the real punk rock

The kitchen is quieter.

Not quiet exactly. Just survivable.

And Steve Harrington is standing in front of the open fridge eating slices of ham directly out of the packet.

He looks up as you walk in.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, “Oh thank god,” he says immediately. “A normal person.”

You burst out laughing.

Steve points the slice of ham at you accusingly. “Don’t laugh. You’re the only person here not currently trying to impress somebody.”

“That’s because I gave up fifteen minutes ago.”

“Smart.”

He shuts the fridge with his hip before wandering toward the counter, still chewing lazily. His sleeves are pushed messily to his elbows already, hair slightly damp from summer heat and too many people packed into one house.

“You hiding in here?” you ask.

Steve glances vaguely around the kitchen. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Same.”

“Cool.”

Neither of you leaves.

The kitchen becomes your spot after that. At first, it’s just somewhere quieter to stand while you both recover socially. People drift in and out constantly around you, grabbing drinks or ice or more alcohol before disappearing back toward the noise again, but neither of you really moves from where you started.

Steve ends up sitting on the counter at some point while you lean against the opposite side nursing the same drink for nearly half an hour.

“Okay,” he says eventually, nodding toward the living room doorway. “Red shirt guy.”

You glance over. “What about him?”

“He’s told that story three separate times.”

You snort immediately. “No he hasn’t.”

“He absolutely has.” Steve points vaguely with his beer bottle. “Watch. He’s about to mention the fishing trip.”

Right on cue, “-and then the fish snapped the whole line-”

You stare at Steve in disbelief while he looks unbearably smug about the whole thing.

“Oh my god.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve been monitoring him?”

“There’s nothing else to do here.”

You laugh again, softer this time, and Steve grins automatically at the sound.

God.

He’s unfairly charming when he’s relaxed like this. Not performing or trying too hard. Just warm and funny and slightly bitchy in a way you’re beginning to enjoy far too much.

Another group pushes noisily into the kitchen a few minutes later. One girl opens the freezer and immediately shrieks.

“There’s literally no vodka left!”

Steve mutters under his breath, “Tragic.”

Your shoulders shake violently trying not to laugh while the girl slams the freezer shut dramatically before storming back out.

The second she disappears, both of you completely lose it.

“You’re awful,” you laugh.

“She was acting like somebody died.”

“She looked genuinely devastated.”

Steve wipes at his eyes dramatically. “Thoughts and prayers.”

An hour later, both of you are sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor eating tortilla chips from the bag. Neither of you remembers how this happened exactly.

The party’s louder now. Hotter too. Music vibrates faintly through the cabinet doors behind you while somebody somewhere nearby yells along badly to the chorus currently playing.

Steve nudges your knee with his. “That guy’s been trying to flirt with Robin for like forty minutes.”

You glance toward the hallway. “Oh my god. The guy in the leather jacket?”

“Yeah.”

“He keeps leaning against walls weirdly.”

Steve demonstrates immediately, slouching sideways against the cabinet beside him with an expression so aggressively serious you nearly choke laughing.

“That is EXACTLY what he looks like.”

“I know.”

“He thinks he’s being smooth.”

“He looks like he’s trying to sell her cologne in a department store.”

You laugh hard enough that your shoulder knocks against Steve’s accidentally, but neither of you moves away afterwards. In fact, Steve sort of… stays there. Your shoulders still touch lightly while he steals another chip from the bag in your lap.

Interesting.

You become increasingly aware throughout the evening that Steve Harrington is a very tactile person. Just casually. His knee bumps yours when he laughs, his hand lands absentmindedly on your ankle while reaching past you for his drink, and at one point, he brushes crumbs off your shirt without even thinking about it.

Like touching you has already become instinctive somehow.

The thing is that you don’t think he even notices he’s doing it.

You definitely notice, though.

Especially when he laughs at something you say and grabs your knee automatically. Especially because his hand stays there a second too long afterwards.

“Okay,” Steve says seriously two beers later. “Worst song ever written.”

You gasp. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s not.”

“It absolutely is.”

Steve points at you dramatically. “Everybody says that until they hear the right answer.”

“Go on then.”

Steve thinks hard for a second before answering, “We built this city.”

You stare at him. “You’re insane.”

“That song sucks!”

“It’s fun!”

“It's so... much.”

You blink. “…what does that even mean?”

