˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚 lonesome is a state of mind. ݁₊

You could barely make out what he was doing, the dim light of the streetlights seeping through your sheer curtains only granting you maybe an outline of his hand and what it was holding. What gave it away, however, were the lewd sounds that accompanied each drag of his hand along what you couldn’t quite catch sight of. 

Not only could you hear the small gasps and moans that he was clearly trying to—but not succeeding to—suppress, but you could hear the wet schlick of his hand running up and down his shaft. 

You had gone to bed long before he did, as usual, and left him downstairs to finish up some work before he planned on, later, following your lead. It had become somewhat of a routine between the two of you; you’d spend the evening together, maybe have some dinner, and part ways when you, inevitably, got tired before he did. Before you moved in together, Steve was practically nocturnal. It changed, at least a little, when you started to adjust to each other's sleeping schedules. Yet, he was still outlasting you every night. Not that you minded all that much; you could always trust to, at least, wake up next to him. And that was enough.

What you didn’t know, though, was that it was bordering on torturous for Steve; coming upstairs every night to find you half-wrapped up in the sheets, curled up in what was usually a shirt of his, and a pair of your lacy underwear. You’d be laid out on your stomach, your breathing even and your hair fanned out on the pillow, with half of your ass hanging out. It took every ounce of self-control in him not to wake you up every time he was met with that sight, and have you take care of the problem that would, literally, rise from his underneath boxers.

He was getting pretty alright at pushing that thought away, instead stripping himself of his clothes, too, curling up next to you, and drifting off to an only slightly uncomfortable sleep. Only alright. 

More times than Steve would care to admit, he’d find himself unable to ignore the tent that’d pitch under his boxers, and he’d have to take care of it before going to join you in slumber. Of course, he’d thought of asking for your help. After all, you were always right there. But he knew you worked long days. He knew how much you hated being woken up. And, you know, he was always okay with handling it by himself. 

He was more at peace with it than you were, because, that night, when you’d caught him during what was apparently one of the many instances, you weren’t happy. 

And then, upon further investigation, you’d go on to find out that it wasn’t even just before bed. Unbeknownst to you, Steve had made a habit of ‘handling’ himself. It all but broke your heart.

Before stumbling upon this, you’d begun to wonder why you were the only one initiating things between you two. The real reason, as you’d learn, was that he was always jonesing for you. As he put it, everything you did was a turn-on, and it was difficult to choose a single time to try and do something about it, because it was pretty much a constant. 

“Why wouldn’t you ask me for help?” was the main question you had for him. 

“You know, it’s never a good time. I never wanna bother you,” he’d mumble in response. 

You supposed you understood what he was saying. But, still, you couldn’t help but feel bad for the guy. Wasn’t one of the main parts of being together—living together, for God's sake—that he shouldn’t have to turn to his hand anymore?

It took a bit of convincing for him to believe you when you told him he should bother you. 

“What, like, every time?” he’d asked, looking somewhat bewildered.

After ironing out a couple of the details, and continued reassurance to him that yes, you wanted this too, you’d settled on an agreement. It was simple.

Whenever Steve wanted to fuck you; he would. 

Obviously, you knew that meant a lot more time spent in bed together, but, what you hadn’t expected, was a lot more time spent everywhere together. You never would’ve guessed, before now, how stupidly arousing he found everything you did. He must’ve been fucking his hand just as much as he was fucking you before.

There were, of course, predictable instances. The instances where you would come out of the shower, still coated in a sheen of water, a towel wrapped tightly around your chest and pressing your breasts together, with the fresh smell of your shampoo practically hypnotizing him into jumping you. 

But, there were also the instances where you wouldn’t think you were doing anything at all to entice him. 

One moment, you’d be standing by the coffee maker in your pyjamas, idly waiting for your coffee to brew, and the next, he’d have you bent over the kitchen counter. 

You wouldn’t even notice him, faced away with the front of your hip bones pressed against the cold surface of the counter, until his hands would slide up under your shirt. He’d splay his hands on your stomach and let them roam under the waistband of your shorts, his mouth already pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your neck. 

“Really? Now?” you’d ask, now bewildered, yourself. Not opposed in any way, just… incredulous.

“Mm, yeah, baby,” he would reply, his voice already low and carrying the same sort of urgency his hands had. “You don’t know what you do t’me.”

You wouldn’t stay in disbelief for so long before you felt the hardening of his cock press against your ass, leaving little to no room for wondering about the authenticity of his desire. 

Your eyebrows creating a soft crease on the bridge of your nose, he’d move his hands from the front of your body to the sides, hooking his fingers under both your panties and your shorts to tug them down to your thighs. He wouldn’t even bother to drop them to your ankles before he was freeing himself and sliding the tip through your slick folds, a groan leaving his parted lips.

“It’s not going to kill you,” Robin says with a sigh, increasingly exasperated by your already decided refusal. 

“Yes, it is. I would literally die,” you persist, splaying your hands on the counter that you lean on. Though she’s faced away from you, occupied by the task of organizing the VHS tapes in the ‘horror film’ aisle, you can practically feel the eye roll she’s giving you.

Robin has been trying to convince you to accompany her at Steve’s party tonight for a good hour, not counting the past week of sporadic pleading, but you’ve yet to find any fathomable reason that you should. She’s been half-assing her whole shift to try and wear you down, and you haven’t budged.

That’s not to say that there’s anything wrong with Steve’s parties. If there’s anything that earned him his title of the King of Hawkins High School—other than his hair—it was the fact that his parents were gone every other weekend, so he’d always be left with an enormous house and no supervision. Not once would he let that opportunity pass him by. He’d been the one to give a gaggle of alcohol-loving teenagers a place to get drunk and dance the night away. You’d be lying if you said that that wasn’t a part of the initial appeal to you, and it’d be even bigger of a lie to say you hadn’t enjoyed the parties you’d gone to.

