As Steve gazes over himself he realises how badly in love he is with Y/n. Badly.

Sure, Steve is far from caring about his reputation of High School’s King Steve ever since he placed that tormenting Scoops Ahoy hat atop his head and had to sling ice cream while his peers ventured off to college. However, Steve thought this was a step down, even for him; world’s best babysitter.

Jennifer Grey could arrive to the little town in Hawkin’s and ask poor Steve to wear the exact same outfit and he would have even refused her, his celebrity crush. But the sweet grin Y/n wore as she handed over one of the aerobic workout costumes that are already gravely going out of style, and telling him she has a matching outfit for the Halloween party, Steve could only muster up a smile and hide his embarrassment to please her.

Pink tight leggings and a green contrasting leotard, Steve knew after tonight he was going to never leave the house again. How could Y/n ever want to date him after this? Did she not think it was the most unattractive thing she could see her boyfriend in? What happened to simple Maverick from Top Gun?

His large house empty as he got ready, Steve could hear the echo of the front door slam as Y/n entered, “Stevie! I’m here!” Disapproving glances in the mirror as Steve tried to not ruin his hair while adjusting the headband, he shouts, “I’ll be two seconds, just wait there!”

After a second he continues while groaning and adjusting it uncomfortably, “please… if you don’t mind.” He wasn’t thinking straight as he looks at the ridiculous outfit. But finally pulling himself away from the mirror, he flips the leg warmers up his legging-covered shins and old stingy-sneakers to accommodate.

He looks ridiculous, not a soul, especially Robin, was ever going to let Steve live this down, he knew that. His crotch was uncomfortable against the material, tight and short and the leggings enclosed his thighs and Steve wishes the ground would open up and swallow him hole so he didn’t need to go to this stupid Halloween Party.

But when Y/n shouts his name from downstairs again, Steve remembers why he’s putting himself through this. It was for Y/n. It was only a stupid Halloween party where half the people will be dressed as Maverick, some Ferris Bueller and maybe The Karate Kid here and there was always people who dressed as ridiculous as he was right now, sometimes worse.

Steve also knew Eddie was going as the stupid Cousin Itt from the weird 60s show Steve always quickly flipped past whenever it was on. So, he wouldn’t look as bad as Eddie planned, who wanted to stand out from the crowd as usual.

If Steve looked in the mirror for much longer, he would inevitably dig a large hole of regret and discontentment, leading him to back out of his decisions and disappoint his poor awaiting girlfriend. So, he decides to tear himself away and go where Y/n patiently waited downstairs.

“Baby?” Steve speaks from the top of steps, hearing her rustle around before her muffled voice speaks while she stands from the living-room couch, “coming, handsome!”. She’s not going to call me that after she sees the state I am, Steve thinks.

He stops in the middle of the flight of stairs hesitantly, trying to assure Y/n before she finally sees him, “okay, you can’t laugh at me, yeah? I feel like an idiot, Y/n.” She giggles while leaning against the archway between the living space and cold hallway, packet of cookies she’s stolen from the kitchen cupboard in one hand, “I’d never dream of it.”

“See, you say that, just wait until you see me.”

Y/n rolls her eyes at her dramatic boyfriend, of course only Steve Harrington would make an innocent Halloween get-together seem like a horrid event he was dragged to out of his will. “You’re such a drama queen, come here so I can kiss you and we can go to this thing.”

With a sigh, Steve pulls himself begrudgingly down the remaining steps, coming into view as they both look at one another. Y/n adorns a matching neon aerobic outfit and Steve curses to himself at the fact she pulls it off. Already does Steve realise she looks ten times better than any of the woman in aerobic classes he “glanced” at while working in the mall before they dated.

Steve knows he will look so stupid next to her.

“Why does it look good on you, baby? I don’t get it,” asks Steve once he’s reached the floor, stepping in front of Y/n and eyeing her knowingly when she uses the back of her hand to cough into when a small piece of chocolate went down the wrong way, eyes stuck on his Halloween outfit.

Y/n was holding her laughter for his pride, which only made Steve hate this even more.

Steve’s thick thighs covered with pink material threatening to almost rip, despite it being his size. Cute fluffy leg warmers upon his calves and the graze area of chest hair peeking from the top-half of the outfit, broad shoulders on display contrasting with the neon.

“And why do you look so cute?” Y/n responds teasingly, reaching over with one hand to slide across the nylon material of his chest and he’s already groaning disapprovingly, “don’t make fun of me, this was your idea, y’know.”

Steve ushers the cookie packet out of Y/n’s hand to sit on the sideboard by the wall before gripping her hands to pull her towards him, leaning down to watch her expression which is filled with an amusing glint in her eye and a held smile threatening to tug the corners of her lips.

