ೀsage

One arm hangs off the side, fingers barely grazing the floor, sticky from something he doesn’t remember spilling. His head tips back against the cushions, eyes open but unfocused, fixed somewhere above the ceiling like there’s something written there he has yet to figure out. 

There are still people in his house.

Too many, honestly.

Someone laughs in the kitchen, loud and unfamiliar. A bottle clinks against the counter. A couple disappears down the hallway like this is normal, like this is his house but not really his space.

Everyone he’s ever known.

And somehow not a single person he’s actually looking for.

The front door creaks open.

Steve’s eyes flick toward it instantly.

Hope is quick. Reflexive. Stupid.

Stupid, because It’s not you.

Just another guy-someone from school, maybe-dragging his feet in at this ungodly hour, talking too loudly about nothing. 

The door swings shut again, and with it, Steve’s brief, flickering expectation dies just as fast as it came.

He exhales through his nose, slow, reminding himself. 

Right.

You don’t come anymore.

It hadn’t been like that before. You used to show up late. Always late.

The memory hits him out of nowhere, uninvited and too clear, like everything from before somehow survived the blur of everything now.

The door opening. You stepping in, already half-smiling, half-annoyed.

“You know you could not invite half of Hawkins, right?”

He remembers your voice, teasing him with a truthful smile. And Steve—God—Steve would feel it instantly. That shift. Like the night finally made sense.

He’d push himself off whatever wall he was pretending to enjoy leaning on, weaving through people just to get to you with a grin that spread across his face like a reward. 

A reward to the hours he spent doing nothing but wait for you at every party, not even listening to anyone’s words because all he could think about was you. 

“You came.” He’d said. Like he wasn’t sure you would. Like it mattered more than it should.

You’d roll your eyes, brushing past him. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

But you’d stay. That was the thing.

You weren’t a party person. Never had been. You hated the noise, the mess, the people who got too close, too loud. You’d hover in the kitchen, or sit on the counter with a drink watching everybody mush into one another, or disappear into quieter rooms and somehow, Steve always ended up there with you.

Not hosting. The thought that it was his party completely left his mind the moment you showed up. 

Now the kitchen is full, and he doesn’t step foot in it. Now the quiet rooms stay empty. Now he doesn’t even try to look.

“Steve!”

He barely reacts when someone drops down beside him on the couch, too close, too energetic for the hour.

A girl. Familiar, but not familiar enough. Her hand lands on his arm like she’s done it before.

Maybe she has but he can’t remember, too lost in the thought of that it should’ve been you. 

It shouldn’t feel wrong. But it does.

Because it should’ve been you.

You, reaching for him like that without thinking.

You, nudging him when he drifted too far into his own head.

His brain does this cruel thing. 

It expects you. It always does.

You never even had to say his name.

You’d barely get the first sound out—“S—”—and he’d already be there, turning, stepping toward you like it was instinct, like he was tuned to you in a way he couldn’t explain.

“This party’s insane,” the girl says, laughing, leaning into him like they’re sharing something.

Steve glances at her, blinking slowly.

Her words take a second to land. He forces a smile. It’s automatic at this point. “Yeah.” He agrees. Not bothered. 

She keeps talking about someone in the backyard, something that happened earlier, something that probably would’ve been funny hours ago.

He tries to listen. But it all blurs together.

Her voice fades into the background, mixing with the music, the outside noise of people chatting. 

And all he can think about is how you would’ve reacted.

You would’ve made a face. You would’ve leaned over and whispered something sarcastic in his ear.

You would’ve pulled him away after thirty seconds because you knew he wasn’t actually listening.

His jaw tightens slightly.

The girl laughs again, nudging him. “Are you even listening right now?” Not really. 

He huffs a quiet, humorless breath.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t push, either. Just shrugs, already half-distracted by something else.

That’s the thing about these people. No one looks twice. But you would. In fact, you wouldn’t look away the first time in the first place. 

You would’ve kept him company all through every party. 

At some point, he ends up in the bathroom. He doesn’t remember walking there. The door clicks shut behind him, muffling the noise just enough that it feels like stepping underwater.

For the first time all night, it’s quiet.

Steve grips the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection. At his messy hair due to being run through one too many times, red rimmed eyes and his hollow expression. 

One of the memories hits him again, sharper this time. 

You, sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly, watching him with that look, half amused, half something deeper. He knows you’re about to say something that’s been bugging your mind. 