“You’ll be fine,” she repeats for the millionth time.

“Why do you want me to go, anyways?” You follow her with your eyes as she moves about the store. “You’re friends with him. Just go alone.” 

She huffs again, turning to look at you in the midst of bringing a handful of movies elsewhere, “Because, that’s not the point!” Approaching the counter, she drops the tapes and stands across from you, “I want you to get out of the house for once. It’s been long enough.”

You raise your eyebrows and gesture to the store around you, a silent ‘I’m out now, aren’t I?’ All she does is tsk humourlessly in response, not quite amused. “You know what I mean.”

“Well, even if I wanted to get back out there, why on Earth would I start there?” you say, your brow cocked.

“Because, it doesn’t matter whose party it is, it’s still a party.”

You shake your head in disagreement. “Now, that’s not true. It’s Steve's party.”

“Why does that matter?” she asks, “It’s not like you’ve never been.” It seems like an abysmal, obvious statement for her to make, given the circumstances. But, underneath her bluntness, there’s a valid argument made that maybe it’d be better to start in a familiar environment. It’s true, you have been to many of his parties.

But, then again, that was different. That was when you were together, when going to one of these things meant a night spent with your boyfriend, having a couple drinks, and maybe sneaking away to fool around with him. You’d only ever experienced it from the inside, where you’d come early to help set up, stay late to help clean, and get special treatment from the handsome host. Even before you started officially dating, he’d had his eyes on you the moment you stepped foot in his crowded living room. You were never an outsider. 

But, there was no question that that would change drastically if you were to go to one now. 

You don’t have to say anything. The memory of being greeted at the door by him, a hand guiding the small of your back, the exchanged glances, taking shots with linked arms, being introduced as his girlfriend to anyone he’d crossed paths with. An entire history communicated through a silent, pointed look.

She nods her head in understanding, her nose scrunched with consideration. “Okay, yes, it’s Steve’s party. But when is there ever a party that isn’t Steve’s?” Robin argues. Admittedly, it was a good point. If you were never going to go to another one of his parties again, when would you ever go to another party at all?

You throw your hands up. “I don’t know! Maybe I’ll start going to the arcade a bunch. There’s people there, right?”

Robin’s face contorts with disgust at the mere idea of it. “The only people that go to the arcade are grown men trying to beat a record they set in 1959 and Mike Wheeler.” 

“As opposed to my newly ex-boyfriend and Tommy Hagan?” you spit his name out of your mouth as if there’s no worse insult to call him. 

She sucks through her teeth, grimacing and stripped of a comeback by your inarguable response. She must know that it’s far from ideal to have those two, out of all people, around when you’re trying to move past that era of your life. Willfully or not. You kind of hope she’ll give up after that, but to your demise, she continues. “It’s a big house. I bet you could go without ever talking to them,” she pauses for a second, “If you really tried.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at her. Going to a party with the prerequisite idea of purposefully trying to avoid the host and his best friend is absurd, especially if your intention of going in the first place is to ‘let loose’. She’s right not to tell you to act indifferent, though. It’s a known fact you can’t stand Steve’s friends; their repugnant, hateful behaviour towards anyone who isn’t exactly like them, how they move through life so enthralled by self-interest. It’s only worsened now that you’ve been deemed a heartless prude for dumping him. Anyone with the tiniest semblance of knowledge about your relationship would know that that’s not true, even Steve himself could admit that. But word travels fast, and when someone like King Steve gets broken up with, it’s pretty easy to slap a vindictive title onto whoever did it. 

You groan melodramatically. “It’d just be so much easier to not go.”

“Well, what’s the alternative? Renting Terms of Endearment again and moping at home, alone?”

Just as you open your mouth to say something clever to combat, she stops you before you can start. Shoving her finger in your face, she says, “It’ll be fun, I promise. Can you just pretend that you don’t hate joy for one night? For me?”

You frown, unable to find something cutting to say after that. All you can say is: “I don’t hate joy.” Your tone is rich with spite, saying so just to disagree with her. 

Robin leans onto her elbows, her voice softening. “Look, I’m not asking you to reconcile with him. You don’t even have to look at him. All I want is for you to be okay, okay?”

It’s hard to argue with that. God, do you hate it when she’s right. Even worse when she’s nice about it. You nod your head, your lips pressing together as you come to the dreaded conclusion that she’s successfully convinced you. You can’t bear to give her the satisfaction of saying it, so all you do is defeatedly mumble a ‘fine’ and rest your chin on your palms. 

After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ . ݁

By the time the party had begun, the sun was long gone. Of course, it would take a while for it to really start, and Steve had anticipated that. After throwing more parties than he could count, he knew better than to expect people to show up on time. It’s not like teenagers were exactly punctual. Even so, he’d stood idly in his living room as soon as the clock had struck 9:00, perfectly placed to see the door every time it opened.

If you’d asked anyone else there, they’d say that there was nothing out of the ordinary about that night. Maybe that it was even more fun than usual. No one had seemed to notice how Steve would never stray far from the door, how whenever he’d refill his cup he would do so at the sink, not the punch bowl. Somehow, his misery had flown completely under the radars of everyone at that party. 

Well, maybe not everyone. A couple people took notice. The girls were eager to take a jab at the freshly single King Steve, and they’d use his behaviour as somewhat of a conversation starter. Lingering around him and every once in a while uttering a flirtatious ‘What’s wrong, Steve? Loosen up!’ They’d stroke his arm with fake sympathy, dance around him, look for any way to get him talking. But each time, their efforts would come to no avail. The only thing he’d put any effort into that night was willing you to walk through that door, which is why he wasn’t quite sure how to react when you actually did.