Instead of speaking, Y/n only shakes her head as her lips quiver, corners turning upwards only slightly but more than enough for Steve to notice. “It’s very uncomfortable. I mean I feel like I’m on show, nothing really covering me,” Steve continues, quickly gesturing to his middle section.

There was a yellow hoodie tied loosely around Y/n’s waist, and she pulls from Steve’s reluctant hands while his fingers yearn to fidget with hers for a minute more. “Here,” she ushers, untying the loop to then swing it around her boyfriend’s small waist instead.

Steve only watches with a more defeated gaze, strands of his hair floating over his face as he watches her tie it around him, the cuffs of the knotted sleeves falling against his body and he only scrunches his face when they look at one another again.

“That only draws more attention, baby, but thank you.” Steve kisses her forehead before tilting his chin down to try and coax Y/n into a proper kiss, trying to pry her lips open as she responds briefly with a sweet smile before pulling away.

Steve groans when she takes a step away from him, chasing lips changing to face the ceiling as his head falls back, “I want a good look at my handsome aerobic partner.” Steve feels Y/n’s eating this situation up too well, knowing how much he hates this but also how easy it was for her to convince him.

Opening his closed eyes and flopping his head forward, hair bouncing, Steve stares when she giggles, outwardly and not exactly quietly enough to keep her boyfriend’s pride. “Baby,” Steve tries, opening his arms to try and usher her back into his embrace.

Maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky enough he could kiss her dizzily until she agrees they can stay in and he can take this god-awful costume off and watch a scary movie with her instead. Give her a pair of his own sweatpants and sweatshirt to cosy into and forget about the whole night they almost got themselves into.

Y/n falls forward, hands sliding up his bare extended arms and back up to his chest while Steve wraps his arms around her, watching her giggle with his own fond yet defeated smile, eyes lighting up at the sound.

Her head falls forward, landing on her hands placed across his chest, emitting louder laughter in hopes her hidden face can muffle the sounds, “Y/n.” With a sharp inhale at attempts to keep from continuing, she looks up at Steve and holds a hand to his cheek softly, “you look ridiculous, I love it.”

“Only for you, honey.”

Steve indulges in the warm feeling or her hand on his cheek, her thumb stroking over the two small, dotted freckles upon the skin, the only sense of solace he’ll find for the next few hours. One of his own hands fall lower down her back, gently landing across her bum which also feels on show due to the cheap material. Steve knew he’ll be ushering the hoodie back over Y/n’s waist in no time.

With a light tap, and a peck to her lips, Steve reluctantly pulls away with a small, “c’mon, let’s go. The faster we’re there, the faster we leave.” As if he can’t fret to pull away completely from her, attached to her side for tonight, Steve weaves his hand down her arm and entwining their fingers tightly together while grabbing the keys from the sideboard with his free hand.

Y/n follows, grabbing the cookie packet and shaking them in front of Steve as they walk toward his front door, “want one? they might help you feel better.” With a smirk, Steve nods and takes one from the box, a muffled voice through the crumble, “you mean, my stolen cookies? I’ll take the rest to help.”

⤸

taglist form . the library . steve harrington masterlist

When you chanced a glance at your driver, he looked the way you felt, like he was at peace with what was about to happen, like it was all finally okay. 

His cheek was still angry, pink and lilac turning to blue and red overnight and he licked his split lip a little self consciously upon feeling your eyes on him. 

You thought he might tell you to quit it, to stop staring but Steve was soft around the edges, maybe from sleep, maybe from the relief you both felt when you approached the edge of town. The sign that told you both you were leaving Hawkins edged closer as Steve drove, the mocking “come back soon!” staring at you both. 

It felt like a challenge, it felt like a dare. 

Steve spoke then, the engine thrumming underneath you both as he flicked honey brown eyes towards you. 

“You sure?”

You stared at the road ahead before finding the boy’s gaze, a quiet determination coming over you. You think he saw it, or maybe he felt it -  like the air around you both changed -  because he smiled, a little crooked because of his cut but it made you grin back. 

The sense of adventure overpowered the unknown, the thrill of something new and all of the what ifs made your heart beat a little faster and for the first time in the longest time, you felt like you weren’t sleepwalking through the day. 

Morning had hardly broken and the sky was still a watercolour wash of pastel, but you were wide awake. 

You nodded and Steve’s grin was blinding, summer and sun in a smile. 

You drove as the sun came up, until the skies turned from peach to blue, the air growing warmer and the view outside your window had less houses. Steve hit the highway and picked up some speed, windows still down and the wind rushing at your faces as you left behind the old water tower, the trailer park on the outskirts of town, Mr Lumson’s old farm. 

