,” you reassure her, walking closer so you can lower your voice, “But he was right. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”

“That sounds dangerous. Whatcha’ been thinkin’ about?” 

This is it. Now or never. Once you say it outloud, even to just Robin, it was cemented in fact.

“It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” you blurt out, heart racing at the admission, “I just… I don’t know. I’m not used to it. It wasn’t something normal growing up. And… okay, no, this is not meant to be a depressing deep dive into my childhood,” you pause and scowl at the way her face contorts with even more pity, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done to change what’s already passed. My point is, I don’t want to stay this way. I don’t want people treating me delicately. I’m tired of you guys not feeling like you can just- fuck, I don’t know, hug me. Like you can throw an arm around me while we joke around like you do Jonathan. Like you can’t take the seat beside me at the booth instead of Steve. Like you can’t be clingy and beg me to play with your hair like you do Argyle when everyone’s smoking.”

Throughout your speech, the pity transforms. With each word, you only grow more passionate, because it dawns on you just how much you miss out on. Your friends love you, you love them — that’s not up for debate. But sometimes, you see those small touches between them, and you feel like an outsider looking in. 

“I know I freeze up and I know I get awkward,” your voice finally chokes up, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to silently curse yourself for finally letting all these larger than life emotions wrap around you, “I know you guys think I’m better off if you leave it be. But I’m not. I’ll never get over it if you guys don’t push me. I’ll never get used to it if no one ever touches me.” 

“We know!” Robin starts enthusiastically, reassuredly, “We know that! And me and Gyle really do try, but we just don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“

“Do it,” you stop her in her tracks, eyes not wavering from hers, “Make me uncomfortable. Put your head on my shoulder, even if it makes my breathing stop for a couple seconds. Grab my hand when we cross a street, even if my palm’s clammy. I can’t grow without a little discomfort, Robs.”

There’s a standstill in the air. A realization settles deep in your bones — growth. That’s what you were craving. Eddie had opened up something entirely new for you, cracked open an age old wound in your chest you’d been unaware of. It left behind a hole, and you’d been so preoccupied with yearning to fill it, you hadn’t seen that the solution was the most obvious one: you had to outgrow the hole. Not fill it with others, but with yourself. You couldn’t live forever as nothing more than roots, buried deep beneath soil and always hiding in their solitude. Eventually, you had to bloom. 

“Okay,” Robin nods slowly, taking in your words and the deep breaths that are following. It’s obvious how much this means to you, how much it’s been bothering you, “You’re right. But… you’ve just gotta promise us, if we get overbearing, that you tell us-“

“Not just you and Argyle,” your mouth goes dry. Because this is where the road was leading the entire time, this was the end destination in mind for the entire drive of this conversation, “I want… everyone to do it. I know Nance, Jon, and Steve aren’t as big on the whole touchy thing as you and him but…” your voice finally breaks, and you can’t look her in the eyes now as you whisper, “Eddie is.” 

There’s a light behind Robin’s eyes that you’ve never seen before, but you can’t even bear witness to it, eyes zeroed in on the shiny packaging of the chips on the counter, “So this really is about Eddie?” 

You could keep denying it. Pretend like the boy hadn’t watered the first sprout that caused this entire revelation, like he hadn’t been the first to shine a light on all the things you’d ignored for years. But he was. He had built a fire inside of you without even realizing it, just by tending his own embers. 

You take a deep breath, “It’s like it burns him to touch me. Even just shuffling past me. I don’t think he’s ever sat beside me when we all hang out. I don’t… I don’t even know what he really smells like, Rob. Besides the weed and cigarettes when he smokes with you guys. How fucked is that? I’ve known him for a year and I couldn’t even tell you what kind of cologne he wears. Isn’t that… that’s weird, right?” 

“You know the things that matter, though, don’t you?” 

It hadn’t occurred to you, that perspective on the matter. “I… guess?”

“Tell me about him. Tell me about Eddie.” 

The others will be worrying about how long you two are taking in here soon. Eddie will probably be arriving with Argyle soon. But Robin waits patiently until your eyes finally find hers again, and she lifts her brows, encouraging you to tell her about your mutual friend as if she’s never met him. 

And so you do.

Once you start rattling off the minute things you noticed, they pour out of you, watering away at that once withered crush. You tell her about his favorite music, an easy thing to know about Eddie when he’s so loud and passionate about it. You tell her the first song he ever learned on guitar, Little Things by Willie Nelson. It had been encouraged by how much his Uncle Wayne enjoyed the singer. And he’d learned it on a worn acoustic guitar from his uncle. He’d never even performed it in front of the man, always either too choked up or too embarrassed for an audience. You tell her how his favorite subject in school was history, because it always gave him ideas for his DnD campaigns. His favorite color is red, deep and pulsing and eye-catching. The same shade of his electric guitar, lovingly nicknamed Sweetheart, but actually named Elvira. He’s a picky eater, probably the pickiest of your group, and yet also will eat just about anything the moment you propose it as a dare. He knows what he should do to take care of his curls, he just doesn’t, probably due to preferring to take his showers at night. He’s complained of falling asleep with wet hair more times than you can count. He had a lisp as a little kid. He buys a new mug for Wayne every Christmas, and the man acts surprised every year, as if he never saw it coming. He likes sour candy best. He hates movies where the dog dies. He loves musicals, and he would sooner die than admit that to the rest of the group. 