It was after he’d already decided, in his head, that you weren’t coming. His feet had already begun to strain from staying put all night, his hope dwindling only more rapidly as the night grew longer, the people around him growing drunker and stupider. People would brush past him, bump into him, even spill on his shoes, and he’d yet to hear an apology past a half-slurred ‘Oh, my bad, man!’ Not that he’d be able to hear it over the stereo, anyway, pounding incessantly into his skull like a migraine.

He couldn’t believe he used to enjoy throwing these things. Maybe it was that, for once, he was the sober anomaly out of everyone there, thinking too straight to find all the half-wit jokes and mean remarks even slightly entertaining. It’d seemed like just last week he thought the stumbling and giggling was the best part of it; watching people lose their composure and taking joy in seeing how awfully it would unfold, taking part in it himself. It was almost always catastrophic, but in the best way. 

Now, with nary a drop of alcohol or a hit of a joint in his system, Steve would rather be literally anywhere else. And he was in his own home. That is, until you came in.

He’d decided quickly not to approach you right away. For the time being, all he did was watch you, how you moved through the crowd quietly to find Robin. He wondered why you decided to come after all. Of course, he’d hoped for it, but did he really think it was going to happen? 

He followed you with his eyes as you moved from the foyer to the dining room table, grabbing one of the few clean solo cups left and filling it with a mysterious mix of red liquid from the punch bowl. Your face contorts with what seems like distaste after you take a sip, but regardless, you keep drinking it. Then, he watches as Robin says something inaudible from his side of the room.

“What the hell is that?” she says, knotting her eyebrows with a disgusted pout. 

Shrugging, you don’t look at her as you tip your head back to take another gulp. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Something with alcohol in it, hopefully.”

She chuckles and takes a cup for herself, her eyes scanning the sea of drunken teenagers. She spots Steve from across the room, and deliberately keeps quiet so as to not bring your attention to him. She quickly turns her gaze back to you in hopes of keeping you blissfully unaware, but unfortunately, not quickly enough. You turn your head and easily find him leaned on the doorway in the living room. 

“Ah, fuck,” you sigh, pivoting to face your back to him and look at Robin. “How the hell did you convince me to come here?”

“Come on, you knew he’d be here. It’s his house.” 

Again, she has a good point. What’d you expect? You bring yourself to turn back to the crowd, watching as Tommy appears behind him and pats him on the back, uttering something you don’t doubt is douchey in some way or another. Steve makes a face, something that anyone else would clock as amusement of some kind. But you know him better than that, you’ve studied his expressions from point blank too many times not to catch that it’s feigned. You suppose Tommy must’ve said something truly heinous for Steve not to be entertained by it, it’s not like he’d always been morally opposed to an arrogant joke or two. That’d been part of the problem.

“Ballsy of that slut to show up,” Tommy says into Steve’s ear, draping his arm over his shoulders and cocking his head to your side of the room. 

“Easy with that, man.” Steve says, taking a sip of his water as he shrugs his arm off of him with force more than technically necessary. 

You watch as Tommy gestures to you, and how Steve stiffens at whatever snarky remark he made. Shaking your head, you purposefully turn away and take another swig of your drink, starting to brush past Robin and move from the table. A few more words are exchanged between the two of them, and Steve protests as Tommy starts to navigate through the crowd in order to make his way to you. 

“Long time no see, L/N,” he says teasingly, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear it as he stops you. A small hush falls onto the surrounding crowd, their attention effectively grabbed. Though it’s realistically only a person or two, it feels as though the entire party has its eyes on you.

Creasing your eyebrows, you dip your chin to look at the ground, averting his gaze as well as the attention brought to you by his theatrics. “Tommy, let’s not do this, please.” 

He crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “What’s wrong?” he mocks a pout, “Miss Steve already?”

You sigh, making an effort not to listen to him and being unsuccessful when you try to move away from him. “No,” you reply flatly, “Can you move?” you look up at him, the shit-eating grin on his face taunting you as well as the prying eyes of the people around you.

“I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. What changed? Get lonely on that high horse?”

“Jesus Christ, Tommy. Get out of the way!” you snap. You have to raise your voice to combat the volume of the music, Ten Seconds To Love by Mötley Crüe blaring over the chaos, though not quite loud enough to drown him out. 

You finally push past him with enough force, taking a long gulp from your cup as you start to walk away from him. You move much slower than you’d like, as the crowd pushes back every time you urge them to move. You walk directly into a large cloud of smoke when you try to weave through it, the penetrative smell of stale cigarettes and something sweeter, probably weed, attacking your nostrils. You cough as it hits your face, the hot air catching in your throat. You make a sharp turn into the hallway to escape the noise, stumbling slightly and crashing straight into someone on the other side of the corner. Your drink sloshes upward at the impact, thankfully missing you entirely when it spills out, but landing directly on the poor person you’ve just bumped into. The cup clatters as it hits the floor.

“Holy shit! I’m so sorry,” you exclaim, disoriented and teetering lightheaded as you scramble to use the sleeve of your top to wipe at the person's chest. 

You don’t register who it is until a familiar voice responds, “Nice to see you, too.” Steve jokes, not particularly humourously.

When you lift your eyes to meet his, you’re not sure what you were expecting, but it wasn’t how he’s looking at you now. It’s not cold or unwelcoming. If anything—if you’re not mistaken—he’s happy to see you. Is that what it is? Maybe not happy, relieved, more like. Regardless, why would he be anything but upset to have you intruding in his house? Shouldn’t he be pissed?

“Sorry about that.” You apologize again, your voice quieter now, tentatively pulling your arm back after realizing it’s lingered too long on his chest.

His lips press together as he shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he says, dipping his chin to look at his shirt, confirming for himself that it’s now splattered with the concoction that’d been brewing in his punch bowl. Whatever it is, you’re not confident that it’ll wash out. 