Hawkins led out into open fields, green and gold and yellow, flat land broken up by old barns, forgotten tractors, a paddock of horses and cows. The road took you through other towns, some smaller, some bigger, gas stations with only one working pump, a vendor on the side of the road selling fruit and homemade iced tea. 

It all felt a little surreal, like you were daydreaming in the best kind of way. Because the wind threaded through your fingers as you held your hand out of the open window, it nipped at your open palm and you could smell the fresh air, the pine trees. Because you were sitting in the front seat of Steve Harrington’s car and he was driving you far away from home. You weren't even sure where you were going, you didn’t think Steve really knew either, but everything you loved was packed into the duffle bag in the boy’s trunk - and there wasn’t much. 

Some clothes, a few mixtapes, a few half empty toiletries in a make up bag you’d taken from underneath your aunt’s bathroom sink. A tin of pencils, your sketchbook, a few rings - all gold, some important, some not. All the money that you had. It wasn’t like the boy was a stranger, he wasn’t, not really. No one could feel like a stranger in a town like Hawkins, it was too small, people were too close and someone’s grandma always knew someone else’s cousin. You’d grown up with Steve, not by his side, but in the same circle - he’d been in all your classes from kindergarten to high school, sharing friends and the same drug dealer.

You were friendly with Robin Buckley, your aunt and you lived a few doors down from Nancy Wheeler, you babysat for the Sinclair siblings before Lucas moved up to high school and you were both invited to the same parties. You knew he worked in Family Video, you knew he’d chosen not to go to college after graduation. You knew his parents were always gone, you knew he was softer than he seemed and you knew that the reason for his back eye was most likely his father.

You knew he kissed like he wanted to steal the breath from your lungs, like he was trying to tell you all his secrets.

And maybe, despite not knowing his favourite colour, his favourite food, his favourite song, you had the feeling you were more similar than you ever would’ve guessed, that you both shared that awful pulsing ache in your chest that there wasn’t a home for either of you anywhere. 

So when Steve pulled into a parking lot just off of the highway, somewhere near the edge of Illinois, you didn’t hesitate to nod when he asked if you were hungry, to follow him into the old diner with its neon sign and pink walls. It was nearing eight o’clock and the world was a little more alive now, the roads busier, the diner smelling like coffee and maple bacon. 

You found it easy to slide into a booth across from the boy, easier to let your gaze meet his, small smiles playing on both of your mouths. You ordered a tea, Steve a coffee and a plate of pancakes each and when the waitress scratched down your choices, she clicked her tongue, smiled and called you both a ‘cute little pair.’ 

No one really spoke until there was caffeine in your systems, bones warmed by hot drinks and the drizzle of syrup that you licked from lips and forks. It was a nice kind of silence whilst you ate, the kind you were sure you could get used to, the kind that could carry you across states, across the country. 

It was even nicer when Steve wiped his mouth with his napkin, tapped your foot with his underneath the table and raised a brow in question.

“So, where d’you wanna go?”

“Don’t you have somewhere in mind?” you asked him. This was his plan after all, he’d been the one to ask you, to invite you along. 

Steve shook his head slow, shoulders shrugging as if the destination had never occurred to him.

You sipped the last of your tea, watching the boy over the rim of the cup and he could tell you were taking your time to think. There was an ache in your chest that felt like the answer, that felt a little like the idea of home.

“California,” you said, voice softer than you wanted it to be. “Carmel-by-the-Sea.”

The sounds of the diner filled the silence between you two as Steve considered your response. The jingle of the cash drawer, spoons stirring in sugar, the pop of the grill behind the open kitchen window. 

But then the boy nodded and took another sip of his coffee. There was a soft sincerity colouring his voice, his pretty features, when he asked you: “What’s there?”

You felt a little embarrassed, so you looked at your almost empty plate, sticky syrup on the cheap ceramic, a quarter of your last pancake that Steve had helped you eat. 

“The ocean,” you mumbled, nose scrunched as you chanced a glance back up at him. “Never seen it before.”

You didn’t want to tell him that you hadn’t actually left Hawkins since you moved there when you were three years old. You thought that maybe Steve knew that, that he could tell, that he could guess. Because you were living with your aunt, a woman who didn’t really care, but the only family member left in your life that cared enough. Holiday’s weren’t a thing.

“There’s a lot of ocean before Carmel-by-the-Sea,” Steve smiled, a little teasing, a little curious. “What’s there?” he asked again.

Your lips twisted, a downturn of your mouth that you tried to hide because he had figured you out way too quickly. This stranger who wasn't a stranger, this boy who wasn’t really a friend. He was your last kiss though, your companion for the next who knew how many weeks. 