All devilish details that Eddie had revealed to you at some point or another, over drinks and over quick cigarettes. Over random bursts of trust and rare moments alone.

By the time you’re done with your rant, Robin is just smiling.

“God, you really like him,” she murmurs, looking across your forlorn face, as if each piece of him that you’d handed over willingly had actually been forcibly torn from you. As if it hurt to share him. 

You take another deep breath, and you can breathe a little bit easier, but you still feel the wisps of your roots still dug stubbornly into surrounding ground, “Yeah. I really like him.” 

A plan is devised. It turns out Robin was the perfect person to approach about this, because she has no shame — she’s willing to seem like a ‘bad friend’ for the sake of helping you reach your goal.

The first step is to guarantee that no matter what, Eddie sits next to you during the movie. 

The best way to accomplish this is to not make it a seat only beside you as you had that first time he’d rejected you, but between you and another person. Because then, if Eddie was still adamant on not indulging you, he’d have someone else to cling to. For now.

The second step would be for you to leave for the bathroom right before you all started the movie. Leave the room, leave all your friends to be gathered without you so that Robin could make an executive call with them all. She would bring up the fact that they all should try to push you a bit more with the entire notion of physical touch, that it’d be good for you, that you’d brought it up casually rather than as dramatically as you really had. 

During her explaining of this part of the plan, you discovered the conversations already had behind closed doors about this topic and you. 

You couldn’t even blame your friends. You were irritated, but it would pass. They couldn’t change it now, but Robin could help undo what those seemingly beneficial conversations had done. The distance it had created between you and Eddie.

“Who should be on the other side of Eddie?” you ask once you two have your plan and full bowls of snacks. 

“Me,” Robin declares, “I have a plan there, too. We’ll sit side by side at first, take up enough space on the couch so that Eddie thinks he doesn’t have a seat. Just trust me and play along when the time comes, yeah?” 

You nod.

There’s a knock at the door, perfect timing as you and Robin sat down the bowls of snacks on the table, ignoring Steve’s expected complaint of how long you two took. He runs off, going to let Eddie and Argyle in, as Robin takes her seat on the couch. 

Nancy and Jonathan are curled up on the loveseat. Steve had been sitting at the end of the couch that normally could easily seat four. Argyle’s favorite recliner was wide open, and you both knew he’d be jumping into it once he came to the basement. Everything was set perfectly.

Robin manspreads, an entertaining sight but one that forces you to try and do the same, lounging across the remaining space of the couch as casually as possible to make it seem as though another person could absolutely not fit.

You pray to God her plan works.

“Hello, brochachos!” Argyle yells as a greeting when he bounds down the stairs, immediately tossing a box of snow caps in Nancy and Jonathan’s directions before doing exactly as you and Robin had predicted, “Oh, fuck yeah! You guys saved my favorite chair for me!”

He specifically winks your way, as if you had been the one to do so. And you had, technically, but you appreciated that small effort to greet you specifically. 

You smile at him, shaking your head lightly as he throws himself down roughly. You can only imagine how on board he’ll be with Robin’s suggestion.

Argyle’s energy had you wondering if the boys had even smoked as they usually did before arriving, his eyes hardly pink rimmed and his smile not quite as dopey as usual. It became clear that they had smoked, but one of them had likely babysat their shared joints, when Eddie descends into the doorway behind Steve.

He’s all half-lidded eyes, lazy grin, comfort wrapped up in a worn band shirt and sweats. 

Yes, you wanted to break this stubborn boundary of yours with all your friends, but as you earned your first glance from Eddie, you knew that he would be the greatest reward. You don’t even care if the crush aspect of the entire ordeal never comes to fruition; you’d just like to imagine burying your face into his warm chest like you are now, and not feel weird about it. Not worry if he’ll push you away or be uncomfortable, or taken off guard, by it.

“Hey, losers,” he greets in a rough voice, no doubt gravelly from how much he might have smoked. 

You share a quick look with Robin, worried. High Eddie was always extra affectionate, but wouldn’t it be wrong to use that against him? Maybe you two should try another night, postpone the plan for another movie nigh-

You hadn’t even noticed that Steve had taken his original seat back and Eddie was glancing around the seating arrangement, seemingly lost, until Robin was suddenly shoving at you, “Babe, I love you, but scooch. C’mere, Eds. I’m in a cuddly mood.” 

And oh, that hurt. Which is why you suppose she didn’t tell you what exactly this part of the plan was. That hurt needed to break through your face, even if only for a moment, so that when you left the room, it made sense to discuss. 