“I think you’re trying too hard.” You say, firmly, shrugging like this wasn’t the sentence that has been washing up your mind every time you get Steve in moments like these. Away from the crowd, without anyone to impress. 

“What?” He answers, obviously a little confused. 

“This,” you’d said, gesturing vaguely. “The whole…King Steve thing.”

He’d frowned.

“It’s just a party.” But you both knew it was’t. 

You shook your head, softer now.

“I like you better when you’re not like this.”

Not like this. Steve swallows, looking back at himself now. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Because you were right. And worse because he knows it.

He stays in there longer than he should.

Long enough that the party starts to feel distant. Long enough that the silence becomes heavier than the noise ever was.

When he finally steps back out, it hits him all over again. The mess. The people.

The version of himself he slipped back into without even realizing it.

Someone calls his name from across the room again. This time he ignores it.

Instead, his eyes drift—slow, searching—toward the front door. Like they have all night. Like they keep doing without his permission. And the door? It’s closed. Of course it is.

After everyone has left, Steve ends up back on the couch. Same position. Same spot. Like he never moved.

Except now the house actually is empty.

Cups litter the floor. Something sticky clings to his shoe when he shifts. A chair is knocked over near the kitchen. The air smells stale, heavy with everything the night dragged in and left behind as a reminder of what’s left to clean  up. 

He stares at the door again. One last time.

Again. It’s stupid, at this point. Really stupid. 

He knows you’re not coming. You haven’t in weeks. Maybe longer.

He just… didn’t want to admit it.

His throat tightens slightly, something uncomfortable settling in his chest. Because for the first time all night, there’s no distraction left. No noise to drown it out. No one to pretend in front of.

Just him.

And the quiet realization that’s been waiting for him to stop running long enough to catch up.

His gaze lingers on the door a second longer before finally dropping, his head tipping back against the couch.

A slow breath leaves him.

Another memory hits him. 

It had never been about the parties for you.

Steve knew that.

You didn’t show up for the music, or the people, or whatever reputation came with being seen at his house. Half the time, you barely spoke to anyone else.

But you always stayed for him.

That was the part he didn’t understand at first.

Not until he started noticing the way your eyes tracked him across the room. Not in a clingy way. Not like you needed him.

More like you were making sure he didn’t lose himself in it.

There were nights you’d catch his wrist as he passed, just for a second.

Not to stop him. Just to ground him a little. 

“Hey,” you’d say, softer than the rest of the room.

And that was enough.

Enough to cut through the noise. Enough to make everything else feel distant. He’d lean in without thinking, like your voice existed on a frequency meant only for him.

And you’d always notice. Always.

The second his smile stopped being real. The second his laugh went a little too loud.

You’d actually listen. 

At least when you were there.

The house is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful yet—just empty. Hollow. Like something’s been taken out of it and nothing’s replaced it since.

Steve doesn’t move from the couch. He hasn’t for a while.

The clock still blinks. The floor still sticks. The air still feels too thick to breathe properly.

And the door— The door is still closed.

He lets his head fall back, eyes slipping shut for a second, exhaustion finally starting to settle into his bones now that there’s nothing left to distract him from it.

This is it. This is what’s left.

A trashed house. A quiet morning. And the realization that he spent the whole night waiting for someone who was never coming.

A knock breaks the silence. Barely there.

Steve’s eyes snap open. 

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Because his brain, still stupid,hopeful and desperate—won’t let him believe it.

Not yet. The knock comes again.

Still quiet and still unsure.

He’s on his feet before he fully registers standing, crossing the room faster than he means to, heart racing something sharp and uneven in his chest.

His hand hesitates on the doorknob for half a second. Then he pulls it open.

And it’s you.

You look out of place.

Not because you don’t belong there, but because the night has already ended, and you weren’t part of it this time.

Your eyes flick past him, briefly taking in the mess behind him; the cups, the overturned chair, the remains of everything.

Then you look back to him.

There’s no smile this time.

Just something careful still settled on your face. 

“Hey.”

His throat feels dry. Unsure. Like his brain is still catching up, too much happening all at once. 

“Hey,” he echoes, quieter.

For a second, neither of you moves and it feels awkward in a way it’s never been before.

Like you don’t quite know where you stand anymore.

“I, uh—” you start, shifting your weight slightly. “I think I left my jacket here. A while ago.” 