But still, it was day one and you were still guarding your secrets, yourself. So you shrugged as if you didn’t know the answer, like there wasn’t one to give and Steve was smart enough not to press. You turned to him instead, sticky fork in your hand, wielded like a weapon that you needed to protect yourself with.

You thought of all the questions you wanted to ask him and they rattled in your head, in your chest, making you feel panicked. You didn’t want to upset him, you didn’t want to cross any lines that hadn’t been set yet.

Why are you leaving town? Does your parents know you’re gone? Do they care? Did your dad hit you? Why did you kiss me? Are we gonna talk about that?

“Why me?” you asked instead and you cringed a little when it came out like an argument, voice a little too hard and harsh. 

But Steve just smiled again, fingertip tracing around the rim of his now empty mug and you were almost sure that there was a faint flush of pink high on his cheeks. He shrugged a little shyly before he flicked honey brown eyes up to yours. There it was again, that look, that unbearably soft sincere look, like he wasn’t about to judge you. 

“You’re the only other person I know with nothin’ to lose.”

You were a little speechless.

Another half shrug, a lopsided smile that matched the morning sun that was rising in the window behind him.

“The same as me.”

Something in your chest stuttered. Maybe your heart stopped, just for a half a second, maybe less, because something skipped a beat at the realisation that the boy knew you more than you thought he did. It’s why you told him yes, why you nodded your head in that strangers kitchen the night before, lips a breath away from Steve’s, both of you lit up in red, green and gold. 

Because with a dad that wasn’t around when you were born, a twenty something stoner with three jobs and no time for a kid, you weren’t sure you knew what it was like to have something that you’d miss when it was gone. It only took three years for your mom to feel the same way, bored of her daughter and the life in a small town in Virginia. You weren’t even sure which town. 

Too young to remember it as a home, your mom had dropped you with her sister in Hawkins, an aunt that had no time for a kid, but took you in nonetheless. You were sure there had been a false promise of a quick return. Your mom telling your aunt that she just needed a minute, just some time to get her head straight, didn’t she understand? You were too much hard work. You were difficult.

She told the other woman a week, two tops. And then you were celebrating your fourth birthday, your fifth, your sixth and every one after that with your aunt who never wanted you but never had the heart to say. She bought you a cake from the bakery on Main every year, bought you a new book wrapped in red paper and some cash in a card.

And every year you smiled and thanked her, brushed a kiss across her cheek and took a slice of cake to your room, where you watched the sprinkles melt and colour the white icing, where you pushed the dollars into the tin underneath your mattress. 

It had never been enough to buy a car, or a plane ticket. It wasn’t enough to take you where you wanted to go, not even close. But it could help you buy gas and food, maybe a motel room here and there. ‘Cause now you had Steve and that was a statement that you were sure you’d never get used to saying. 

You smiled at the boy, a soft laugh leaving your lips in a humourless huff and you nodded, pushing the last square of pancake around your plate.

“Yeah,” you agreed, “nothing to lose.”

“Do your parents know that you’re doing… this?” you gestured between the two of you, glanced out of the windows to his maroon coloured car sitting in the dusty parking lot. You were already both two hours from home, maybe more. “Do they know you’re gone?”

Steve grinned and you could tell it was sharp, without any happiness. The boy sat opposite you with his still sleep mussed hair, big brown eyes and nothing more than a similar sized rucksack in his trunk, right beside yours.

He thought of his room, empty and blue, a couple of books taken from his shelves and a pillow from his bed - the flattest one, old and in a chequered case, smelling like a home that was only really a house. 

The kitchen was empty when he left, the living room too, the only framed photos were shots taken in a studio, white backgrounds, pressed shirts, his father’s cold hand on his shoulder. Steve stopped smiling in the third one. 

He’d locked the door, stared at the key as he stood on his porch and toyed with the idea of taking it off of the chain it shared with the key to his car. He could post it, leave it on the doormat in the hall for his parents to come home to. He didn’t know when they’d return. He didn’t know when he’d come back, if he would at all.

Steve didn’t know where he was going. 

He posted his resignation into the letterbox of Family Video on the way to your house, slowed down when he drove through Robin’s street, wondering if the upset would be worth getting to give her one last hug. He’d spent the night before on the phone to her, hours and hours of frustration and a little anger, upset and unshed tears before he finally got his best friend to understand.

She made him promise he’d come back. She begged him. So Steve nodded even though the girl couldn’t see. He swallowed the lump in his throat and told her yes, that he’d come back, that he promised.

Steve really hoped he didn’t break it. 

He thought about telling you that his parents wouldn’t care, that his parent’s probably wouldn’t even notice. The landline could go unanswered for weeks on end and his parent’s wouldn’t think to get an early flight home. He could drive to Europe and back, take some trains, some boats, swim across the English Channel and return home before they noticed he was gone. But all of that sounded a little sad, and Steve reckoned there was plenty of time for sadness later.