Argyle catches that micro-expression the moment it graces your features. Even furrows his brows in response. Eddie even opens his mouth to argue, but you move too quickly for anyone else to comment.

You fumble with pulling up your body, scooting over as she requested until there was an Eddie-sized space left between the two of you. When Robin opens her arms wide, Eddie has no room to argue. 

“Well, if you insist, Buckley,” he teases, stepping carefully, hesitating for a second as he glances back down at you. Even through pink tinged eyes, you catch a flash of concern. “I’m always down for some cuddles with my favorite girl.”

And that also stings, reverberates like a slap to the face that had landed just a little too harshly. 

Robin scoffs, muttering a stern correction of, “Platonic cuddles, dipshit,” just as Nancy also laughs from where she’s tangled with Jonathan.

“Didn’t you say I was your favorite when I bought you a coke last week?” 

He probably did. He constantly made those jokes with Robin and Nancy. He never made those jokes with you. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about respecting boundaries for Eddie. Maybe he just didn’t like you-

“You both wound me,” he sighs out as his body lands directly in that space you and Robin had organized, clearly favoring being close to Robin so that his thigh wouldn’t rub against yours, “I’ve officially changed my mind.” 

It almost happens in slow motion. Slowly, carefully, he lazily turns his head towards you, lips half lilted as his eyes sparkle in your direction, tongue darting out between his teeth before he drawls, “You’re my favorite, now.” 

For the first time in a year, you’re very clearly smelling his cologne, and the look in his eyes is setting you ablaze. The softness you are so used to bargaining out is being returned, an expression so delicate being aimed at you that you don’t know what to do with it. Senses overwhelmed with something woodsy, something musky, and something yearning. 

“How charming,” Nancy muses, leveling you with a soft and amused look. Not nearly as gooey as the look Eddie had given you, but still adoring, “Don’t listen to him. Clearly, he says that to everyone.”

“Yeah, but I mean it this time,” he argues. 

“Sure, you do,” Steve laughs from his end of the couch, “She’s not gonna go grab you a soda just because you’re kissing ass.” 

“Hey, you know what?” Argyle sits up in his chair, leaning towards you and pointing his finger in your direction, “You really are my favorite, and I’m a man of my word.” 

“I’m not getting you a soda, either, Gyle,” you flatly joke, narrowing your eyes.

He pours briefly, but shrugs, “Fair enough. I meant it, but fair enough.” 

On a limb, you stretch out a hand, and deliver a gentle smack at his hand still hanging limply in the air between you two. Robin is watching on proudly as Argyle looks taken back.

“Shut up,” you giggle, shimmying in your seat to get more comfortable. 

Eddie looks wildly around the room, completely stunned, wearing a look of betrayal, “What, you guys don’t believe me? She really is my favorite!” 

Lord only knows you were melting into the cushion of that couch. You weren’t used to this amount of attention, certainly not from Eddie, and certainly not so clearly in front of your friends.

If you could hardly handle his words of affection, how would you handle his touches of affection? 

“I believe you,” you finally say. Something in your mind screams at you, tells you now is your chance. All you’d have to do is shift your knee, and you could bump it to his in a joking manner. The perfect excuse. The perfect guise. You stare at your two knees for an eternity, though, and before you know it, the moment has passed. 

The ache echoes out across the hollow of every bone inside your body as he smiles, satisfied with your response before everyone moves forward with conversation.

You hate yourself. You should have bumped your knee to his. 

You don’t hear a single word exchanged amongst your friends. All you can hear is the roar in your ears that scorns you for another missed opportunity. 

Now is as good as ever to enact the second phase of the plan. 

“I’m gonna head to the bathroom before we start the movie,” you announce, standing a bit suddenly but trying to keep your voice even so it doesn’t seem to Eddie that his words had made you uncomfortable. They didn’t. They’d only fed that hunger, making you suddenly need more. It was your own stupid indecisiveness, what you didn’t do, that was upsetting you. 

Robin looks up knowingly, “Sounds good. Don’t miss me too much, babe.” 

Babe. Another thing your friends sometimes didn’t include you in — all the pet names, all the terms of endearment. It makes you smile. 

If anyone thought you might be rushing out due to the entire conversation that had just taken place, that smile would erase all their fears.

“I always miss you, baby,” you cockily reply, making a joking kissy face in her direction to seal the flirtatious manner of the interaction. 

Steve looks pleasantly surprised, Argyle is clearly mentally cheering you on, and Nancy looks plainly proud. 

But Eddie is looking up at you, doe eyes almost… sad. 

You try not to think of it too hard. 

You try to take your time once you reach the top of the stairs, rushing up but slowing as you walk to the bathroom.

You didn’t really need it, obviously, and you highly doubt anyone will be listening in on your footsteps above once Robin proposes the entire debate of it treating you so fragile anymore. In the middle of the hallway, your mind is made up. Instead of continuing on to that bathroom, instead of hiding away and feeding into the panic attack currently brewing despite your full faith in Robin, you retract to the kitchen.

