odelia

“They’re really good, actually…” he shrugs through smacking chews. His bushy brows scrunch into a puppy-like look of confusion a second later. “Wait. Why is it so quiet tonight? I feel like it’s not usually this quiet.”

“Dustin’s not here,” you answer in a monotone.

“Oh, yeah…” he hums with a slow nod, then crunches into another bite.

You roll your eyes and slouch further into the squeaking pleather passenger seat. You cross your arms over the chest of your sweater and prop your right foot on the dashboard. Your sneaker leaves a faint imprint there as you huff.

“Can you tell your girlfriend to hurry up, please?”

“I already told you— I didn’t date her, I dated her sister,” Steve corrects through a mouthful. “And you should seriously watch your tone, honey. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

“Jealous?” you scoff, turning to him with your jaw pressed to your shoulder. You laugh when he shrugs in response, gaze averted and pink lips jutted, like it’s obvious or something. “Believe it or not, not everyone is in love with you, Harrington.”

“No, not everyone…” he grins. “But still you.”

Something about the way he looks at you makes you fume. Something mischievous glitters in his melted chocolate eyes, like he can see right through you — like he knows something you don’t. It makes you put up a wall on instinct. It makes you hide, makes you mean.

“Oh, yeah. Because a washed-up radio host, whose greatest achievement is the time he almost won a basketball championship his junior year of high school, is so attractive to me,” you scoff a cynical laugh. “And on top of that, you’re not even a radio host. I mean, you’re barely even a co-host, all you do are sound effects— It’s honestly a little pathetic, when you think about it.”

When your eyes flit back to Steve, you find him smiling — pink lips curled and sitting lopsided, chocolate eyes all softened around the edges. “You know… If you keep being mean to me, honey, I might just start liking you back.”

Your face twists in disgust, though your chest swells at the nickname.

“You’re deplorable.”

“Whatever that means,” he laughs and tosses the remnants of the Bopper into his mouth. He balls the wrapper in his fist. The harsh crinkling fills the quiet van before he tosses it into the cupholder at his side.

You turn away with a roll of your eyes, and your gaze falls back to the young girl — now standing outside of her Jeep and shivering in the cold as she waits for Steve to notice her. You motion to her with a lazy hand. “Your girlfriend’s waiting on you, by the way.”

Steve flashes you a cheeky grin as he reaches for the door handle, “How much you wanna bet I’m coming back with her number?”

Your eyes narrow in a sardonic squint. “If you come back with her number, I’ll start being nice to you, how about that?”

“Aw, but I love when you’re mean—”

He flinches when you toss the empty wrapper back in his direction. It hits his shoulder and tumbles back into his seat when he slinks out of the van with a quiet laugh. You watch through the dirt-stained glass as he saunters towards the strange girl, with his golden hands propped on his lean hips and a crooked smirk on his mouth — always so effortlessly cool in his way.

You duck into the back of the van and slouch into the plush stool by the desk. You exhale a heavy sigh with the knowledge that you’ve certainly lost the signal during your not-so-brief pitstop. You slide the bulky headphones over your ears and reach for the wheel above you. The heavy antenna on top of the van squeaks softly when you turn it, searching for any sign of movement. The decibels remain at zero — Hopper is long gone by now.

Steve returns some minutes later, with a subtle frown on his face and a newly charged van battery. The car rocks slightly under his sudden weight when he ducks back inside. The door slams shut behind him and brings a rush of late-autumn chill in with it.

“Yeah, I didn’t get it,” he announces in a monotone and sticks the key into the ignition.

“The horror,” you deadpan.

The engine cranks for a moment, then sputters when it fails to come to life. Steve talks through a sharp jaw clenched in concentration. “Apparently, I did date her, turns out… Totally slipped my mind, though.”

“Of course it did.”

“But you’d think she’d still be at least a little interested, though, right?” he rambles to himself. “Considering I stood her up the last time we were supposed to go out— you know, back when I worked at Scoops.”

He twists the key once more. The dead engine continues to stutter.

“Right,” you scoff with your gaze still on the decibel reader before you. “Because it makes total sense for anyone to waste years of their life pining for some loser in a sailor’s outfit—”

“Shut up…” Steve grumbles, gritting his teeth when the engine fails to crank.