So for now, he shrugged, waved a hand dismissively and tugged his wallet from his jean pocket. He smiled when you chucked a few bills on the table first, not bothering to argue or play polite, ‘cause you were both more than aware money was going to be tight if you were going to make it across the country together. And besides, he told himself, this wasn’t a date. This was an escape and it didn’t matter if he knew that you kissed like you wanted to prove something, that you tasted like cherries and something else sweet. 

He wasn’t gonna talk about that.

You both crossed the border into Illinois without much fanfare, the windows rolled down and the highway stretching out long ahead of you. The fields on either side of you were undisturbed, the sun blazing down on wide, green pastures, acres of gold wheat and every now and then, you’d pass an old barn that sat forgotten. The sign that welcomed you to the new state seemed a little monumental, despite the fact that the green backing of it was sun bleached and faded, but it meant that you and Steve were no longer in Indiana, no longer home. 

It felt good, it felt dizzying and with every mile Steve drove you both across the state line, your smile grew and so did Steve’s. He was beaming when you glanced over at him, hair wild from the wind that funnelled through the open windows, the car going just a tiny bit faster that it was supposed to. But you merely turned up the music, fingers gentle on the dial, whatever mixtape Steve had made pumping through the speakers with static and crackles.

It made the boy beam, and he matched the summer outside, warmth and sunshine in his chest, a new heatwave trapped in his eyes, an adventure waiting on his lips. He was a sight to behold and it made your chest burst, so you blinked, turned back looking out the window instead.

But you couldn’t help the burst of laughter that ripped prettily from your throat when Steve started singing, not all that badly, you noted. He garnered your attention once more, like he wanted it, like he liked it. He didn’t care that you were watching, that you were staring, his hands drumming out a beat on the wheel, a little off rhythm, his hair in his eyes, chin tilted up to the sun as he crooned. 

“There's a room where the light won't find you!” The boy was almost yelling to be heard over the roar of the car, and you were laughing through strands of wind whipped hair. “Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down!”

You sang the next line with him, much quieter and shyer than Steve did. But the words held the same weight to them whether they were whispered or yelled, and goosebumps tracked up your bare arms as you let them leave your lips. 

“When they do I'll be right behind you.”

Maybe it meant nothing, maybe it was just a song, just a band that Steve liked, that he put on a mixtape. He was just a boy, an almost friend, someone you kissed just once. Just a boy who asked you to run away with him, a boy with honey brown eyes, messy hair, freckles that looked like the start of summer on his cheeks. 

Maybe it meant nothing. It was just a song, you told yourself again. But then Steve looked over at you and grinned again, that same slow, soft smile you were already becoming so used to. Maybe it could mean everything. 

You rolled through small towns and dust roads, listening to Tears For Fears and wondering if your aunt had woken up and found your note yet. The morning became afternoon and the heat rose with the sun, heating the asphalt, the air, you. 

It had been over an hour, almost two, when you turned to Steve, cheek pushed to the fabric of the seat. Your gaze settled over him, familiarising yourself with the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw. He had some stubble now, a shadow to his cheeks that hadn’t been there the night he kissed you. Pouty lips, impossibly pink and soft - easy to kiss, you remembered. Eyes that kissed in the corners, always sleepy looking, thick lashes, honey and brown sugar in the sun. Hair that was always a little wild, curling at the nape of his neck, around his ears.

Steve Harrington was a very pretty boy, you summarised. 

You cleared your throat when he caught you staring, a pair of Ray-Ban’s perched over his eyes now and despite the dark glass, you could see the way his eyes stuck on yours for just a second, before the road stole back his attention.

“So uh, what’s the plan?” you asked, trying for light and casual. 

“Cali, remember? Carmel, the ocean, right?” Steve looked confused, and the pucker between his brows only deepened when you laughed, not unkindly.

“We’re a long way from there, hot shot,” you smiled, gesturing to the road ahead of you both. “What’re we doing in the meantime?”

Steve parted his lips, thinking. Then he laughed too, soft like you did, and waved a hand. “Shit, yeah, you’re right. Why, uh, why don’t we stop at town soon? We can get some supplies, take a walk, find somewhere to stay and figure out where we wanna go?”

You nodded before rooting around in the glovebox, nosy and entirely unapologetic about it. You scoffed, eyeing the boy with an air of disbelief. 

“What?” Steve asked.

“Do you even have a map, Harrington?”

“No.”

----------

It’s how you and Steve found yourselves in Springfield, a bustling town that was the second choice to Chicago, or first, where Steve was concerned. The boy had wrinkled his nose when you’d suggested it offhandedly, and he’d made a comment about avoiding the cities that were too big, too loud, too much.