It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But Steve nods anyway, stepping back to let you in.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s probably…somewhere.”

You walk past him slowly, more cautious than you used to be, like you’re not sure what version of him you’re walking into.

After all it has been weeks and you never know what to expect with Steve. Or with you. The last few weeks you’ve spent avoiding him because facing your feelings with the fact that Steve the hair Harrington could never like you.

Even if you always saw right past that persona. He didn’t.

He closes the door behind you, watching as you move through the space that used to feel familiar to you. During evening, at least. 

You don’t head for the kitchen. You don’t make yourself comfortable. You just look around taking it all in. 

“This is new,” you say quietly.

Steve huffs, but there’s no humor in it. He knows what you mean. 

 “Not really.”

He lets silence overtake everything for a quick pause, hoping that what he says next won’t mess up the moment even more. 

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

You glance at him, something flickering across your face, searching for his eyes like there’s a right answer and that’s where you’ll find it. 

“I didn’t,” you admit. “Not for that.”

Not for him. The words hang there, unspoken but understood.

Steve nods slowly, looking down at the floor for a second. “Yeah.”

He clears his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet house. “Where do you think you left it?”

Another dumb excusable question you’re both aware of. 

You shrug slightly, arms crossing, bracing yourself against a feeling you can’t explain yet.  

“I don’t know. Your room, maybe.”

His jaw tightens a little at that. You haven’t been up there in weeks. Not since the last party you came to. 

“Yeah. Okay.” He nods once, not letting another memory flood both of your minds this time, then he gestures vaguely toward the hallway with a head shake. “It could be there.”

You hesitate before moving. Just for a second,  deciding if this is a mistake, like you’re giving yourself the chance to turn around and leave.

Steve notices. Of course he does. He notices everything about you.

“I can check,” he rushes. “You don’t have to-“

“No.” You shake your head, cutting him off, softer this time. “It’s fine.”

You step past him before he can say anything else.

He follows, a step behind, like he used to, but it feels different now. Less certain. As if he’s not sure he’s allowed to be that close anymore.

You reach his bedroom door first, pushing it open slightly, surprised it wasn’t locked.

Even more surprised when you see how untouched it is compared to the rest of the house. He didn’t let anyone in here.

You scan the room again, slower this time, like you’re giving yourself something to do.

“It’s cleaner in here,” you say, glancing back at him. “That’s new.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh from the doorway. 

“Yeah, well. People don’t usually make it this far.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “I feel special.”, you joke, with a laugh, but the words had more weight to it. The word joke not holding it’s meaning anymore. 

He shrugs, but there’s the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You are.” Like he’s not even thinking about it. 

You chuckle, hoping he doesn’t take it the wrong way and look away first, stepping further into the room, crouching slightly to check the side of the bed still holding onto the story. “If I find it covered in something gross, I’m leaving it here.”

“That’s fair,” he says. “Honestly, I’d probably do the same.”

You glance up at him. “You would not.”

“I would,” he insists, pushing off the doorframe a little, stepping into the room. “I have standards.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You threw a party for half the town.”

“Hey,” he points at you, mock-offended, “those are unrelated issues.”

But you don’t know the parties aren’t for half the town. They’re not for his neighbours, for his classmates or anyone he ever knew.

They’re for you.

Why would he keep throwing them and pretend to thrive someplace that didn’t include you. Even if that place included you for the last few hours only. 

You stand back up, brushing your hands together like you actually found something, even though you didn’t.

“Still not seeing it.”

Steve nods slowly, looking around like the jacket might magically appear if he tries hard enough. “It’s probably..uh..” he gestures vaguely toward his closet. “Check there, maybe?”

You pull the closet door open, pushing aside a few hanging shirts without much hope. “I’m not digging through your entire house for one jacket.”

“Wow,” Steve says lightly from behind you.

“Didn’t realize it meant that little to you.”

You glance back at him. “It’s a jacket, Steve.”

“Cold mornings are serious,” he shrugs, looking away from you.

There’s barely anything there—just a couple of boxes, a pair of old shoes.

And then something small, half-hidden near the corner. You reach for it without thinking.

“…wait.”

Steve shifts a little. “What?”

You pick it up, turning it over in your hand, squinting at it for a second, then your expression changes.

“…no way.”

Steve already knows that tone.

“What?” he asks, a little more cautious now.