This is what you wanted. You want more than to just offer soft words and soft motivation, you want more than to be seen as the friend with a heart of gold, as the pedestal Argyle constantly puts you up on so eloquently. You want to be felt as it, too. 

To give Nancy well-deserved hugs when another one of her publications receive recognition, to give Steve’s hand a firm squeeze when he’s confiding in you about his home situation and the loneliness that follows. You want Robin to hide her face in your shoulder for safety during jumpscares and you want to occupy that recliner with Argyle when you both decide to succumb to snacking while your friends endlessly debate where you should all have dinner, making whispers of commentary jokes before Jonathan would decide to sit on the arm and join you two in the audience as he gave up the battle for Nancy’s sake.

You want Eddie to touch you. You don’t even care how at this point. You want brushing shoulders and knocking knees, you want knuckles bumping into each other on the street and you want him to cling to you when it gets late and he’s tired, but not too tired to keep himself surrounded with his favorite people. You want to truly be his favorite. Favorite person, favorite hug, favorite conversation. 

God, you want it so bad that your seams nearly burst. Your composure nearly breaks. 

What if he doesn’t want that? 

The moment your footsteps on the stairs have vanished, Robin springs into action.

“Okay, group meeting,” she says, clapping to garner everyone’s attention. Eddie jumps slightly at her side, Steve offers her a side-eye, and Nancy shifts her entire body in Jonathan’s arms to look at her fully, “We need to talk about her.” 

She doesn’t even have to say your name.

Unfortunately, Argyle takes it the wrong way, nearly leaping out of his chair, “Her? Nah, dude, we need to talk about you. Why would you shove her around like that? I bet if you had just asked politely, she would have cuddled yo-“ 

“Oh, I know she would have.” 

Everyone’s attention is now sharper on Robin.

“Yeah? Then why did you just toss her to the side for Ed-“ Argyle starts up again, and once more, Robin is quick to interject.

“Because she needs the push,” a slight lie, but small enough in the grand scheme of things, “We’ve gotta stop treating her like she’ll shatter if we touch her.”

Nancy finally moves to full sit up, face full of concern, “Robin, I get what you’re saying, but she’s never been the touchy type. And that’s okay. We’ve never minded.”

“What if she minds?” Robin persists. She hasn’t failed to notice Eddie’s silence, and turns to him, focusing her attack and determination, “Have you ever even sat beside her before tonight?” 

Eddie’s eyes widen, “You guys told me to take it easy at first! And I did, but I- it would just be weird now to change, wouldn’t it?” 

It’s in the way he says it. Not just as if he’s keeping your best interests in mind, but as if it pains him to say it. As if the worst possible thing would be to admit that things should stay the same.

It’s Robin’s in. A falter in his cool guy exterior he only seems to care about maintaining for you.

“She wants it to change,” Robin quietly confesses. Another half-truth, “Me and Argyle never fully got through to it, but we also… we just gave up on it. Like he was saying, if I pushed tonight, she would have said yes. But Eddie has never pushed her.”

“Where are you going with this, Robs?” the one person who could blow this speaks up. Steve, the man who had been there at the diner and heard your practical confession to liking Eddie.

Don’t blow this, Dingus.

“I think we take the leash off of wolf boy, here,” she jabs a thumb in Eddie’s direction, “Lay him on her.”

“I don’t want to make her uncomf-“

“You won’t. And if you do,” Robin remembers your speech from earlier. Those wet eyes and the way your voice cracked at the prospect of growth, “It’ll be good for her.”

He’s not convinced.

So Robin pushes, because she made a promise to you to aid in this self-gardening journey, and damn it she was going to keep her promise, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You being the dog in this metaphor might be the wrong choice, considering how she looks like a kicked puppy every time you don’t sit next to her.” 

A bit harsh, but the truth. You were always brimming with such hope when Eddie entered the room, only to wilt when he kept up the same exhausting routine of avoiding you. 

“She does?” he’s clueless, a goddamn blinded fool, “I- Gyle, does she really?” 

Eddie looks to his friend for backup, but Argyle only shrugs from his seat, “If you don’t give the poor dudette a hug tonight, I am. If Birdie here is being honest, and she wants it, then I’m first in line. She’s way gentler on my scalp than all of you.” 

“You just want your hair braided by her again,” Jonathan pipes up finally.

“So?” Argyle defends, “That shit stayed. My little skittish friend does not come to play when it has to do with hair.” 

They all fall silent, holding their breaths and listening for a moment if you’re heading back down to them. 

The house is a ghost town from above.

“I’m just saying,” Robin finally whispers, keeping her tone low and gentle, almost defeated, “We can’t put her in a box. She told me she’d like the change, so I’m changing. She’s a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, she smells really good.” 

Robin gives Eddie a pointed look at that, and sees the pink that rushes over the bridge of his nose and up his neck.