Steve wanted quiet, he wanted something slow, peaceful. He wanted rolling hills, he wanted valley’s, he wanted to see green and blue, he wanted sunsets, sunrises, he wanted to see the stars, home cooked meals in tiny diners, coffee on the hood of his car in front of a lake. 

He wanted everything his own home couldn’t offer him, he wanted to get away. He smiled when you just nodded and said ‘okay’, like giving the boy what he wanted was the easiest thing in the world. 

So Steve parked up on a street corner in the middle of town, the sidewalks busy enough that no one stared at the two of you, busy enough that no one realised that you didn’t belong. But the crowds and bustle meant that Steve stuck close to your side, a hand always hovering over the small of your back, scared to touch but unwilling to lose you in a new place. 

The streets were lined with diners and some  small businesses; hairdressers, barbers, bookshops and nail salons. There was a fancy restaurant or two, a dentist's surgery, a pharmacy that looked straight out of the 1950’s and a car garage that sat on the other corner, four gas pumps and a bored looking attendant. 

The sidewalks were lined with small trees, striped canopies over the window displays, neon signs over twenty four hour diners and motels showing their vacancies. 

It was enough for the first day, you thought. Enough to keep you busy, enough to get started. So you tapped Steve’s shoulder and pointed to a small store across the street, one that looked like you could find what you needed in it. 

It seemed like a knee jerk reaction when Steve’s fingers slid gently around your wrist as you crossed the road. You didn’t pull away, you didn’t say anything but he was blushing when you looked at him, the skin where he’d touched you burning in response. 

He gave you a sheepish smile when he let go, pink on his cheeks and one hand scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. He didn’t look at you when he explained, “sorry, I uh, I hang about with kids too much.”

There was no time to respond before Steve was shuffling into the shop, the bell above the door tinkling gently. You managed to find a roadmap of the states, each major highway inked in bright red and you traced route sixty six, a small smile on your face. 

Your finger ran over the folds and creases, found the Pacific Coast highway and stared at the blue on the page, the dips in the lines that showed off beaches and coves.  

Steve came to stand at your shoulder, head above your own as he watched you stare. He saw your smile, the almost hopeful look in your eyes. 

His voice was quiet and soft when he said, “it’ll take us what, two weeks? Maybe three depending on where you wanna stop off?”

“Me?” You scrunched your nose, embarrassed to have been given so much say in a trip that wasn’t ever really your idea. “What about you? Aren't there places you’d like to go to? To see?”

Steve looked a little taken aback, like he’d never really thought about it. He shrugged, gazed back down at the map in your hands and moved a little closer so he could stare at the states, the roads, the lakes marked out in patches of blue. 

“I didn’t really think of where I wanted to go,” he told you quietly, “just that I knew I wanted to leave.”

You were quiet as you processed the boy’s words, your eyes a little sad as you looked back over your shoulder at him, at his bruised eye and cut lip. So you nodded, like you understood, folded the map back up and placed it on the cash desk before you grabbed a small book from the display next to the till, one that was titled ‘1001 Things To See In America.’

Steve didn’t say anything but you saw him smile, that shy stretch of his lips, the same one he gave you after he kissed you. It showed off a dimple on his right cheek, it made his lashes kiss at the corners, nose a little wrinkled. 

He looked really pretty. 

He grabbed some bottles of soda as you wrestled with your purse, stretching over your shoulder again to place them on the corner, a big bag of chips quickly following with some dollar bills. Steve grabbed the bag of snacks, took the book you picked and tucked it under his arm, grinning at you as he headed for the door. 

“Ready?” 

The question took your breath away, because it was so much more than one word. It was possibilities, it was a leap of faith, it was a new state, a different adventure. It was mountains, valleys, lakes, oceans, wide roads, wider canyons, the chance to see something new.  

It was absolutely terrifying. But you nodded and followed Steve out the door. 

—————

“Did you know that Kansas has the biggest ball of twine?”

Steve was stretched out on the grass of Lincoln Park, the book you picked in his hands as he grinned at you over its pages. 

You snorted. “Sounds riveting. Here,” you threw him a pen from your bag, taking your sketchbook out with it. “Start circling stuff that you wanna see, but no fifty foot balls of twine, please.”

“It’s actually only ten feet,” Steve told you, flicking through the pages absentmindedly. 

“That’s disappointing.”

It was the boy’s turn to laugh and he took a sip of his soda before he tilted his chin at the paper you were holding, craning his neck to inspect. 

“D’you draw?”

You flushed: your immediate reaction to being asked that question because it wasn’t something you showed off. You shrugged, held the pages a little closer to your chest and leaned back against the oak tree behind you. 