You stand up, holding it out slightly. “You still have this?”

It’s a keychain.

Cheap. Plastic. Slightly scratched. From one of those dumb arcade prizes.

Steve freezes for half a second when he sees it. “Oh,” he says quietly.

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Oh?”

“I mean-it’s just-” he gestures vaguely, already losing the point, “it was in there.”

“You won this for me,” you remind him, as if he needs any reminding, turning it between your fingers. “And then got mad when I said it was ugly.”

“It is ugly,” he defends, a small smile creeping in despite himself.

“You were so proud of it though.” you add.

“I worked hard for that,” he shoots back. “Those machines are rigged.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. “I think I said something like, ‘Wow, I’ll treasure this forever,’” you recall.

“You were lying,” he says immediately.

“Obviously.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I knew that.”

You look at it again, “I lost it like…two days later.”

“I know.”

That makes you glance up at him. “You do?”

Steve shrugs one shoulder. “Found it in my car.”

“…and just kept it?” you ask, searching for his eyes. 

He hums, then, even quieter, “Yeah.”

“You’re weird.” You rush, before you could let your mind think too much of it. This meant nothing, you and Steve were nothing. 

“Getting that a lot today,” he mutters in response.  But he’s smiling a little.

You step out of the closet, still holding the keychain, your fingers brushing over the scratched plastic absentmindedly.

“Still not my jacket,” you scoff, dramatically, feeling less out of place now. 

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “Guess not.” With raised eyebrows and a smile spreading into a grin already. Like he knew it wasn’t there anyway as much as you did. 

Neither of you moves much after that.

You’re closer now. Not on purpose, it’s just how it ended up.

You glance down at the keychain again, then back up at him. “You kept a lot of stuff like this?”

“No,” he says. “Just…some things.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Important things?”

He lets out a quiet breath, like he didn’t expect that question. “Something like that.”

Your breath catches, taken back deciding on what you’re about to do next. 

You shift your grip on the keychain, and your hand brushes his, this touching him on purpose.

Steve’s gaze drops for a second, then back up to your face like he’s searching for what this really means and the answer is on your face.

He takes a deep breath. 

“You still think it’s ugly?” he asks softly.

You hum, pretending to think about it. “…yeah.”

He nods. “Fair.” Then you add, just as quiet: “But I’d probably keep it now.”

You don’t move away after saying it. Neither does he. There’s barely any space left between you.

Steve lets out a small breath, deciding something again, knowing he didn’t give it a second thought. Not even a first one. “You can.”

You look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “You can keep it.” He looks down at where your hands are still touching. “Was kinda yours anyway.”

You push harder against his hand, probing for one of his fingers, his hand, you don’t even know, just wanting to hold a part of him in some way as slick as you can be. 

“yeah?” You mutter, not losing your focus.

You settle on the finger closest to yours as quickly as you can, not wanting to make this more awkward than it already might be. He reaches for the keychain, both of you holding it tightly now.

But at the same time you’re scanning his eyes, scouring for any possible hint that says he doesn’t want this, blinking as a way to cue him and let him know he can still pull away. 

And instead of saying anything else, you lean your face closer, just slightly at first, giving him time to meet you there, if he wants to. 

For a second, nothing happens.

Your breath mixes with his, close enough now that you can feel the hesitation in it, not unsure but like he’s not entirely sure this is real and happening. 

His eyes flick between yours, searching, almost waiting for you to pull back, giving you every chance to.

You don’t. But you don’t get closer either, letting him decide what comes next. 

So he closes the distance.

It’s careful, barely there at first. His lips are brushing yours so lightly it almost feels accidental. 

Like a test. And you still feel his reluctance, waiting for you to make it go away and confirm that he can be resolute in this. 

And instead of stopping, you lean in just a little more. 

That’s all it takes for the kiss to settle, both his and your lips catching each other tentatively. Chasing the taste of one another.

Steve exhales quietly against your lips, like something in him finally gives in and his hand lifts, slow, almost unsure, before resting gently at your side, still grounding himself in the fact that this is happening.

You tilt your head slightly, deepening it just enough to feel real, not rushed.

His thumb shifts faintly against your arm, a small, absent movement, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You try to think of how maybe this shouldn’t be happening, like your lips shouldn’t be so desperate and in seek of his the second he pulls back to breathe. 

