Telling best-friend Steve over the phone (you know, the guy you started out being a target in highschool from his friends, only to end up in the same group and fighting Hawkins monster fest, to becoming actual best-friends and not just casualâŚ?), how you feel awful, why youâre feeling so bad, but you canât comprehend what you need. He tells you to pack a weekend bag, and it doesnât take him ten minutes until heâs at your apartment to pick you up and take you to his home. Once inside, he ushers you into his room to toss down your bag. Youâve never bothered with the guestroom since becoming closer (your choice firsthand, Steve wasnât going to argue. It helps with the nightmares, anyways). You do your walk around his room, helping yourself to what you want.
Today, itâs a pair of his tube socks to go with your cherry and polka dot printed pink nightgown. He jogs downstairs to gather some snacks, back in time to see you making yourself comfortable amongst a sea of blue plaid on his mattress, tv remote in hand. It wraps around his chest, causing a series of drumming throbs. Heâs pretty sure you can see the skin moving beneath his cartoon decorative shirt that Dustin had gifted him. You smile up at him, as if thinking the same thing, like your heart isnât going to plummet from your mouth and slap right into Steve Harrington.
You quickly look down, a shy grin on your lips. Steve runs a hand through his hair, placing the snacks on the bedâs foot, while pulling the tv cart a little closer.
âHorror or action?â You ask first.
And he settles on horror, because he knows that black and white classics are your favorite. Hell, youâve even turned him into a pop culture guru. So you start with The Wolfman first, and you end up right asleep in the warmth of Steveâs chest, both of you pretending that youâre not admiring the beautiful tendons in his neck, to every freckle and mole available, right down to the one spattered on his ear. His eyes reflect the sundown, only when he rubs a massive hand along your shoulder to gently soothe. The soft sound of your breathing, the way youâve thrown a leg over his own, wrapping, securing, hand thrown over his belly - heâs well aware, now, that youâre out.
He kisses your crown, fading summer sunlight drifting through his curtains, the hum of the rolling credits fading on the tv as Steve drifts with you in his arms. He doesnât know whatâs wrong with you, but he knows that heâs got you and that heâll make sure that youâre okay.
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