“No, it’s gonna stain,” you remark, your chest swelling with embarrassment. It seeps into the fabric, almost darker than the punch itself, and you kick yourself internally for being so clumsy. As if you haven’t already made enough of a mess tonight. 

“Seriously, it’s okay,” he reassures you. “Not the first time there’s been a spill at one of these things.” He’s not looking at his shirt anymore, his gaze trailing your face as your eyes dart along the stain that dampens and sticks the material to his chest, assessing the damage.

You bite the inside of your cheek thoughtfully, your face warming with guilt, “I can, um… do you need help rinsing that out?” you ask sheepishly, finally looking up to him.

You can discern now that he really doesn’t mind, but in a way, that makes it worse. You want him to be upset at you, and for everything that happened, he should be. It’s not fair to him.

“It’s the least I can do after throwing my drink at you.”

He considers for a moment, and soon nods agreeingly. “There’s a bathroom down the hall,” he says, tipping his head to gesture to the dark hall behind you.

“I know,” you reply without thinking, instinctively turning and making your way down the hall. Third door on the left. 

You’re surprised that he thought he had to remind you. From the sheer amount of times you’ve been in this house—wandering through his hallways, spending time with him in just about every room—you’d think he trusted you knew your way around. You’ve cleaned puke off the floors in that bathroom. You’ve showered in that bathroom, hair reeking of chlorine, wrapped in a towel thick with Steve’s laundry detergent. 

Opening the door, he lets you by and shuts it behind him after following you in. You half-expected there to be a few stragglers in here, rolling joints or heaving over the toilet, but you’re lucky to find it empty. You suppose you caught it at the perfect time, but it’s debatable whether or not that's a good thing. Now, you’re alone with him, in a quiet, enclosed space, the party muted from the outside and making the bathroom feel like an entirely different world. You make the choice not to say anything as you squat down to grab a fresh hand towel from beneath the sink, wary of what the one’s already set out may have been through in the past hour. The running of the tap is deafening in the silence that settles in the room. 

As you’re uselessly rubbing the unrelenting stain, only really making it worse for all you know, you finally break the silence. With a dry laugh, you say, “That’s, um, definitely not just punch.” Though he politely reciprocates a small chuckle, it doesn’t reach his eyes. A joke could never land, not here, not now. The air is too thick, the tension too palpable. It keeps the two of you from ever being normal.

The both of you had agreed to be normal, for the sake of the group. At least civil. Especially for the kids, you didn’t want to jeopardize the feeling of safety they’d found between the two of you. After all, Dustin had been your biggest supporter. He was devastated about the breakup even after you reassured him nothing would change. How would he react if he found you couldn’t even be civil with each other anymore? Besides the drama that had risen with Tommy, Carol, and all the other brainless classmates that’d wedged themselves in your business, you really thought you could do it. You had faith. But now, seeing him for the first time, seeing how he looks at you... Why is he looking at you like that?

Steve hasn’t taken his eyes off you despite the fact you haven’t dared to look anywhere but the towel in your hands. You pretend not to notice, just as you pretend not to mind how close you’re standing. As you continue to fumble with the towel, you’re painfully reminded that you used to do this with him. Touch him, talk to him, find a moment alone in any stuffy situation like a house party. All of this used to be so familiar, and somehow, you’ve found a way to do it again. Though, this time, it feels much more alien. 

“I don’t think it’s coming off, Y/N,” he says lightly, teasing you about your effort that doesn’t cease despite the predictable outcome. 

“Just trying to help,” you say quietly, still not requiting his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Stop apologizing,” he replies, not angrily.

Pursing your lips with a tight smile, you’re not sure what else to say. You murmur another small ‘sorry’, warranting a playful eye roll from him. You’re not sure what you’re trying to account for, apologizing so much, but you know it’s not for the spill. It might be everything but. It gets quiet again, the air heavy and feeling almost suffocating to you. You’re wondering whether or not you should say anything when he breaks it first. 

“I didn’t think you’d come tonight,” he says truthfully.

You try not to wince at the statement, embarrassed to have it brought up. All you can bear to respond is: “Neither did I.” You pray that he’ll find a response before the dreaded weight of silence finds its way back to you, and just as he opens his mouth, the door swings open. 

It slams against the wall as it opens, a blonde-headed straggler stumbling in. He stares between the both of you blankly, glossy-eyed and thoughtless. Swaying in place, he swallows dryly before speaking. “Oh, shit. My bad.” Or, you assume that’s what he says. His speech slurs together into one incoherent jumble of words, but regardless, he doesn’t wait for a response before turning around and wandering back into the party as if he’s forgotten why he came in in the first place.

Even with the apparent humour in his bumbling cluelessness, his disruption can barely break the tension. He leaves the door ajar, leaving a breach between your found, isolated world, and the real one. Thankfully, it allows you to breathe again, but also removes the shield you had from meddling eyes. 

As if he can read your mind, Steve asks, “You, um, wanna get out of here?”

It’s not a suggestive offer. He’s not leading you out of the public eye for any devious reason, it’s more to make sure that there's no spectacle made out of a conversation that so obviously needs to be had. You look out into the crowd, watching drunken bodies rub up against each other and shout unintelligibly over the music, and you’re thankful to have an out. You nod your head with a low ‘yes please’ and follow him out of the bathroom. He brings you along a path to the staircase that’s all but unfamiliar to you, navigating through the crowd at a safe distance behind him. 

It’s not long before you find yourself in his bedroom. It feels like a waste, being here just to talk, especially with privacy being so hard to come by at parties like this. That itself is why you’d actively avoided coming in here. Ideally, you would’ve stayed in the hall, or really anywhere that you haven’t had sex with him before. Not that there were many of those left. But, given the events currently partaking in the house, there was no place to go. Every other room was occupied with affectionate couples and what seemed like a drunken game of Pictionary.