You should be bothered by sweat building on his pinky from you gripping it so tightly, but you just want more, more and more. 

Because you know you’ve wanted this for weeks. Weeks spent away from him, the moment only living in your imagination.

When you finally pull back, it’s unhurried, neither of you moving far, both still hovering in it, wanting it to continue. Your breath is uneven.

Steve lets out a quiet, disbelieving exhale, his eyes still half on yours, like he’s afraid if he looks away it’ll disappear.

The keychain is still in his hands, pressed between his fingers.

Steve glances at it, then back at you, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. “..definitely not here for the jacket.”

You huff softly. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Don’t.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, still close. “Okay.” 

But you needed something to fixate on that was not Steve’s shirtless body being backlit by the sunset across the lake. He’s submerged up to his chest, wading and looking towards the same beautiful sky you were taking in. Every time you saw the expanse of his shoulders and his bare chest, you envision those horrible bruises that riddled his tanned skin. They have finally faded with time, but you can picture them so clearly.

August was always humid in Hawkins, but this past week, it’s been overwhelmingly muggy and potent.

You were going to miss moments like this. The simplicity and the sweat you resent now, but would yearn to feel going down your neck and spine later.

You take another puff, finally not choking immediately.

Steve finally moves from his swaying position to look back, eyeing you up on the rock formation you are sprawled across. You never swam in the lake, always taking up the real estate on the shore or tucking yourself up on a rock to observe Steve’s backstroke or look out for fish in the shallow end.​

“You never get better with those things,” He mutters, standing up and brushing his hand across his nice-toned stomach.

He slowly moves up to the shore, dropping onto the muddy grass with an oof. He had not said much to you the entire time you two had been here, which you didn’t mind. You were caught up in your own rattling thoughts.

It had been almost two months since the mall fire. That’s what the local news and townspeople have been labelling it.

You were grappling with the nightmares and living in a constant state of anxiety throughout every single day since. Being in public was overwhelming, which made your job search fruitless. Your parents were not pressuring you much. They knew that what you had gone through was crippling you from doing your normal tasks.

Your only partial solace is being with Steve. He made you feel safe in a way not even your mother made you feel. A shared experience and an unspoken understanding that no one in the world could even comprehend.

There was still this part of your soul that had been stripped away. You had been obsessive about trying to narrow down what made you so anxious, but you did not know if you should search for it or accept that this is how you would be forever.

You had been attached to Steve’s hip, sure, but he’s only a mere mortal. He cannot make you any better.

But he has yet to complain about you being near him all the time. If anything, it seems like he is enjoying your time together, distracting him from some of the weird medical stuff he’s been dealing with and that residual anxiety he tried to shield from your prying eyes.

Two weeks ago, you drove out to the audiologist a few hours away with him because of the constant ringing in his ears. He held your hand in the waiting room while his leg bounced. When his name was called, you gave him a reassuring smile as he dropped your hand to see if they could solve his problem.

But people are terrible at having answers for either of you.

As the days go on, you notice some slight positive changes, but they are slow to come back.

He’s not shaking his head as much, telling you the ringing actually goes away for small increments during the day. You chalk it up to the variety of medications he’s on.

His fingernails are growing back and aren’t bleeding as much due to his abuse of them. He gnawed them down to the cuticles and had bandaids on every other finger for a month.

Just last week, you were able to actually sleep for more than 4 hours. With the light on. Your doctor has not been notified about your sleeping habits. Or the fact that you cannot close your eyes at night without rehashing the Mindflayer’s wrath and the following days.

You numbed those intense, vivid memories with wine you stole from your father’s large wine cabinet in the basement. It was becoming the only thing you could rely on to pull your thoughts away from that entire incident. You knew it was bad. You knew that you could not get dependent on it. You had only done it three times when you were really desperate and exhausted. You couldn’t shut your eyes without envisioning Steve sacrificing himself for Dustin. Even though that had not happened, your mind became obsessed with laying out that scene. The alcohol numbed you enough that it became a small crutch. But you were becoming uneasy with the idea that you would never feel at peace without it.

You promised yourself two nights ago that you would stop. And you have.

You just wanted to be normal again.

“The more I smoke, the better I get.”

He grimaces at your response. He’s quick to hop up onto your rock throne and snatch the unlit end from your fingers. “Nope.”

“What do you mean nope?”

“Meaning I am not letting you get better at it. Find a new oral fixation.”