“It sounds like a cigarette commercial.”

You laugh so suddenly you nearly spill your drink, and Steve immediately starts laughing too despite himself, head tipping briefly back against the cabinets.

Warm kitchen light catches against his throat when he laughs like that.

You suddenly become very aware that Steve Harrington is pretty.

Annoyingly pretty.

You’re still looking at him when his eyes flick back toward yours again. Something shifts slightly.

Steve’s smile softens around the edges. “What?”

You blink once. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring at me.”

“You were making a weird face.”

“That’s so mean.”

You grin slightly into your drink while Steve keeps looking at you for another second anyway.

Then Robin walks into the kitchen.

She stops dead instantly, eyes flicking between both of you sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor before narrowing suspiciously.

“Oh my god.”

Steve frowns. “What?”

“You’re gazing at each other.”

Both of you answer at the exact same time.

“We’re not.”

Robin looks deeply unconvinced. “You’re literally sitting on the kitchen floor alone together at a party.”

Steve gestures vaguely around. “We’re people-watching.”

“You’re flirting.”

“We are not.”

Robin stares at him flatly for a second before saying, “Steve, your hand is on her thigh.”

Silence.

Steve looks down immediately.

His hand is, in fact, resting warm and casual against your thigh. Neither of you has any idea how long it’s been there.

“Oh.”

Robin makes a deeply satisfied noise.

“Oh my god,” Steve mutters weakly while you try very hard not to laugh.

Robin points between both of you accusingly. “I’m leaving. But when you inevitably make out in here later, I want credit for being right.”

Then she disappears back into the party before either of you can answer.

Silence settles briefly afterwards.

Steve still hasn’t moved his hand.

“That’s embarrassing,” he mutters eventually.

“A little.”

“I genuinely didn’t notice.”

“I know.”

Steve glances toward you carefully then. “…should I move it?”

Your stomach flips unexpectedly.

You look down at his hand against your thigh before shrugging lightly. “I mean… you don’t have to.”

Steve goes quiet for a second.

Then, very slowly, “Oh.”

And suddenly the kitchen feels warmer than it did before.

The party starts thinning out sometime after 1 a.m. People leave in noisy groups while others pass out upstairs or drape themselves dramatically across living room furniture.

You and Steve stay exactly where you are.

At some point he ends up leaning back fully against the cabinets beside you, one knee bent lazily while your shoulder stays pressed against his.

“You know,” he says eventually, voice quieter now, “this is the longest I’ve willingly stayed at a party in like… years.”

“Yeah?”

Steve hums softly. “You’re distracting.”

The words land gently between you. Not jokey. Not entirely serious either. Just honest enough to make your chest tighten slightly.

Outside, crickets hum loudly through the open kitchen window while warm summer air drifts through the screen. The kitchen feels strangely separate from the rest of the party now. Smaller somehow. Quieter. Like the night narrowed slowly down to just this.

Steve looks tired suddenly. Not in a bad way. Just softened around the edges by the late hour and warm air and beer and laughing too much.

You realise, with startling clarity, that you could stay here talking to him until sunrise and not get bored once.

Steve’s gaze drops briefly toward your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, careful, like he’s checking whether he imagined that thought passing across your face too.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I think this is the first actual conversation we’ve ever had.”

“That’s probably concerning.”

“A little.”

“And yet here you are.”

Steve smiles faintly. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

The silence stretches.

Then, softly, “Can I kiss you?”

You nod before you can think too hard about it.

Steve kisses you carefully at first, like he’s still figuring you out. Warm mouth, slow hands, the faint taste of beer and salt from stolen tortilla chips lingering between you. One of his hands slides lightly against your jaw while the other braces against the floor beside your knee.

You kiss him back and feel the exact moment he relaxes into it.

The second kiss is different. Still soft. Just less careful now.

Steve exhales quietly against your mouth like something inside him has unclenched.

When you finally pull apart, neither of you moves very far. His forehead brushes yours briefly before he lets out a quiet laugh under his breath.

“You know what’s really embarrassing?”

“What?”

“I think this might actually be the best party I've ever been to.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly.

You smile slightly anyway. “That is embarrassing.”

“I know.”

But he’s smiling too when he says it.

Outside the kitchen, the party keeps going without you.

Neither of you seems particularly interested in rejoining it.