You had no idea. No fucking idea. But she did. She’d watched Eddie withhold himself, she’d caught the longing glances, and she’d listened to his endless rambles about you. 

“Okay,” is his quiet reply just before your footsteps sound on the stairs. 

When you appear in the doorway, you’re holding three cans of coke.

“I bring gifts for taking so long,” you offer, holding up one of the cans as you cradle the other two in the ditch of your arm, extending it to Argyle as you pass by him.

He takes it greedily, appreciation loud and unfiltered, “Thank you dudette! At least someone here loves me.” 

You turn your eyes wide as moons, almost comical, fighting back a smile, “Oh? Were they being jerks while I was gone?” 

“You have no clue.”

A warning glare comes from Robin.

Even if you were in on the plan, it was dangerous territory. 

When you approach the couch, Robin sees the first sign of the plan working when Eddie doesn’t shift out of the comfortable position he’d sunk into. He isn’t jumping to leave an entire cavern for you. He’s leaving just enough space for you, enough that when you sit, you’re closer to him than you were before the bathroom.

Baby steps. Silently, she is screaming at him to keep it up, all while your brain bursts into flames.

He didn’t flinch away. He didn’t shift to be further from me.

Whatever Robin had said was working.

“Movie time?” you ask as you settle into that comfortable space, the unfamiliar yet indulgent warmth of Eddie’s body heat now wrapping around you. 

Your roots stretch, apprehensive, but desperate for that sunlight. 

It’s one of your group’s usual scary movies. You enjoyed horror, and could handle your own pretty well. If you ever got too scared, you’d usually cling to pillows or blankets that you were left with rather than another person as the rest of the group would. But there were no pillows, no blankets, no security cushions aside from the boy sitting between you and Robin. 

When you hand him his coke, his fingers brush yours, and you don’t pull back immediately. Baby steps.

When the first tense moment appears on screen, Eddie mutters a soft “shit” and jumps a little, leaning more into your space rather than Robin’s, lifting some of his curls to curtain his eyes.

You glance at him rather than the screen, narrowing your eyes in the dark, “Does that really work?” 

Eddie looks at you quickly at your whisper. Normally, everyone scolded him to be quiet during movies, never entertaining his small comments.

You weren’t the only one taking baby steps tonight.

Tentatively, he drops the curl blocking his vision, before grabbing a thicker one, boyish grin as he offers it to you shyly, “Wanna find out?” 

“She’s here!” Argyle shouts as he opens the front door to you, hardly giving you warning before he’s leaping forward and gathering you into his arms, nearly crushing you into a hug.

Warmth. Tender. Softness.

Argyle’s hugs are always bone-crushing, and always welcome. And they always linger as he leaves his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the foyer and shut the door behind you two.

“She is?” another voice shouts as she comes barreling out into the entryway, greeting you with an excited squeal as she rushes forward to pull you out of Argyle’s arm.

Robin. 

She’s dressed up for the night — an impressively well put together Robin outfit, complete with yellow spanx and a black mask across her eyes.

“Jesus, Robs,” you laugh as she tightens her arms around you, almost as if she was trying to crush any bones that survived Argyle, “I can’t breathe.” 

“Don’t care,” she mumbles into your shoulder before pulling back, “Nice costume.” 

A bat onesie. Cheesy, but comfortable, and warm enough to battle against Hawkin’s autumn chill. It’s even complete with a headband that has two small, perky ears attached to it, peeking out between tufts of your hair atop the crown of your head. 

“Thanks. Wait till you see the killer fake teeth I packed.” 

“Eds will be pissed if your fangs are better than his,” Argyle notes as he starts to walk into the living room. You follow, Robin close behind, to find the rest of your friends all waiting.

A scary movie is already on the TV, a classic slasher revealed by the high pitched scream that rings out into the room from it. There’s a few indoor decorations about — plastic jack-o-laterns and fake webs that will no doubt give Steve hell when he tries to take them back down — and you can see a punch bowl on the counter by where Nancy and Jonathan reside. 

And the man of the hour is lounging on the couch, a high mountain of pile already in front of him on the table as he munches on a family pack of candy corn. 

“Eddie, isn’t the candy supposed to be for trick or treaters?” you question teasingly as you make a beeline for him. His previous focus on the movie vanishes, full attention now on you.

He’s dressed like a vampire. If the cape didn’t give it away, that small blood line marked from his lower lip in a shade of lipstick you would guess he borrowed from Nancy does.

“I am a trick or treater, sweetheart,” he retorts, popping more candy into his mouth for emphasis, “Besides, Harrington has full-sized candy bars.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He snaps his jaw closed jokingly, the clicking of his teeth making you huff out a laugh as you collapse next to him. 

That woodsy cologne is there, one you’re so happily familiar with these days. 