You roll your eyes when his dripping wet shorts leave tiny droplets on your bare thigh. He ashes out the cigarette, dropping down next to you.

He was not going to stop you from figuring out a way to redirect your traumatized brain.

“I think it’s time you change the subject.”

You wipe off some of the water with your pointer finger, focusing your eyes elsewhere.

“Fine…I think Robin has a lead on a job,” Steve states as he stretches his shoulders and leans back onto his palms beside you. His long legs hang over the side of the miniature cliff, and he kicks them like a toddler on a swing. He can never sit still.

“Oh, really?” You draw a heart with the residual water, right on your knee. “Where?”

“Before she left, she said that the new video store on Kersey was hiring. Apparently, she knows the manager.”

You hum before you speak, “That’s great, I’m sure she’ll get it. She knows a lot about movies.”

“Maybe we could all get a job there.”

You shoot him a glance. He’s still looking over the lake, now wrapping his arms around his knees. He tucks himself inward, and as he does, his wet thigh brushes over yours.

“I wouldn’t count on that, Steve.”

He smirks, his hazel eyes finally meeting yours. You would not dare look away from him, now.  He looked too pretty in the orange and pink hues that took over the entire sky. His hair is slicked back, but three tiny strands are curled onto his forehead. He hasn’t shaved for the last couple of days, so his face is a bit more stubbly.

You wonder if he notices the small things about you. You wonder if he can read your mind and see that you are hiding something from him.​

“But just imagine! You, me, Robin,” His brows raise in excitement, “Working in a video store with endless movies to watch.”

“Yeah, it’d be cool, but I am not putting my faith into something like that.”

His face slightly droops, obviously annoyed by your passiveness. You had not been that gung-ho about anything lately. You were overly cautious to really put all your eggs in one basket. And with Steve, he tried to be optimistic if it was something that came to you.

His shoulder pushes you, shifting your ass across the rough platform you were on, “Why are you being a stick in the mud?”

You manage a half-assed giggle, “I’m just being realistic.”

“Well, I’d like to daydream about a world where I get to work with my best friends.”​

You stare out over the bugs that are settling over the haze of the lake water.

Life seems simple here. The outdoors have always made you feel some sort of freedom you yearned for growing up. That’s why you loved driving around, too. Fresh air, open road, your best friend by your side. You did not have to worry about the pressure of doing anything. No one was waiting for you. No one needed your input or opinion.

You didn’t have the constant reminder that your childhood was basically behind you.

This summer was really hammering that home.

When September hits, you won’t be able to sit in this spot without a hoodie or jeans on. You liked the piercing sun on your bare legs and shoulders, not the frigid overcast that Indiana was permanently stuck in during the fall.

There was a time when you didn’t mind it. When you got together with friends during October to go trick-or-treating. The fall festival Hawkins always hosted in the town center. Thanksgiving at your Grandma’s, and your uncles would pile a bunch of leaves for you and your cousins.

It was the season you started getting close to Steve.

6th-grade chorus Christmas concert. You two were stuck next to each other on the risers, and he would intentionally sing the wrong note to make everyone laugh. You would nudge him to keep him on track, and somehow that spiraled into you two walking home side by side every day.

He was easy to talk to. He was enthusiastic about just about everything you said. He would get this twinkle in his eyes when you would talk about your new favorite song or all the boys you had crushes on.

That twinkle had faded quite a bit over time, but on rare occasions, you’d catch a hint of it when you teased him.

You click your tongue, thinking of a way to steer the conversation. Faux optimism. That’ll get him.

You nudge him with your shoulder, “If you get a job there, maybe you’ll meet some chicks.”

His face flickers, staring in the opposite direction. It’s almost like the comment made him uncomfortable. “I think that ship has sailed.”

You don’t know why he’s being weird now. So you double down, trying to joke more, so maybe he will give it back to you.

“What do you mean? You trying out guys for size?”

“Don’t be an ass,” He gives you a hint of a smile, scanning your face, “No, like, I don’t know. I just feel like… I want to focus on me. Figure out what I really want.”

You bite your lip, only encouraging him to continue. “That is important.”

“With Nancy, I felt like I knew exactly what I wanted. But the more I…” He pauses, really contemplating his next words. His fingers tap on his bare knee, “I guess getting older shines a light on different parts and people in your life.”