So, here you are. It’s more than overwhelming to be in his room again. It’s as if you’ve stepped right into a memory, the plaid walls and the dark furniture weighing onto you as a cruel reminder of everything you used to have with him. You’re not sure what you expected, or what should’ve changed in the past few months. All you know is that it hasn’t. It’s eerily verbatim to how you left it, and… is that your picture?

On one of your very first dates, you and him had gone to the movies together. After a long night of clinging to his arm and reluctantly watching his choice of the movie Poltergeist, you went to take your picture in the photo booth, and he kissed you. You fought over who got to keep the photo strip, the damn thing cheaping you out for two quarters then only allowing you one copy of it, and he was adamant on keeping it for himself. At the time, you were wary of his reasoning, wondering if he’d only wanted it as a trophy to flaunt that he’d made out with a girl on just the third date. Or was it the second? 

You couldn’t properly recall. All you could understand was that there it was. Taped above his desk, crooked as it always was, and curling at the edges. You move toward it like a magnet with no control over whether or not you’re drawn, and brush your thumb over the grain, almost to confirm its physicality. You can’t help but admire it. 

“You kept this up?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Uh, I guess so,” you hear him from behind you as you fixate on the photo strip, back faced to him while foolishly digging deeper into the memory and reminiscing in places you know you shouldn’t. He continues, “Never got around to taking it down.” 

You nod understandingly and turn your head slightly to look at him once again, something you’re quick to regret when you see him peeling his shirt over his head. For a split second, you’re panicked. His punch soaked shirt being tossed into his hamper serves as an immediate and soothing reminder of what's happened. 

When he sifts through his drawer, thankfully facing away from you, you trail your eyes along the freckles on his ribs and back. You’re not sure if even he knows about those ones, as he was always blissfully unaware in slumber everytime you found yourself tracing your fingers along them. Tufts of brown hair pepper from beneath his belt and up to his belly button, breaking only briefly before continuing along his broad chest. The thought comes to you, uninvited, that the last time you’d seen Steve shirtless, you’d been the one to undress him. You really hate that you still long to do so.

You flit your eyes to the ground once he slips another tee over his shoulders, moving your fingers along the edge of his desk to give you the facade of preoccupation. He crosses you to sit on the edge of the bed, running his hands through his hair once. 

“It’s a good one,” you say plainly, finally leaving the vicinity of the strip to take a tentative seat beside him. It’s true. It’s no secret that the two of you were an attractive couple, and looking back at it now, it’s even more evident. Especially through the lens of the photobooth. Not only that, but you look happy. You try to remember the last time you smiled like that, but he interrupts your train of thought before you can come to a conclusion that you’re not sure is even existent. 

“Why did you come, Y/N?” he says, not allowing you to meander at all. His tone hints that the questions lingered on his mind for a good while and he’s only now found the courage to ask.

Supposedly, you shouldn’t be surprised that he’s asked. Why else would you come up here, if not to talk? Maybe it feels too public, even behind closed doors—thin doors—the bumping bassline of an illegible tune serving as a constant reminder of your lack of privacy.

For once, you have no answer for him. You don’t know whether it’s that you can’t figure out how to put it into words or that you’re still wondering the same thing yourself. Why did you come? It couldn’t have been closure. If you were seeking closure, you wouldn’t have planned on avoiding him even before you came. You didn’t want to reconcile. You didn’t want to argue. It wasn’t just Robin, either. If you’d persisted enough, she would’ve dropped it. 

So, what the hell was your damage?

“I dont know,” you start, although unsure how you’re going to finish, “Robin wouldn’t let it go.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, clearly not entirely convinced. “But you didn’t have to, did you?” 

Pursing your lips, you shake your head almost imperceptibly. “I guess not.”

“Then, what is it?”

You find yourself willing the Earth to open up and swallow you whole before you find yourself looking for a response. You consider setting yourself on fire, but you realize that you owe him an answer at the very least. Not only did he endure a somewhat ambiguous and seriously tragic dumping from you, he welcomed you into his house after the fact and let you ruin his one good party shirt. And he’s not even mad. 

“I guess… I wanted to see if I could do it. Be here, I mean.” The words hang uselessly in the air, hollow and upsettingly vague. You regret saying anything at all. Could you have possibly answered in a more confusing way?

Amazingly, he seems to understand. At least enough to provide a reply. “Can you?”

You chuckle dryly, almost a scoff. “It’s not exactly easy, is it?” 

“No, it’s not,” he agrees with a soft shake of his head. 

“I see that Tommy’s still… Tommy.” 

There’s a visceral reaction to your words. It was meant to be lighthearted, a relatively humorous nod to what happened in an attempt to make light of it. Not a joke, exactly, but still, Steve is clearly not amused. You can barely pick up on a frown, and you realize he’s not upset to be speaking ill of his friend. He’s upset to be reminded that his friend is the way he is. A defeated ‘Unfortunately’ is all he can seem to say. There’s a beat before he speaks again. 

“Some things never change, I guess.” 

You nod slowly in response, bringing your gaze to your lap briefly before bringing it back up to his. “You did.”

He huffs a quick, almost indiscernible laugh. “Yeah, hardly.”

Surprised to see that he doesn’t agree, you elaborate. “Steve, when have you ever been sober at one of these things until now?”

After a moment of thought, he shrugs his shoulders. He averts your eyes as he starts to reply, “Good point.” He nods, flicking his eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t know. I don’t really like to drink anymore.”