“Not well,” you muttered, squinting your eyes against the sun. You watched as Steve watched you, how he took in your closed off body, the protective hand you held over the blank page. “S’just something to do, y’know?”

So he didn’t press, didn’t push, just merely nodded and went back to the book, tracing the letters of a title you couldn’t see. It was peaceful, easy, a bag of spicy chips laid open between you, your knees tucked up so you could put pen to paper and sketch out the mess of the boy’s hair in secret. 

If Steve knew you were drawing him, he didn’t say. But he had to know, ‘cause your gaze was on him as much as it was your book and every now and then, your eyes met and he smiled. 

“What about The Ozarks?” He said, pushing the book over to you, his finger tapped a photo of sprawling forests, cerulean blue springs hidden amongst them. There were people in kayaks, swimming, jumping from cliff tops. “Looks nice, right?”

You hummed in agreement, nodding. “It does, it looks super pretty.” You twisted your pen to your paper, drew in the small mole on his cheek. “That’s Missouri, yeah?”

He nodded, taking the pen you’d given in and circling something on the page, bookmarking it for later. 

“About six hours away, if you wanna take the scenic route,” he mumbled, the map in his other hand, the edges of it curling in the light breeze. 

“Always take the scenic route, Harrington,” you commented lightly, your lips twisting in concentration as you shaded in the slope of the boy’s jaw. “That sounds like a plan though, at least, a good start to one.”

“Noted,” he smirked and after a few beats of silence, he stretched his leg over the grass to yours, nudging at your foot with his trainer. He nodded at the paper that was still tucked against your knees, hidden against your chest. “Do I get to see?”

You baulked. 

“Since it's me and all,” he grinned. 

Weirdly, you knew that if you said no, Steve wouldn’t protest or argue. You weren’t sure how, but you were so, so sure of that. Maybe that’s why you chewed at your lip and turned the page, letting him take in the dark lines and soft shadows of his own face. 

You’d drawn him from the torso up, t-shirt crumpled against the grass, hair wild from the drive, from the wind, his eyes downcast at the book he was holding. 

Steve stared, silent before he coughed out an almost embarrassed sound laughing, eyes flicking between you and the page. 

“Wow,” he mumbled, leaning closer to look. You could feel your cheeks heat up, the flush spreading across your chest. “Bruises and all, huh?”

You grimaced, regretting shading in the cut and marks around his eyes and lip, pulling back the paper and wondering if you’d crossed a line. 

“Sorry! I’m- fuck, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have-” you were rambling and it was awful. God, you felt awful. 

“No! No, no,” Steve assured you, “don’t be, it’s amazing, shit… it’s really good.”

You were burning. “Thanks,” you mumbled, staring at anything but the boy. “You have a good face.”

Steve grinned. 

“To draw,” you told him, voice a little too sharp and high. “Fuck.”

But Steve was already laughing, although it didn’t feel like it was aimed at you and the sound wasn’t cruel. He didn’t really look at you when he gathered up his things, the map and the book, his empty soda bottle. 

“You have a good face too.”

You were pretty sure you were still flushed by the time late evening crawled around, dinner was in an old diner with sticky leather booths, a fuschia sign outside that blinked and flickered as the sun went down. It took a little while after that to find a motel with vacancies, the two of you driving around in the warm night air, the windows still rolled down. 

The town smelled like leftover cinnamon from bakeries that were closing, fumes from exhausts, garlic and rosemary from the restaurants that only got busier the more you drove around the block. 

Eventually you spotted a sign a few streets down, close to the park you’d spent your afternoon in. A pretty, baby pink building with a red sign above it, green curtains lining the windows and the word “VACANCIES” flashing at you both from the main door. 

So Steve parked the car and brushed you away when he took both your bags out the trunk, slinging them over one shoulder like it was no big deal. Night was stretching in and despite not being all that far from home, the excitement of a new town, a new state, was starting to wear you both down. 

Sleep tugged at your eyes as the stars came out and once again, Steve guided you into the quiet motel with a gentle hand that didn’t quite touch your back. 

He spoke quietly and politely to the woman at the desk, looking at you questioningly when she asked how many rooms. The boy sputtered and stopped, eyes in yours as he let you take the lead. 

There it was again, that heat in your cheeks that seemed to be becoming a frequent feeling around Steve Harrington. But he waited patiently, the woman less so, and you sounded far too quiet when you said, “one, please. A twin.”

Steve didn’t say anything as you took the keys from the desk, slid the money you’d both put together into the woman’s hand. It wasn’t until you were both standing in the too small elevator that you smiled at him a little sheepishly, arms crossed over your chest and said:

“I didn’t wanna be in a room alone.”