It’s endearing to hear him talk like this. Steve is a lot of things, but he’s rarely sentimental. So hearing that he is taking into account different people in his life, and their meaning to the bigger picture, made you happy.

“Aw, Steve Harrington gettin’ all old and wise on me?”

“Hopefully.”

The intense rise of bugs buzzing and making noise makes you believe you misheard him. Your brow twitches as you scan him all the way from his feet to his suddenly very serious expression.

“Hopefully?”

“Yeah, hopefully I get old and wise with you.”

Your eyes flicker down at his lips. Only the briefest glance before locking back onto his eyes.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He looks at your lips, “But it’s what I meant.”

It makes goosebumps rush across your skin.

You needed to create a barrier. Distance. Deflect. Something.

You slide off the slicker part of the rock, finding your footing in the mud below. You trek through, not saying anything because you are already sick of the way Steve has been making you feel lately.

Like there’s something unsaid. Something that lies in wait, waiting for you to pull back the curtain.

But you were sick of that. Having to be the one who pressed forward when things got too real. It made you feel stupid and anxious.

You could count on one hand the sly comments like this Steve had made towards you in the last week.

He’s all talk.

Because if there was more intention behind what he said, there would be a follow up. A kiss. A holding of your hand. A heated gaze. Something.​

But it always resulted in some casual joke or him averting his eyes away from you.

As you work your way up to the tall grass and dirt path, you hear Steve’s rapid footsteps behind you. His bare feet splatting on the mushy ground, his breath uneven.

“Hey!”

You instantly begin rambling, trying to disconnect from what just happened. “We should get home, it’s getting dark.”

“What just happened?”

You try to play stupid, but it sounds strained, “What?”

He does his normal stance. Both hands on his hip, one leg slightly jutted out. Eyes narrowed, his nose slightly scrunched.

“I think we should stop dancing around this.”

You cross your arms over your chest, not wanting to hear much more from him. That was until he moved from his spot, inching closer to you with those oogling eyes.

“For fucks sake, Steve.”

His face flickers, “What!?”

When his hand reaches out for your hand that’s placed on top of your forearm, you snatch it away. Maybe these physical queues were not enough after all. You still did not want it. You felt like this was wrong somehow. Like your best friend must have really gotten his brain rattled in his skull during his fight with the Russians a couple of months ago, and caved into a delusional world that centered around his genuine feelings for you.

“You don’t feel that way about me, okay? You can’t. You don’t.”

He looks offended, but his hand still tries to reach out again to yours. You let him take it this time, but you don’t wrap your fingers around his knuckles.

“You don’t get to tell me how I feel about you!” He barks, pulling you closer. You brace yourself against his chest, trying not to fall too much closer into him, “Jesus, do you hear yourself?”

“Yes. Loud and clear,” You whisper, dropping all physical contact with a quick swivel.

With your back turned to him now, you take three steps before his voice rings out again.

“Is it me? Am I-”

You shift back, head snapping towards him to stop him mid-sentence, “Steve, stop.”

“I’m not good enough?”

You shake your head, knowing he’s about to jump down the rabbit hole of self-deprecation.

“That’s not it at all.”

“Then tell me!”

His voice is shaking, and he looks uneasy, like he may throw up.

“I am not someone you need to love because I’ve just been around for a while,” You state before biting down on your lips, as if to seal them off from saying more. There was more to your rationale, but it felt like the wrong time to say it.

His face relaxes slightly, like he was about to change your mind. Like this was just a misunderstanding that he could fix with a confession. “Did you not hear me earlier?”

You did, but you wish you hadn’t. You are mad that this conversation was even sparked because you were not ready to have it.

“I am an idiot because I didn’t see you earlier, Bug! God, I was the biggest idiot ever! Because everything that I could possibly want has been here the entire time! Nancy was great, and yeah, I have had other crushes before, but I was always trying to be something else for them. I’m me when I’m with you. I want that. I want you.”

It was like your entire life flashed before your eyes as he poured his heart out. You see yourself falling in love with him, spending every holiday together. Then a wedding by a beautiful lake, just like the one you’re currently at. Then children. Two or three. A small baby in your arms while two toddlers run around the backyard of the beautiful home that Steve fixed up. Going to soccer games and hosting birthday parties. When they grow up, you and Steve fall into a lifeless routine where you make dinner when he gets home from his 9-5, and you watch TV together on the couch. Then repeat that every day. Until you’re old and the grandchildren come by to try to fill that void you are harboring.