Unlike Argyle and Robin, he doesn’t greet you with an overwhelming hug, or palpable excitement. His way of greeting is more subtle. His arm slowly lifts, going to rest on the back of the couch behind you, but quickly falling to your shoulders when you waste no time scooting closer into the space he’s opened up in his side.

You fit kind of perfectly. Like a void always meant to be filled. 

“So, Dracula,” you hum, warning your beating heart to slow from its racing when his palm cradles your shoulder farthest from him, “What are we watching?” 

Baby steps were a thing of the past for most of the group. They had become great leaps of faith after that fateful movie night. The way Argyle and Robin had crushed you was normal now. Passing touches and flirtatious jokes were regular between you and your friends. They had seen your boundary for what it really was, a roadblock, and bit by bit, they had broken it down. 

Eddie’s hesitation isn’t because he can no longer touch you. His hesitation whispered of something more, something different, something still delicate. Just as delicate as the fragile wings of the butterflies in his stomach that fluttered to life every time you entered a room. 

They weren’t new. And you still didn’t know they existed — that they had always existed. From the first moment he’d met you.

“One of the Halloween movies,” he tells you, leaning down to keep the conversation more private.

You felt his breath on your ear.  A new touch that happened more frequently now. One you sought after almost as vehemently as you had those first few points of contact. 

“Oh?” you play along, staying hushed, “How fitting.” 

“Very.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t make them put on a vampire movie. You know,” you cut off, and motion to his costume. You bump your knee to his as you do it, “Given your attire.” 

“Zee night iz ztill young,” he puts on an obnoxious accent meant to mimic Dracula himself, pronouncing all his ‘s’s as ‘z’s.

You only smile, wide and generous and soft and tender, before you lift a hand to punch at the flared collar of his cape. You don’t even hesitate, not even when your knuckles brush the side of his neck.

“Pretty killer, right?” he jokes, trying to ignore the warmth flooding his cheeks.

“Very,” you hum in approval, hand dropping as you lean back into the heavy warmth of his arm around you. You almost reach the hand up to his bottom lip to trace that makeup there, slightly smeared and edges rugged already from his snacking, but you do withhold yourself at that line, “I like the makeup.” 

“Yeah?” he lights up with pride, “You know, I did the eyeliner all by myself.” 

You squint pointedly, leaning in just an inch closer to inspect the feathered charcoal on his waterline, “Really? Very impressive, Eds.” 

“Stop flirting,” Steve demands as he leaves the kitchen, “You’re going to give him a bigger head than he needs.” 

You both break apart slowly, letting space settle between you two and slowly fading back into the real world and out of that little bubble between you two. Eddie’s arm remains — his palm never leaves you, going so far as to give you a playful squeeze as his finger trails down your bicep.

A pathway of spring roses feels as though they bloom along that trail. Vibrant, full of life, open to possibility. When it came to you, Eddie had one Hell of a green thumb. 

“Stop ruining the fun, big boy,” Eddie looks up at your friend, poking his tongue out as his nose scrunches. Adorable. Painfully so.

Steve is dressed as Batman. His mask is discarded somewhere on the counter beside the punch bowl.

“We have plenty of time for fun,” Steve waves off the comment, coming to stand in front of the TV with his hands on his hips, “Am I forgetting anything? I have candy for any kids that come knocking, we’ve got punch thanks to Nance, I ordered our pizza-“

“You better have ordered one with pineapple,” Eddie interrupts, tilting his head sideways in your direction, temple brushing against one of your fake ears, signaling how it was your favorite. You burrow yourself deeper into his touch.

Steve subtly ignores him, “-I have the big speakers set up if we wanna listen to any music in the backyard. Am I missing anything?”

Predictably, he wasn’t. Steve always thought of everything.

The last few months had been nice. Finally getting to enjoy Eddie’s touch had been more than you ever planned for, reveling in the way the boy was so gentle with you even as he finally gave in. Once he started, it was as if you both could finally breathe. A weight had lifted from Eddie’s shoulders just from the simple adjustment of now getting to sit beside you at every function, his bouncing knee always pressing into yours. It had become a silly tradition for him to offer to share that wild head of hair during scary movies, demanding if someone else tried to sit beside you during horror movies in particular that you needed him and his curls to protect you. 

You had gone from yearning for touches, yearning for that contact, to your friends arguing over who would be indulged that night. 

They had taken it slower than you thought you wanted (save for Robin), but in the end, it had all worked out. You didn’t freeze anymore. Your aversion to touch had slowly, slowly, withered away with each hug, with each clasp of their hands on you, with each casual cuddle session they pulled from you. You no longer felt like an anomaly. And it wasn’t that your friends had ever meant to make you feel like an outsider, but it felt like finally being let into a club you’d mourned being left out of for years.

The day that Eddie had grabbed your hand during a casual conversation amongst everyone while out for lunch, letting his thumb trail back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion, you’d nearly cried.