“—I mean, who wouldn’t fantasize about the weird guy at the mall who has to sling ice cream for a living because he was too much of a loser to get a real job at the firm his dad literally owns?”

“Shut up,” he bites.

The engine roars to life in that moment, but you barely even notice it.

“Because I, for one, wouldn’t be able to get my mind off the boy who was so much of a screw up that nepotism couldn’t even fix him—”

You only vaguely hear the sound of heavy footsteps against the rumbling van floor when you turn over your shoulder. Your heart lurches into your throat when you find Steve much closer than you’d expected — hunched over to keep from hitting his head as he stomps towards the back of the van.

His chiseled features are screwed into a sterner look than you’re used to. Something about it makes your chest ache when the boy towers over you, with one hand curled around the wheel on the ceiling and the other bracing itself on the desk at your side.

“I said shut up,” Steve spits through gritted teeth, moments before he leans down to press a searing kiss to your mouth.

The force of it leans your chair slightly backward and knocks your headphones askew. Your hands dart to keep them from falling down your neck as Steve’s tongue slots between your lips, in a deep and fleeting kiss that makes your mouths smack when he pulls too suddenly away.

His rosy lips curl into a crooked grin at the sight of you — eyes lidded and glassy, mouth swollen and shining with his spit. “Yeah, that shut you right up, didn’t it?”

“Jeez…” you murmur, face screwing. “You taste like that… peanut butter shit.”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s the— the Boppers…” He falters for a moment at the look of disgust on your face, then grins all over again when your tongue darts out to wet your mouth, tasting him further there. “It’s good, huh? I told you they were—”

“Shut up,” you grouse in a monotone, and reach for the collar of his emerald sweater.

You curl your fingers into the knit fabric and urge him closer, forcing him to his knees between your parted thighs and pulling him in for another kiss, full of tongue and teeth and spit.

He’d seen the hurt flash in your eyes as he’d driven past you on Main Street, your lips painted a pretty shade of rose and your new skirt on, looking entirely stood up as you walked away from the new Italian that had just opened up across from the coffee place. He’d slammed on the brakes, heart in his mouth and Jonathan had almost ended up through the windscreen.

He hadn’t cared, not really. Not about Byers. Not when you were shaking your head at him with your arms folded across your chest, the cold eating at your exposed skin and he wanted to kiss it better, he wanted to get down on his knees and drag himself across the road to beg at your feet. Instead, he got caught fumbling with his seatbelt for a moment too long and you were walking away, down into the side street past the old arcade and Jonathan was yelling at him about the signal, how they were losing Hopper.

He panicked, he lost sight of you and well— he drove off with Jonathan yelling about decibels and interference.

But you’d actually answered his call and listened to his pleas and apologies and heartache for a few minutes before you sighed, heavy sounding and tired, the shuffle of your pillow and duvet making Steve wish he’d driven straight to yours instead.

And then you’d told him, “that’s the third time this month, Steve. What am I supposed to think?”

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. Nancy’s crawl plans didn’t factor in perfect excuses to give your girlfriend when cancelling another date night. They had weapons and maps and tunnels under the town but god forbid anyone had any advice to give him on maintaining a healthy relationship.

“Keep her out of this.” Hopper had once growled at him. “For our sake and hers. And especially yours. We don’t have time for another dead body, we don’t have time to fix the people that are grieving. Not anymore.”

No one has said any different, not really. Robin was attempting the same thing, after all. And Lucas? Well Lucas had told him his girlfriend seemed really nice and then he went to spend his weekend at Max’s bedside.

So when Steve finally found his voice, strangled and strained sounding, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to tell himself that lying to you was his very best option. Your very best option.

“Babe, I’m so sorry. I- I forgot I picked up an extra shift. I didn’t mean to-”

“To what?” You’d burst out. You were snapping. He could hear the tears that were stuck in your throat and the sound of it hurt him so much more than any interdimensional creature ever had. “To let me see you driving around town with Jonathan Byers? For what? A burger run? For the hell of it? Whatever, Steve.”

