potion

Somewhere in the frenzy, Steve's arm finds its way over your chest, a solid, heavy weight pressing your body back against the seat. The tires screech deafeningly against the asphalt, a noise that vibrates through your bones until the car comes to a shuddering halt. If it were not for Steve's arm, you would have been thrown through the windshield.

You gently open your eyes, your blood still roaring in your ears like a waterfall, your heart beating with an impossible, frantic rhythm. You're okay. You're alive.

You glance at Steve, who's already looking at you with wide, blown-out pupils and a chest that’s heaving just as hard as yours. For an unknown reason, a laugh— manic yet light— bubbles up in your chest.

“Fucking hell, Harrington,” you gasp, the words shaky as he extracts his hand from your body and runs it through his somehow still perfect hair.

“How’s that for boring?” he exclaims, a triumphant, crooked grin breaking through his lips. You can’t help but beam at him, the dull ache that had been sitting in your chest all day finally shattered by the thrill.

You’d called him only an hour ago, a sad, moping mess— totally not induced by Valentine’s Day blues— and complained about how empty and quiet the house felt. Twenty minutes later, your best friend was in your driveway, honking up a storm and demanding you get in his car.

“C’mon,” he says softly, his gaze lingering on yours for a beat too long before he slowly turns the car to the left and pulls into a small, hidden turnout. You look at him, puzzled, as he steps out and clicks on a heavy flashlight.

“Where are we going, Steve?” you ask, shivering as the midnight air hits you. You pull your jacket up to your shoulders, following him out into the dark. “You’re not about to make me a headline in the paper tomorrow, are you?”

He chuckles, the sound low and melodic against the backdrop of crickets. “Steve Harrington would make a sick name for a serial killer.”

“Heartthrob turned Killer,” you muse, narrowly side-stepping a particularly pointy rock. “I can already see it.”

Steve lets out another chuckle ahead of you. You smile; if you would only admit it to yourself, it was your favourite sound in the world.

He leads you down a narrow trail, the flashlight beam dancing over protruding roots and rocks, until you reach a clearing between a few trees, overlooking the quarry. The moon is a silver coin reflected in the water below, but it’s the setup on the ground that makes your breath hitch.

There’s a thick plaid blanket spread out over the grass, a basket tucked to the side, and a box of chocolates sitting front and center— the expensive kind from the city, not random store bought. A few lanterns are scattered around and a string of fairy lights hang between two trees over the little spot; casting a soft, amber glow that turns the woods into something serene and secluded.

"Steve," you breathe out, the adrenaline from the drive fading into a warm, heavy hum. "What is all this?"

He’s leaning against a tree, trying to look effortless as usual but he’s fiddling with his keys so hard you’re worried he’ll snap them. "Well…you were moping. Or, okay, not moping, just... put off ‘cause of this whole Valentine's thing. I figured, you know, even if you don't have a date, we could make a night of it."

You walk over to the blanket, sitting down and running your hand over the fabric. He’s even brought the good pillows from his house. As he sits down next to you, bumping his shoulder against yours, the air feels heavy and biting.

“Wait, is this where Steve Harrington serenades his little harem?” you ask, the words a lame attempt to puncture the atmosphere before it completely swallows you whole.

Steve is looking at you in that way— a heavy, lingering pull that you’ve spent months analysing in the dark of your room. You’ve conditioned yourself to believe it’s just his version of the thousand-yard stare; a byproduct of too many monsters and not enough sleep. You’ve told yourself it’s just the way his face settles when the world finally goes quiet.

Because what more could it be? 

“Nah,” he says finally, the word catching slightly in his throat before he tears his gaze away. He reaches over for the white wicker basket, lined with delicate, hand-painted pink flowers, a stark contrast in his calloused hands. “Haven’t brought anyone else here. This one is... new.”