Something so delicate yet so telling. A quiet action of affection you’d spent so long telling yourself you couldn’t have. Back rubs during hugs, letting Argyle braid your hair in return, resting your head onto Robin’s shoulder instead of only vice versa. They were all things you’d denied yourself of for so long. You regret it, but you couldn’t change anything in the past, only the now.

And now, you had the boy who had first sprouted such affectionate want within you wrapped up against you, leaning into you for comfort as he started to ignore Steve again.

“Wanna go out back and smoke while he mother hens?” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. 

You both slip away out the back door unnoticed, a new banter sparking up between Robin and Steve being enough distraction to allow it. Eddie wastes no time digging into his jean pockets once he’s outside, throwing the cape out widely before he pulls out his pack of cigarettes. 

“Want one?” he offers, flipping it open in your direction.

You just smile, shaking your head, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.” 

You’d never really said that before to anyone in your group, only politely declining up until now. A small detail, but Eddie looks pleased to learn it all the same.

“Huh,” he curiously hums, pulling his own cigarette from the carton before tucking it back away, “I never knew that.” 

“I’ve never really told anyone,” you shrug.

“It is some big secret?”

“Nope.”

“Hmph.” 

This hum is muffled by the tip of the filter in his mouth, his hands now busy patting down his body for his lighter. 

“What?” 

His lips struggle to stretch around the tip of the cigarette without dropping it, solely from how wide his smile is, “I like learning new things about you.” 

For every thing you had once spewed at Robin that night, Eddie had learned of you tenfold. 

It was far past learning how your fingers fit between his or the smell of your perfume. He’d wanted it all; to know the inside workings of your mind, to be privy to all of your beautiful thoughts. The softness set in stone inside of you bled far past what could be felt in your fingertips or the care that shook your hand when you’d brush back stray curls out of his eyes. It fed deeper into you, into parts of you that Eddie could spend hours exploring without once growing bored. 

“You say that like I’m interesting,” you murmur half-heartedly, suddenly reaching out beneath his cape and tucking into his back pocket he could have sworn he already checked. His breath is the one that catches at your arm brushing against his waist from the reach, his body is the one that freezes up entirely just from proximity. A change of roles that you had never seen coming, but he’d always figured existed. You never understood the effect you had on him, and that was in part his fault. 

You produce his lighter like magic.

“You are interesting,” he insists as he plucks the lighter from you, flicking it three times to get a steady flame to burn the tip of his cigarette to life, “Don’t sell yourself so short, batty.” 

“Batty?” you snort, not moving away from him, even as he blows a thin and ghostly stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

He can only shrug, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, I didn’t like it either. Had to give it a chance, though.” 

In the quiet solitude of Eddie nursing his cigarette and you watching the trees rustle with the last remnants of daylight, something sharper invades the soft space you two seem to brew whenever together. Between your innards that are gentle by nature, and Eddie’s silken attitude not only in actions but attitude towards you, the spaces occasionally left between you two were always something dulcet. Calm. Welcoming. You’d come to discover that maybe, that’s why you’d always yearned to burrow yourself so deeply into those spaces. It was a feeling of comfort and a feeling of home that you had always seemed out, but never found that fit quite as right as these moments.

“Hey Eddie?” you ask aloud as he finishes off the cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his boot.

“What’s up?” he answers, making no move to go back inside.

You always liked these moments alone best. From the very beginning. Even before he felt comfortable enough to step closer to you, shoulder to shoulder with you now. He’s trying to squint and see what you’re finding so interesting in the array of colorful leaves in the distance, slowly being covered in blue shadows rather than golden light, without asking. 

You liked that. You liked it a lot; the way he always seemed to seek out your perspective on things. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did-“

“Fuck off,” your hand flies up, and smacks his shoulder. You never would have done that before. But you do now, relishing that contact even in the briefest of moments. The freedom to reach out and touch.

Once he stops laughing, clearly amused with himself, he turns to face you. Whatever he had been searching for in the trees is long gone, and your focus has moved onto him now, so it’s futile.

“Ask away, sweetheart.”

A deep breath for bravery, and you’re blurting out, “Did you really only avoid touching me when we met because... the others… they told you not to?” 

He wasn’t expecting that question. The crease between his brows makes that clear. You almost take your thumb to it, try to smooth out the worry. But you’re not quite there yet. Maybe one day you would be. 

It’s not as loaded of a question as he thinks it is. It’s cute to watch him assume it is, though. 

“I mean,” he starts his words slowly, carefully, “I guess.”

“You guess?” 

“I guess,” he repeats.

Your smile is sending him into a tornado of emotion. He almost curls his hands into fist, just as you used to do. 

When you broke down your boundary, it had split a crack through his dam. He knows he can reach out and touch you. He knows you’ll accept his physicality without complaint now. It doesn’t make it any less scary. 

For the same reason you don’t press your thumb into his eyebrow crease — having a crush just makes you hesitate like that. 

“I’m obviously a touchy guy,” he throws his arms out, aimlessly, and when they return his side, they almost nick yours. You wish they would brush yours, “But… between you and me, I always get nervous around pretty girls.”