There’s something you never thought you’d hear him say. A simple glance into the box of Polaroids you have of him under your bed—stored away after the breakup—would tell you that Steve Harrington was never the type to turn down a drink. The majority of the photos were blurry, taken in a dimly lit living room, and featuring your shit-faced boyfriend in a faceless crowd. And, somehow, still handsome as ever. 

It was also surprising to hear because, despite yourself, you hadn’t been drinking much either. You know he wasn’t the only one plastered in those photos. Other than maybe thirty minutes ago, you couldn’t recall the last time you’d touched a drop. Why that was, well, you couldn’t understand. 

“Me neither, actually.” 

He cocks an eyebrow at your response, clearly not confident in your admission. “Who was it that spilled vodka punch on my shirt, again?”

You give him a playful scoff and a frown. “Isolated incident. It was the first time in a while.” The implication is clear, at least to you, that it’d mostly been because he hadn’t hosted in a good while. It’s a small town, where else was there to get drunk?

“Okay, sure,” he shrugs, though whether or not he believes you is still inconclusive. “I don’t blame you. This party kind of sucks.”

“It’s yours, Steve,” you say inquisitively, unsure of why he wouldn’t enjoy an event he’s personally throwing. 

“I know,” he sighs. “I stopped doing this so much after… you know.”

Yeah, you know. Although you’d never said it aloud, you’d always privately suspected that of him. Once the two of you had broken up, it’s not that he became socially inept, but it was hard not to notice the shift. You didn’t want to toot your own horn, or whatever, but you could see that you’d taken a toll on him. It was weird. Countless other girlfriends before you, and somehow, only one had ever made any difference. 

“I haven’t been big into parties, either,” you admit. 

He leans back onto his palms, and searches your face during the excruciating lull in conversation that follows. Your cheeks involuntarily warm at his scrutiny, and you return his gaze, watching as a loose strand of hair falls in front of his forehead. 

“You don’t think we’re, like, lame now, are we?” he asks after a moment, not quite rhetorically. 

You wave the thought off dismissively. “No, no. That can’t be it.” 

Pressing his pink lips together in contemplation, he looks around the room as if the answer he’s looking for is written cryptically on the walls somewhere. A soft sigh leaves your mouth as your eyes trail down to watch the rise and fall of his chest, how his t-shirt clings to his shoulders and biceps. 

“What is it, then?”

You, you, you, Steve. It’s you.

The party continues to thump outside, shaking through the floor just as clearly as it does through the door. Strangely, it seems to be so much further away from in here. Quieter, more distant. You know that simply opening his door will bring you right back there, but it feels almost as if the entire world has taken a step back to make space for the two of you. 

“I don’t know,” you utter. “Everything, probably.”

He tilts his head, seemingly dissatisfied with your response. “‘Everything’?”

Admittedly, he’s right. You’re being vague again. It takes all the courage you can muster to give him the actual, truthful answer. 

“Everything to do with… us, I mean. It’s not the same.”

He doesn’t let your words simmer in the air before responding, “I miss talking to you, Y/N.”

It really stings to hear that. Even more so when you reciprocate, your voice barely above a whisper. “Me too.”

The silence that follows is thick, weighted with the tension of that admission. The music from downstairs has since diminished into a dull thrum beneath you, and Steve’s eyes don’t leave yours. You don’t know what the hell comes over you, but you feel yourself float out of your body and spectate the both of you as you move closer together. His hand reaches to cup one side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone in an oh-so familiar way, sending a shiver down your spine. Your hand moves to rest on his chest as his mouth presses tenderly to yours, the touch feathery light. 

Letting out a deep sigh of relief against him, you wonder why in God’s name you didn’t do this sooner. Your lips slot together so perfectly, like there’s no other place they were made to be, and his hand moves to the side of your neck to gently urge you closer. It’s not long before you slip your tongue alongside his, your breathing growing heavier and your composure rapidly waning. The urgency of his touch when his free hand slides up your back and presses to the small of your waist tells you that you’re exactly in the same headspace: you need to make up for the time lost, like, now. 

The hand on your torso grasps tightly, a small request that you answer unhesitantly by moving to set both knees on either side of his lap. You tilt your head to deepen the kiss, fingers travelling to entangle themselves in the locks of brunette hair on the back of his head. The sound of his laboured breathing is like music to your ears, something you’ve missed hearing under you, alike the feeling of the tent you feel growing in his jeans. His hands move to squeeze the plush of your ass through your shorts, earning a soft grunt to muffle against his lips.

You consider moving down to kiss his neck, maybe give him a hickey or two, but just the thought of leaving his lips again seems like an impossible feat. If you were given the chance, you might just kiss him forever, every apology and word of affirmation skillfully weaved into your joined mouths and the way your tongue works in tandem with his. It seems so much easier than the alternative; breaking away again for an indefinite amount of time, and being forced to consider what this means for a relationship you were sure was dead and buried five minutes ago. You’d have to face the world again, descend his stairs with an eye certainly caught by one of the million guests in the living room, and face the consequences. God forbid Tommy sees it. 

So, instead of worrying, overthinking, or wallowing in the anxiety of ‘what if’, you shut yourself up and let yourself melt into him. 

He allows you to push him backward onto the bedspread, your chest pressed flush to his, and he snakes his hands under the fabric of your shirt. His fingers trace along your spine, then settle to tighten on your hips. They encourage your body to move on top of his, your hips scooping to grind against the denim of his trousers. You bring your hands to tug the hem of his shirt, desperately pulling it up to try and get it off of him while still stubbornly keeping your lips on his.

When you’re just about to give up and ravenously rip the fabric off of him, he gives you a hand, swiftly pulling it off himself and only disconnecting from you for a split second before kissing you again. Neither of you can see where it’s been discarded when he tosses it away, but you couldn’t care less. When your hand traces his abdomen and you feel his muscles flex, you can’t help yourself but to break away and instead kiss down his neck. 