That had been fourteen hours ago. And now he was stuck working into the early hours of the morning so Robin could take Vickie to Enzo’s and Steve wanted to punch a hole in something. He sighed for the upteenth time that hour and pushed himself away from the desk, his chair wheels squeaking as they struggled across the old carpet that lay in the sound booth like a rug. The lights were low and almost too warm, the small room bathed in a yellow-orange glow and the whole place smelled like old cigarettes and mothballs, like its old host.

Solomon Burke was fading away now and Steve didn’t bother with any conversation before he loaded up another song, one just as heartfelt and soppy as the last. He’d been playing love ballads for most of the evening, interjecting between each one in the hopes that you were listening. You usually would have been here with him by now, perched on the table edge or even his lap, sharing the quiet space together in a rare opportunity to be alone. You’d bring him dinner, sometimes from the diner out past the trailer park, sometimes cooked in your very own kitchen. He liked those nights the best, he kissed you extra soft when you walked into the station with a bag full of Tupperware, your smile proud as you handed him pastas and soups and homemade cookies.

The place didn’t seem as warm without you in it. He groaned into his hands, his fingers catching on the wire that led to his headphones and pushed at it, annoyed, frustrated. He’d really fucked up. And smooth jazz couldn’t fix it.

Just as he wondered what the longest song was in the station’s catalogue, he heard the door slam.

There you were.

Soft in a pair of leggings, in an old rugby style shirt that once belonged to him. You had a bag in your hand and a scowl on your face, as if someone other than yourself had forced you into coming. Solomon Burke, perhaps, Steve thought.

With his heartbeat thundering in his ears, Steve fumbled with the tape deck. He had a new pulse now and it was electric, it made his hands jittery and his eyes wide. He pushed in a Beatles mash-up that Robin had created on a rainy Sunday and unplugged his mic, only just remembering to shove his headphones off just before they were ripped off his ears as he lunged to the door.

He got to you in a few steps, approaching with his hands out and palms facing up, as one did when facing off with an angry animal. “Hey, hey baby.” Steve’s voice was saccharine and soft, that gentle scratchy way you loved. He could smell food from the bag you carried something spicy and garlicky, something that smelled like fudge brownies underneath. His stomach growled and your brow lifted. “You still brought me dinner?”

You sniffed, side stepping him and moving into the booth. “Maybe,” was all you said. “But if you’re only interested in food, I’ll leave this here and go—”

“No! Nonono, baby, c’mon.” Steve was at you in an instant, hands catching at your elbows and he tried his luck, tried to bring you into his chest but you stood firm. “Can we talk? Can I, can I talk? Please?”

You didn’t reply. But you didn’t leave either. So Steve took that as a sign and breathed out a loaded sigh of relief. He closed the booth door back over and offered you his chair, and when you sat, he knelt on the floor in front of you, his warm hands covering the tops of your knees.

“Baby,” he started, his eyes wide and his brow creased. Fuck, he hated this. He hated the way you didn’t want to meet his eyes, he hated the way your brow was pinched, the way your bottom lip wobbled even though you were trying to act tough. “Baby, please, you gotta believe me, I—”

Shit.

You scoffed, coming to life in a flurry of anger and fury. Eyes narrowed, you finally set your gaze on him. “Believe you? Believe you?” You laughed, humourless and still edging on tears. “Don’t make me laugh, Steve Harrington, I know you better than I know anyone. Or at least I thought I did. You’ve been lying to me for months. Extra shifts? Family dinners? Robin in the hospital?”

Steve swallowed the brick that was stuck in his throat, wincing as it scratched and scraped on the way down. He felt sick.

“Come off it, Steve. Vickie works in the wards. Robin was never sick in the hospital, you weren’t working late last night. Why was Jonathan in the van with you? Was Nancy there too? Huh? What’s even going on? Would you just rather hang out with your ex and her boyfriend than have dinner with me? Is that it?”

“No! No, god,” Steve whispered your name and pushed the heels of his plans to his eyes, pressing until it hurt, pressing until he could think of something to say to fix this. What the fuck was he supposed to say? “Babe, baby, please, please you gotta believe me, okay? I swear, I— I was—”

You stared at him, eyes shining in the low light, glassy and full of the hurt Steve had put there. He wanted to put his own head through a wall. He felt like the worst kind of person there was. He felt like he was six years younger and didn’t know how to treat another person properly yet.