The air thrums, a low-frequency vibration that makes the hair on your arms stand up. You try to rationalize it. It means nothing; none of it has to mean anything special because this is Steve. Steve is devoted to his friends. He’d die for them; he’d sit on the hardwood floor for six hours straight waiting for college application results for them; he’d buy ridiculous floral baskets if he thought it would spark a glimmer of joy in their eyes.

He’s the guy who stays. He’s the guy who shows up. That’s just who he is.

He would do this for anyone, wouldn’t he?

“Sandwich?” he asks, his voice snapping the tension like a dry twig. He’s already bitten into his own and offers you the other.

You do a bad job of suppressing a grin as he takes another massive bite, his cheeks puffing out, reminiscent of a chipmunk. It’s so endearing, so jarringly Steve, it sends a sharp and sweet ache through your chest. It’s stupid how something so trivial can cause such a violent dysrhythmia in your heart.

But then again, your friendship with Steve is a graveyard of such moments you’ve spent secretly burying.

You take the sandwich, your fingers brushing against his for a second too long, the heat of the contact lingering even after he pulls away. You settle onto the good pillows, the scent of him— musky and heavy— wrapping around you like a physical weight.

You look out over the quarry, the water as still as a bated breath, and then back at the man beside you who is currently struggling with a piece of lettuce. It draws out a chuckle from you and Steve looks over, grinning, a sliver of the lettuce hanging off his lips.

You reach over and extract the piece, fingers brushing against his lips, featherlight, suddenly hyper-aware that Steve’s eyes are scanning your face— but you don’t dare look back, just flick the piece to the side— 

And the spell is broken.

“For the record,” he says after a beat, clearing his throat, “I was having a pretty shitty Valentine’s too.”

You finally look over at him, still swallowing your bite, and quirk an eyebrow.

“Didn’t you say you were hooking up with Betty?”

Steve turns to look at the water, it shimmers slightly as a night bird takes a swooping dive. “ I didn’t. My heart wasn’t in it.”

You don't know if you want to ask why. You don't know why you don't want to ask either.

Steve’s arm is so very close to you, you can feel the heat radiating off him, a warm, steady presence that feels more like home than any house in Hawkins. You gently push away the thoughts that ebb into your mind.

“Thought it was about your dick being in something and not your heart.”

Steve sits upright at that, sending one of the lanterns toppling. 

“Jeez, what the hell is wrong with you, woman?” he asks, his voice sounding offended and shocked. His eyebrows scrunch together, that familiar furrow appearing in the center of his forehead. “I’m trying to be serious here, I'm trying to do a thing, and you’re—” he mutters something else under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like ‘unbelievable’ or ‘why do I even try,’ while you double over, trying to catch your breath from laughing.

But as the laughter dies down into a soft, lingering hum in your chest, the humor begins to feel like a flimsy shield. You look at him, really look at him— as he settles back down, his shoulders still tense, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the waterline.

You think about the label of friendship you’ve been hiding behind for god knows how long now. It was a safe harbor, a way to keep him close without risking losing him forever, without having him choose— not choose you. You’d spent months convincing yourself that the way he looked at you was just Steve being Steve. He was just naturally protective, naturally sweet, naturally everything.

But now, that conviction, the constructed belief… is faltering. You gaze at the high-strung fairy lights flickering like caged stars, the little half-opened box of chocolates, the strewn, empty sandwich wrappers and this clearing that feels too pristine, too untouched. 

Too sacred.

Even as your eyes trail over the familiar landscape of his features— the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair catches the amber glow— your heart is drumming a thundering rhythm against your ribs. Your brain is still chanting the familiar mantra, a desperate rationale you’ve been clutching to all this while. 

This is just Steve. It’s what he does. It’s what friends do. It means nothing more.

The light behind him gives his perfectly slanted nose a silhouette that looks like molten gold against the deepening dark of the woods.

It’s Steve.

His lips purse briefly, a nervous habit you’ve memorized, as he bites his lower lip and lets go— the pale skin flooding with a burst of crimson.

It’s nothing more.

You watch, mesmerised, as he blinks in slow motion at the obsidian water, long lashes sweeping gently over the sharp planes of his cheekbones.