You’re basking in the feeling of his soft skin, lips pressing attentively to his sternum, his ribs, everywhere they possibly can, and his chest heaves with heavy breaths. He runs his hands through his hair, his eyelids fluttering as though he can hardly believe he has you like this again. As you’re about to reach his belly button, he stops you by grabbing your chin and pulling you back in for a kiss. The certainty in his action tells you that he’s just as defiant toward not kissing you as you are, a mutual agreement between the two of you that you need to make the most of this, meaning any moment spent with your lips not joined is a moment wasted.

He rolls over and turns the both of you along with him, settling on top of you between your spread legs. Returning your earlier favour, he pulls your shirt over your shoulders with ease and discards it in the same direction as his. He hesitates for a second before he returns to you, torn on which part of your body he should appreciate first and how he should do it. It’s not long before you make the decision for him, your eager hands pulling him back for a kiss, your ankles hooking around his hips. 

He’s sliding his hands around your back, presumably to unclasp your bra, when a broken symphony of cheers erupts from outside. The both of you freeze, heads turning to watch the door as if it’ll open at any given moment. You only ease back into each other when it breaks into a mumbly chant of ‘Chug! Chug! Chug!’, thankfully proving the crowd to be preoccupied. You can easily imagine someone, maybe Billy Hargrove, flipped over the keg in Steve’s dining room, held up by his ankles and abusing the tap for all it’s worth. 

Anyone else may have taken the falter as a sign to stop, reconsider, decide whether or not the risk is worth something in which you’re still wary of its significance. But, as it seems, you and Steve take it as a sign to do it quickly and do it now. 

When his hands return behind your back, they move urgently to undo your brassiere and toss it blindly behind him. He lets out a deep sigh once your chest is exposed to him, your nipples perky and laden with goosebumps. You’re sure if you’d asked him what colour the bra he’d just torn off of you was, he’d have no coherent answer. Kissing between your breasts, his hands slip expertly between the two of you to undo the button of your shorts and slide them down your thighs. Once they’re by your knees, you take matters into your own hands and glide them the rest of the way off yourself, giving him the opportunity to lean back onto his knees and start working on his belt. 

He doesn’t care to thread the leather out of his belt loops before tugging his jeans down his thighs, and you don’t seem to register how he gets his pants off and across the room because you’re fixated distractedly on the evident bulge that’s revealed to you. An immediate and newfound wave of arousal washes over you, practically mesmerized by the sight of precum lightly soaking through his Tommy Hilfiger briefs. A sight you don’t realize you’ve yearned for so badly until you’re finally, finally granted it. You reach forward and pull his waistband down, effectively freeing him from beneath the straining fabric. 

Steve weighs heavily between his legs, now fully revealed. He’s rock hard and just as girthy as you’d remembered, slick at the tip. With a surge of impatience, he moves forward to settle between your legs once again and doesn’t give you time to dwell. Pressing stiffly to your inner thigh, he leans over you to urge you to lay back, your head sinking into his plush pillows. Your hands instinctively move to rest on his shoulders, your thumbs brushing tenderly to the sides of his neck. 

His large hand slips up your bare thigh, pulling it to rest your knee at the height of his hip, his fingertips tracing along the lacy fabric of your underwear. His breathing strains heavier when you kiss him again, your hand moving up the back of his head and entangling in the soft tufts of hair that reside there. He hooks a finger around the side of your panties, tugging them down your thighs in one deft motion, then leaning backward again to pull them past your ankles. 

The next few moments are almost incomprehensible to you, a muddled frenzy of pants and sighs, hands that grope and lips that crash together. It only clicks together when his hand comes between the two of you, going to hold tightly at the base of his cock, and he slips inside of you. 

The wind is knocked straight out of your lungs when he fills you up with a smooth slide of his hips, his pelvic bone pressed closely to yours, his tip brushing almost to your cervix. You feel as though you might die right here and right now, impaled under him.

How, in God’s name, did you ever think you could live without this? 

Although the pause he gives you to adjust is realistically almost imperceptible, to you, it feels like a million years. You’re more than ecstatic when he finally begins to scoop his hips, the tip of his cock dragging deliciously along the velvety walls of your insides. You clutch onto his shoulders like a lifeline, already beginning to writhe under him with each tantalizing thrust into you. 

It’s not long before the two of you deteriorate into a moaning, kissing mess of limbs and sweat on top of each other. He keeps panting your name, over and over and over, breath fanning against your ear. One might think the entire English vocabulary was erased from his head and replaced by nothing but your name. You can tell he’s doing all he can to suppress his voice, as his speech—if you can even call it that—comes out all strangled and strained. You want nothing more than to let yourself go, tell him to moan as loud as he needs and do the same yourself, but the cruel reminder of your setting is engraved in the incessant hum of party music just down the hall. You’re so desperate to hear him that you genuinely start to consider how bad it would actually be if everyone heard. 

Steve brings his head to bury in the crook of your neck, his lips pressed futilely to your collarbone and failing completely to kiss you properly, instead doing nothing more than moaning against your skin. As a hand stays to hold one hip of yours to keep you steady, the other moves to grasp the edge of his headboard as if he needs to be steadied, too. Your hands move from his shoulders to his back, now grasping from around his armpits and starting to claw at his shoulder blades. 

With each deep plunge of his rigid length into you, a coiling in your belly made itself present from far, far down inside you—a sweet, agonizing pressure that instinctively makes your hips buck in return to his thrusts. He stretches you out, hips moving unapologetically and almost bruisingly as, thankfully, each rhythmic slap of skin is muffled by his body pressed so closely against yours. 

“Holy shit, Steve,” you cry out, almost a whine as the single iota of self-control you held starts to dwindle along with the rest of it. 