Then you die, old and miserable and completely unfulfilled.

And the entire time you watch this flash go by, you recognize the lifeless eyes you display. That residual ache that is currently lingering in your bones stays around forever, and you’re never fully present in every small moment that truly matters. Sure, you can share those happy moments, but you’re truly unfeeling.

All because you had a part of you ripped out of you when you were a teenager. All the love Steve gave you wasn’t enough. Your children were never enough. You were never fucking enough. Your brain and heart were toxic and poisonous, and you remained stuck in one place the entirety of your life.

It makes you sick to your stomach. You cannot put Steve through that.

“You can be you around me. I love that,” You say gently, as a single tear drops from your eye, “More than you even know. But I’m… I’m not me, right now, okay? I’m… I’m not ready. I’m anxious, and my brain is fucking muddled with all these racing thoughts all the time. I am not me with you. Or anyone. Not right now. If you had said this at the beginning of summer, sure. I was different then. I was normal. But you don’t want me like this.”

He’s quick to respond, reaching back out and pulling you towards him. He’s pleading now. “I do.”

Your lip quivers as you speak, “You won’t. You don’t.”

“I’m with you every day, already. Why does a label change that?”

“I’m not going to be your girlfriend because I need to fix me first, and I cannot do that when you want something from me! I’m not going to be someone you deserve.”

He cradles your face, looking down at you with the utmost admiration. His eyes are slightly misty, but at this angle, you can only really focus on how much green is laced throughout his iris, mixing in with that golden brown.

He was so goddamn pretty you wished your heart was ready to fully take him on. But you know you’d be doing him a disservice. You needed to figure some shit out first. You didn’t know what, but there was something.

“Can I just…” His thumb sweeps over your chin, “Can I kiss you?”

You feel like you almost look through him when you respond, “It’s not going to change my mind.”

“I don’t care, I just need to.”

You don’t know why you nod, but you do. ​

In all honesty, you hope that it will change your mind. That the electricity of finally kissing Steve after years of pining after him would heal you and wake you up from whatever you’re dealing with.

He presses his lips into yours, but instead of melting into it, you go completely rigid. His right palm cradles your cheek as his fingers pass your hairline. His left hand travels down your shoulder, making you more aware of where it’s passing through and not the fact that he’s trying to get you to move your lips with his.

His hand finally stops right on your elbow as he withdraws from your mouth.

His eyes are still closed, and that’s when it hits you that you had your eyes open the entire time. ​

He doesn’t say anything, just stands millimeters from your face. The air grows tense the moment you unintentionally exhale loudly. Like a sigh of relief that the kiss is finally over. ​

That rubs him the wrong way. It would rub you the wrong way, too.

He is quick to start towards the car, snatching his t-shirt from a nearby branch he used as a hanger, “Let’s get you home.”

You blink rapidly, suddenly feeling the need to tell him what you’ve been meaning to tell him. Maybe this was the right time.

“I’m going to live with my aunt.”

He stops dead in his tracks, his t-shirt balled up in his hands like he wants to throw it like a basketball. “What?”

The plans had been confirmed the evening prior. Your mom reached out to her sister, and she agreed to have you stay with her in the city. Your struggles did not need to be Hawkin’s problem. You needed to be somewhere else.

Your eyes well up with tears. It’s the first time you cried since that night two months ago. “I leave next week. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

He races towards you, stopping about 2 feet from you. “Bug, what the hell?”

You hate the expression he has on his face. It’s already morphing into resentment. ​

“My mom thinks it’ll be good for me to get a change of scenery. My aunt knows a good therapist in South Bend that I can go see-”

He cuts you off, his nostrils flaring, “You’re leaving?! Four hours away?”

A single tear drops across your cheek, and you instantly wipe it away. You swallow, knowing that if you don’t do this, the resentment would go both ways. You did not want to hate Steve, but you knew you could push through him hating you.

He was never quick at coming around to things, but once it happened, he was usually grateful no one listened to his plan.

“I need to. I need this, Steve.”

His demeanor changes when he hears your shaky voice. He stucks in a sharp breath, letting his eyes travel towards the woods that line the lake.

“It seems you already made up your mind,” He whispers, the sounds of locus practically covering up his words, “And I don’t think I’d be wise to try to change it.”

dividers by @/cafekitsune