The boy nodded and smiled, like it was okay, like it was fine. And maybe it was. ‘Cause he put your bag down on the single bed for you when you entered the room, his on the other and told you that you could use the shower first, like this was the most normal Tuesday night. 

The summer heat, leftover sunscreen and the hours in the car were sticking to your skin and the thought of a cool shower and some fresh pyjamas seemed far too enticing, so you did just that. 

The spray was a welcome sensation, a little weak, a little pour than a dribble but it was better than you could’ve hoped for considering you had no plans to even be in a tiny motel in Illinois until yesterday at ten o’clock. 

The party seemed an age ago, in someone's kitchen on Hawthorne Street, groups of strangers, some friends, colours in the sky and spilled beer on the kitchen tiles. A boy, familiar face, a new kiss, asking you to leave town. 

You stared at the baby pink tiles, eyes a little wide as the reality of the situation set in. Guilt rolled in your stomach as you realised your aunt would have most definitely found your note by now. 

Maybe she’d feel as free as you did.  

The buzz of the television played through the thin walls as you got dried and dressed, skin still damp as you pulled on old shorts, a too big shirt that had a photo of Prince on the front, some splashes of dried paint on the hem. 

Steve was lounging on his bed when you padded out barefoot, suddenly a lot more shy than you thought you would be. But he smiled and gestured to a bottle of water he’d left on the nightstand for you, brushing gently past your shoulder with his own towel as he went to wash the day away. 

The low lights in the room were a little too warm, pink tinged and making everything look rosy. Steve had cracked a window, enough to let the summer air in, a cooler breeze now the sun had gone down, the sky streaked with leftover indigo clouds and you could hear the buzz of cicadas from the park behind you. 

It felt a little dreamlike, a little surreal. 

And then as you were tucked into bed, the sheets a little scratchy, Steve walked back out in shorts and a threadbare shirt, hair damp and falling in his eyes. 

He pulled a pillow from his bag, a sad, flat looking one that still had its pillowcase on it from home. He chucked it onto his bed before tumbling in after it and he turned to look at you, expression almost unsure. 

“You okay?”

You shuffled, cheek pressed to the motel pillow and between you both, the light flickered once, twice, sending peach coloured shadows across the room. 

“Yeah,” you whispered, scared to break the silence that surrounded you. “How come?”

Steve shrugged, body lazy against the mattress and he stretched, humming in content as he did. “I dunno,” he whispered back, voice scratchy and soft with sleep. “I guess I just wanted to ask. Make sure you still want to do this, y’know?”

You smiled, appreciating the gesture, and you blinked at him, sleep tugging at you more and more. “Yeah, ‘course. The Ozarks right?”

The boy grinned and nodded, eyes shy and gazing at you from under his lashes. He pushed at his sheets with his toes, too warm, shoving them down his legs. You tried not to stare, not at the muscles in his thighs, the small scar on his ankle that shone silver in the low light. 

It was quiet until Steve whispered ‘goodnight’, leaning out of his bed to flick the light off, bathing you both in black. Outside, the town kept going, soft music coming from somewhere unknown, the murmured conversation from some people at the vending machines in the parking lot below your room. 

You don’t know why you asked it. Maybe it was because it was dark and you were suddenly a little unsure, maybe you just wanted to know a little more about the boy in the bed next to you - like you could collect some more pockets of the boy’s life, like you could find out enough to call him a friend, maybe, eventually. 

“Hey Steve?” You waited until the boy made a little noise in the dark, signalling that he was still awake. “Tell me a secret?”

There was a beat of silence, one that made the room feel warmer, summer sneaking in from the outside. You heard the sheets shuffle, the rasp of skin on cotton. 

“My dad gave me this black eye.”

His words were heavy, the way only a secret could feel. But it sounded like there was some relief colouring Steve’s whisper, like he felt lighter the minute he said the words. 

“I’m sorry,” your response felt silly no matter how much you meant it. 

“Tell me one too.”

You swallowed, paused, thinking. The hot prick of tears wet the corner of one eye and you were thankful for the dark, for the night. You brushed it away until it smeared into the mess of your hair, right by your ear. 

“Uh, I realised last week that,” you coughed, cleared your throat, sounding more strained than you wanted to, “that I can’t really remember what my mom looks like. Not unless I looked at a photo.”

More silence, still warm, maybe hotter from the burn that lit up your skin. It felt a little like shame, maybe guilt, like your three year old mind was supposed to cling to the memory of the woman who left you, like you were supposed to remember the shape of her nose, the smell of her perfume, the colour that hid in the middle of her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said too, and he sounded like he meant it as much as you did. 

You both slept after that, each other’s secrets clutched to your chest and you dreamt of roadmaps and a blue, blue lake, where a brown eyed boy was waiting for you.

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