It’s not. It’s not. It’s not—

A huff leaves his chest, something heavy escaping into a fleeting puff of cold air.

Until, suddenly, it is.

"Steve," you say softly, suddenly, the words drawing out from the depths of your heart of their own accord.

"I can’t help but think that this is a little more effort than someone would normally put in for their friend."

It’s a quiet admission, gooseflesh erupting over your being even as the last words leave your tongue. The air, already different, seems thicker and more suffocating now— the unsaid finally tipping over the line you’d called friendship only a few moments ago.

There’s a slight shift in Steve’s face, as he blinks, then sits up, just ever so slightly. For the briefest second, the cool guy mask completely slips. He looks vulnerable and downright terrified.

"Yeah, well," he murmurs, not quite looking at you, his voice dropping an octave. There is a slow thrum beginning to stir in your heart, a gentle pull at the strings that makes your cheeks flush— 

As if you already know. You have known.

He clears his throat and finally meets your eyes. "I guess I’m not really trying to be just 'someone,' am I?"

Your blood turns to mercury, hot and thick, slowly trickling from your heart to every which way and a breath, featherlight, catches in your throat.

He reaches out, his thumb grazing your knuckles, his fingers impossibly warm in the cold spring air. 

"I'm a slow learner, okay? It took me a long time to realize that the reason I hate seeing you sad isn't just because you're my best friend. It's because I'm... I'm pretty much gone for you.”

The world falls away around you, distant, hazy. You feel like you’re back in the Beemer, hurtling towards a dead-end at seventy-five miles an hour, blood roaring in your ears as Steve looks at you with devastating honesty in his eyes.

“Gone for me?” you repeat, the words barely a whisper, you don’t know if you’ve even said them out loud.

Steve lets out a small, shaky exhale, his thumb continuing its slow, rhythmic path over your skin. He looks down at your joined hands, a soft smile tugging at his lips. 

“Yeah. Like, totally pathetic, pining, can-I-even-have-her gone.” The nerve in his jaw ticks as he pauses.

“I mean… I almost wrecked my car tonight to hear you laugh 'cause your silence was killing me.”

He finally looks up, and the intensity in his gaze is enough to make you heady.

“I don’t want to be the guy you call when you’re bored, or the guy who just picks you up for a drive. I mean… I’ll always be that guy, but I want… I want to be the one who doesn’t disappoint you on Valentine’s. I want to be the reason you don't feel empty.”

The graveyard is empty. The ghosts are all out.

“Steve,” you whisper, your fingers finally curling around his, squeezing back with a desperate kind of relief. “You’re such an idiot.”

He blinks, a flash of his usual playful hurt crossing his face. “Excuse me? I just poured my heart out here, and I get called an idiot?”

“You’re an idiot because you thought you were the only one,” you say, a tear finally pricking at your eye, though your lips curve into a wide, breathless smile. “I’ve been gone for you too. Since the night you stayed up with me to finish that history project. Since you came home to fight Billy. Since.... forever.”

Steve’s looking at you with unadulterated wonder, jaw slack, and you can’t help but chuckle at just how oblivious you two have been—  even though it feels like you’ve just been spun on a merry-go-round that has no intentions of stopping.

“I just thought.. I really thought you were just being, well, you.”

Steve tilts his head, a smile splitting his lips finally and you see his shoulders relax for the first time, in a very long time.

“Really?” he asks, his voice cracking just a bit; something soft, hopeful blooming in his tone.

You grin at him, leaning in to brush your nose against his, lungs filling with a perpetual high and you can’t seem to remember what feeling blue was like. 

You never could, around Steve.

“Really.”

He doesn’t wait for another word. His hand slides from your knuckles to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you toward him. It’s not the same rush of the Beemer; it’s a slow, steady burn, a slow fire igniting a wick that had been cold for far too long. 

When his lips finally meet yours, they taste like the chocolates from the box and the cold spring air.

But mostly, they taste like coming home.