The world slows. It doesn’t stop, it can’t stop for two youths who are trying to explore new and giddy feelings — but my God, can it slow to an absolute crawl, if only for the two of you.

“You think I’m pretty?” you tease, swallowing down just how much those words mean. You always have to remind yourself it’s worth it; being just friends is worth it now that you’ve learned the exact brand of cologne he wears and recognize the weight of his arm around you. 

“The absolute prettiest,” he breathes out, “I always have. Even if they hadn’t told me to hold back, I would have- Hell, I still do,” the Autumn air makes him honest, makes him brave, “I am- I would be- I just- It’s terrifying, the thought of fucking it up because you turn my brain to… mush.” 

Your eyes lift up to his forehead blanketed in his bangs, squinty and entertained, “You’re telling me it’s all just soup in there right now?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

Your friends are inside. There is candy to eat until your stomachs ache, and hugs to partake in until your bones have been crushed and pieced back together by threads of platonic affection.

Right now is anything but platonic. And it is time for something else to break, not your bones and not your boundaries. Something more. 

“I’m pretty sure your hand on my shoulder when we first met would have ended my entire world,” he confesses, starting the first crack.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If you had hugged me every time you saw me, I don’t know if I would have ever found the nerve to leave my house.”

Another crack.

“And if I sat next to you every time we went out for dinner?”

“Wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite, I’m afraid.”

A spiderweb of cracks, all widening.

“And if I had laid my head on your shoulder during movie nights?”

“What the Hell is a movie?” he jokes, chuckling a bit nervously now, “Who knows? Certainly not me, certainly not when my favorite girl is curled up next to me.” 

One more crack, and the entire thing will finally shatter. You’re begging it to shatter. 

You bite your tongue on any remark about still being his favorite, because since that goddamn night, he’d never said Robin or Nancy were his favorites again. Never. He’d meant it. You were his favorite. 

“And if I just…” you pause as you step forward, leaning in slowly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to turn and run as your lips brush over his cheek as you whisper, “Kissed your cheek? Right here, right now?” 

He doesn’t respond, your lips press together and then press down. 

It shatters with a resounding snap that must be heard across Hawkins. Across Indiana. 

One moment, your lips are on his cheek, and the next, they’re on his lips. He turns his head quickly before any doubt or nerves or roots can interrupt the moment. 

Endless. Endearing. Warmth. Tenderness. Soft.

His lips are soft. So goddamn soft.

His hands are foreign things for a second, as if he’s in shock that he’d actually done it and kissed you. But they come back to life when your own lift to his neck, wrapping behind his neck and beneath the collar of that cape, pulling him in even closer to you. 

He kisses you. And kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Till you’re both dizzy and it doesn’t matter that the earth won’t stop spinning long enough for you two to live in this moment. 

It should be unfamiliar, especially to you, but it isn’t. It’s as if the two of you have done this dance before. In another life, in another world, on another Earth far away from here. Your lips know his in this lifetime, and they will know his in the next — this first meeting only allows for a sigh of relief in the Universe, and in you. 

He paused the kisses briefly, palms cradling your face with care and intention, “Do you know,” he places his lips onto yours one more time, as if fearful that spending too much time apart will let you vanish, “how often,” another kiss, deeper this time, “I’ve wanted to do this?” 

A final peck. A period to the end of a sentence that the two of you had taken your time writing.

“No,” you laugh earnestly, fingers digging into the soft skin at his nape, reveling in the slip of his curls between your knuckles, “Maybe you should tell me about it.” 

“Tell you about all the times?” he’s leaning back in, lips brushing against yours. Just a touch, but it shakes you to your core, “All the times I wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss you?” 

You capture his lips in yours, unable to resist anymore. You’ve spent months resisting — his lips and kisses, his touches and brushes, his warmth and sunshine. You’re done resisting.

“Every,” you pull back and catch the glint in his eyes. He’s done, too, the rubble of the shatter, “Single,” you peck one cheek, “Last,” you peck the other, now rosey, “One.” 

You finally kiss his lips again. Your fingers tug harshly on his curls, and his mouth falls open at the unexpected sensation. Instead of taking this any further and starting something you’d never want to end, you do the adult thing — you nip at his bottom lip, a bite of adoration that leaves him with a sting to remember. 

“Fuck,” he sighs out, chasing after you, but your hands press into his chest to keep him into place, “I- Sorry, was that too much?” 

“Too much?” you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head immediately. Once upon a time, it might have been too much. But now, it wasn’t enough. “No such thing, not with you.” 

“Careful,” his hands came up to cover your fists balled into the front of his shirt, moving so that his cape brushes against your sides now, “I’m known to be quite a handful, sweetheart.” 

You snort and grip his shirt even harder. “God, I sure hope so. You’ve been holding out on me, dracula.” 

“Oh, have I?”

His smirk and your smirk are perfect mirror images of each other.