“You were what, Steve?” You challenged him, chin held high despite the one tear that had escaped and was tracking its way down your cheek.

Helping to save Hawkins. Maybe the world. Helping get rid of an evil monster that came from a place underneath our feet that no one else really knew existed. Helping a girl with superpowers find out where the bad guy lived.

Helping to keep you safe.

Helping out just enough to keep you away from all the bad shit he’d witnessed the year before. And the year before that. And the year before that.

Helping keep you alive, he hoped.

Instead Steve clenched his jaw and moved closer. His big hands pushed gently at your knees, hopeful and experimental and shit, he held his breath until your legs gave way, spreading just enough for him to move into the cradle of your hips. He was eye level with you as he knelt uncomfortably on the floor, desperate amongst the discarded tapes that no one had ever rewound properly.

Steve took your hands in his, brought them to his lips as he kissed over each knuckle and he hated the way you avoided his gaze once again. You were crying freely now, tears rolling down your too hot cheeks, anger and frustration and hurt creeping into every one of your pretty features. Steve hated it. Hated himself.

“Baby,” Steve tried, his mouth grazing over the back of your hand, your skin warm and smelling like cinnamon. Probably from the dessert you’d baked him. “Honey, please, look at me?”

Eventually you did, with a sniff and your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. You didn’t say anything, you just stared down at the boy before you on his knees, his hair fluffy and in a mess from the too big headphones he’d worn all evening. He looked stressed, his brow creased and his brown eyes too wide, worry flooding from him.

You’d never heard him so serious when he spoke next, his lips at your hands, mouthing over your skin as he said, “do you trust me?”

You thought over each word, what it meant, what he was asking. You heard the conviction in his voice, the hope, the desperation. He held onto your hands like a lifeline, thumbs stroking over your fingers, both of your hands clasped between his own like a prayer.

You’d spent the day wondering if your boyfriend was growing tired of you, if Steve was seeing someone else, if he was avoiding you. Each thought had made your stomach knot, a ball of anxiety settling somewhere deep inside of you until it grew too big to be ignored. It turned over and over, made your stomach roll and your chest hurt, an awful type of heat crawling from your chest to your neck to your cheeks until each new scenario made tears prick at your eyes.

You’d turned on the radio as you made dinner, the default setting immediately allowing Steve’s voice to fill your tiny kitchen. He sounded morose, far away. Not at all how a radio host was supposed to be. And as you added garlic and tomatoes and basil to the pot on your stove, Steve played love song after love song. He lamented about partners, about that special someone, about how saying sorry was the easiest thing to do when you loved someone. He did everything but say your name, keeping it as professional as he could despite what seemed to be a lovesick trauma dump.

And despite all the awful thoughts that had haunted you, you packed up some dinner and got into your car before you’d even had the plate you’d dished up for yourself.

Because despite everything, despite your heartache and disappointment and just sheer confusion at Steve’s actions of late, you didn’t think he found someone else. Not really. Not at all.

Not when he looked at you like he did. Not when he kissed you the way he did. Not when he knew how that pain felt.

So you tried not to let your lip wobble anymore than it already was and you nodded.

Steve’s sigh of relief made his entire body sag. His shoulders fell forward, forehead touching your own, noses brushing and he felt how damp yours was, tears tracking over the bridge of it but Jesus Christ, you weren’t pushing him away.

You trusted him.

That made the next part a little easier. Maybe.

Steve smiled as he met your gaze once more, eyes softer than ever, a little dopey with love and relief. “Yeah?” He kissed your hand, his lips warm against your palm and he let his touch skim up your arms, catching at your shoulders before he cradled your jaw between his fingers and thumb.

He pushed away a tear that had made its way down to your chin, frowning at the sight of it. “I’m sorry, baby. I really am. But please, please believe me when I say I can’t tell you what I’ve been doing.”

The words sent another ache of anxiety through you, your face crumpling at the prospect of battling again before what the fuck did he mean?

“Steve, what do you expect me to even say to that?”