A guttural moan is the only indication that your sound even reached his ears, his body shuddering as if those three simple words were all he’d been waiting to hear for the past few months. He pulls his head back from your neck, his eyes darting along your face as it starts to twist in pleasure.

“Say it again,” he rasps, his voice quiet and still desperately strained. He watches your face intently, almost as if he wants to watch your pretty lips as they utter his name. 

“Oh, Steve,” you quickly respond, your eyebrows creasing together as you keep your gaze locked on his. 

It seems as though that's the last straw for him, his head tipping back and his eyes squeezing shut as he utters a grunty ‘oh, fuck’. His hips break out of the rhythm that they’d found so quickly just a few moments ago, and his thrusts pick up with a newfound drive of intensity. You can’t help yourself to tear your eyes off of him, breathy moans leaving your parted lips as you watch him move on top of you, your back starting to arch into him. Tangled up in the pleasure of your own, your eyelids want to shut, but you make an effort to watch every tense of his body or twitch of his face as he chases his high. You’re almost trying to commit it to memory out of fear you’ll never get to have this again. 

You watch as his breath hitches, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. He surges into you with a final, desperate drive, his entire body tensing, muscles cording in his arms as he keeps himself braced above you. Soon after, you feel that agonizing coil suddenly building deep inside, that delicious ache coiling tighter and tighter until, finally, it shatters, washing over you in a blinding wave. A muffled sob escapes your lips as your own body contracts around him, thighs trembling slightly and tightening around his hips. He groans, a raw, gravelly sound that he makes no effort to suppress, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he empties himself into you. The feel of his release, hot and overwhelmingly pleasurable, is almost all-consuming; drowning out the party, the music, and everything that isn’t the sensation of his load spilling inside you. 

He presses his forehead to yours, his hips finally stilling after successfully riding out the both of your orgasms, and the air between the two of you mixes together with heavy breaths and pants. 

Then, silence. He keeps himself braced on top of you, unmoving, almost afraid to do anything more. The terrifying revelation seems to dawn on the both of you now that you’ve finished, petrifying you into speechlessness: What now?

The moment seems to drag on forever. Your face grows warm, still tenderly pressed to his, and you can’t muster the willpower to move at all. As it seems, neither can he. To move out of this position, to pull out and finish the act once and for all, is to face the implications of what you just did. To either come to the scary, but all possible, conclusion that the next feasible move is to pretend this never happened, and go back to your ever-separating lives.

That’d be the most reasonable thing to do, right?

His hand stays rested on your hip, not grasping so tightly anymore, and his thumb draws soothing circles along your tingling skin. 

No, no. Why is that the most reasonable outcome?

Your hand trails up his neck and finds solace in cupping once side of his face, returning the circles but instead along his cheekbone. 

Why do you have to do anything just because that’s the easy way out?

You find your hand pulling his face towards yours again, a gentle request to bring him closer again.

You guys can figure it out just fine, if you really wanted to. 

His lips meet yours again, this time more attentively. 

This can’t be the end of it. Of course not. How could it be?

Hair products, face paint, lipstick, and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels are swept off of the dressing room vanity in front of you. The mirror is dirty with God knows what; the light bulbs surrounding the glass glaring at you and illuminating your sweat-slick face in the reflection. Your hands are planted on the desk, the soft flesh right beneath your belly button pressed to the hard edge of it. You can’t even recall whether or not Eddie closed the door properly, but that's the furthest thing from your mind at the moment. 

His grasp on your hips is almost bruising, thrusting into you from behind with vigour you wouldn’t expect from someone who'd just finished the exhausting task of performing on a stage for such a large crowd. A string of crude profanities is being grunted from behind you, and you can’t help but to watch the man uttering it in the mirror in front of you—his hair still effectively teased into a dark, curly mess on his head, his lipstick smeared across his mouth from your eager lips, his dark stage makeup smudged and running with sweat. 

He’s a goddamn visionary like this, adrenaline still coursing after playing so long and so furiously, now fucking you so hard that you might think it’s out of pure hatred. Of course, it's not; how could he hate you when the whines he's drawing from you sound so pretty?

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you babble, your eyes squeezing shut as his thick cock drags against the sweet spot inside you. 

He moves his hands from your hips and pulls you up against his chest, one palm travelling to cover your mouth. “Be quiet f’me, mkay?” he coos, holding your body against his. “Wouldn’t want the band to hear you, babe.”

A pang of worry springs through you at the mention of your compromised setting, the presence of others being merely a room away, but it quickly subsides when his lips press hotly to your shoulder. Your eyebrows furrow with the newfound wave of pleasure washing over you, your hand moving to grasp the wrist that covers your mouth, the forearm laden with tattoos. 

His cold rings press against your hot mouth, and you’d worry about going limp against him if it weren’t for his tight hold on you. You don’t notice him watching you in the mirror when you flutter your eyes shut, your face flush and your back arching in front of him. 

You realize you’re not the only one struggling here when a deep, throaty groan erupts from Eddie’s throat, his face knotted in concentration. The lewd sound spurs you on, the delicious coil in your lower belly growing tighter and tighter with every unforgiving pound into you. 

You gasp softly when one of his bandmates pounds impatiently on the door, a gruff voice calling from outside. “Eds, get the fuck out here! The limo’s on the way!”

Why are you surprised? He’s a part of a fucking hair metal band, why wouldn’t his mates be itching to get to an after party as soon as they’re off stage? Despite the circumstances, Eddie doesn’t even flinch, let alone stop at all. If anything, it urges him to go faster.

“Just a second!” he calls back, clearly irritated to be interrupted. 

He lets go of you, and instead presses you against the vanity once again, your hands now struggling to keep you upright against the desk. His hands move to roughly grasp your waist, helping himself to pull you back to meet his thrusts.