“I know, I know,” Steve urged, his voice quiet and still soft and fuck, he hoped Robin had made that tape extra long. “But listen, yeah? If you trust me, then please, baby. Please understand that I’m trying my best. I’m— I’m trying to help a friend, okay?”

Steve swallowed, the sensation of it feeling like glass in his throat because he wasn’t lying, not really. Not like the other times he had to abandon you for crawls and meetings at Hop’s cabin. Not like his shitty excuses of hospital trips and late shifts at work.

No, this time he’d lay it out as best as he could. Within reason. In whatever way kept you safe.

But shit, it still sucked.

“I’m helping a friend do something pretty important. And it’s… it’s not really safe.” Steve grimaced as he saw your eyes widen, scrambling to ease the panic he saw rise in your features and clasped your face in both of his hands, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones in a way he hoped to god was soothing.

“It’s okay though, I promise. It’s not illegal or anything like that.” He wasn’t even sure if that was a lie. Steve didn’t have a fucking clue what kind of laws the military had put down in Hawkins, he just took everything they said as a rough suggestion, as did the rest of the party. A suggestion they all chose to ignore.

“Are you in trouble? Steve, do you need money? ‘Cause I can work extra shifts, I can try and help—”

Steve swore he felt his heart grow too big for his damn chest, your words making his entire being hurt. You were too sweet, you were too fucking good for him, or at least that’s what Dustin liked to remind him. He didn’t often disagree.

He leant forward, kissing at the apple of your cheek and when you didn’t pull away, he snuck another one to your lips, quick and fleeting and soft. “No, baby, no, nothing like that, I swear. It’s just, it’s just a little complicated.” Steve was almost certain The Beatles were running out of songs by now. “I know it’s really shitty of me to try and ask this of you. Like trust me, I get it. But you gotta know I would tell you if I could, alright? I swear. I promise, honey.”

Steve needed you to believe him more than anything. He wasn’t quite sure he’d do very well if you walked out on him. In fact, he was pretty sure he was bound to die off if he didn’t get to kiss you properly soon. Despite your tears and smudge mascara, Steve was positive you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. He could wait to tell you that, but he knew well enough to wait until you were a little less mad at him. And perhaps after you stopped thinking he was running Hawkins newest drug cartel.

After what seemed like far too long, you brought your hands to his wrists and curled your fingers there. Thumb stroking over his skin, you nodded at the boy, a quiet acceptance. “Okay,” you whispered. “I trust you.”

And you did. Whatever Steve was telling you, or not telling you, you knew it was for good reason.

Steve let out another too big sigh, his lashes fluttering as he blinked at you before pulling you into him by the nape of your neck. His lips landed clumsily on your own for a kiss, closed lips but desperate, peck after peck landing on your mouth, your cheeks, your nose.

“Thank you,” he murmured into you, his nose brushing your hairline as he pressed his affection and his words to your forehead. “Shit, thank you, baby. And I’m sorry, okay? I’m so fucking sorry, I swear I’ll make it up to you ten times over, I’ll- I’ll take you Enzo’s, to the city, whatever you want.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh at his declarations, the knot of anxiety unraveling itself from inside you. It was a gradual dissolution, a slow ease back into feeling normal and it didn’t happen quickly. Sore chests and hurt feelings still lingered, as did the hidden truth of Steve’s new hobby.

You smiled at him, tight lipped and with a crinkled brow. “You’re safe, aren’t you? You’re okay?”

Steve didn’t know how to answer that without lying to your face. Because no, what he did wasn’t safe.

There was more than a baseball bat under his bed now. There was a small arsenal stashed in his bedroom cupboard, under the seats of his car and scattered around his home. He knew how to load a shotgun now, how to navigate the town he grew up in via underground tunnels and he knew what the things were that went bump in the night. He had panic attacks when the town lost power, his breathing went funny at the flicker of a light and he wasn’t allowed to tell the girl he loved that she was living in a real life horror movie.

So instead he smiled, as real as he could and Steve brushed your hair from your eyes. “Yeah, baby.” He ached to take you home, to pull you into his bed and into his arms. To sleep this shitty day away and wake up in a new one with you against his chest. “I’m okay as long as you are.”