#5sos

One arm hangs off the side, fingers barely grazing the floor, sticky from something he doesn’t remember spilling. His head tips back against the cushions, eyes open but unfocused, fixed somewhere above the ceiling like there’s something written there he has yet to figure out. 

There are still people in his house.

Too many, honestly.

Someone laughs in the kitchen, loud and unfamiliar. A bottle clinks against the counter. A couple disappears down the hallway like this is normal, like this is his house but not really his space.

Everyone he’s ever known.

And somehow not a single person he’s actually looking for.

The front door creaks open.

Steve’s eyes flick toward it instantly.

Hope is quick. Reflexive. Stupid.

Stupid, because It’s not you.

Just another guy-someone from school, maybe-dragging his feet in at this ungodly hour, talking too loudly about nothing. 

The door swings shut again, and with it, Steve’s brief, flickering expectation dies just as fast as it came.

He exhales through his nose, slow, reminding himself. 

Right.

You don’t come anymore.

It hadn’t been like that before. You used to show up late. Always late.

The memory hits him out of nowhere, uninvited and too clear, like everything from before somehow survived the blur of everything now.

The door opening. You stepping in, already half-smiling, half-annoyed.

“You know you could not invite half of Hawkins, right?”

He remembers your voice, teasing him with a truthful smile. And Steve—God—Steve would feel it instantly. That shift. Like the night finally made sense.

He’d push himself off whatever wall he was pretending to enjoy leaning on, weaving through people just to get to you with a grin that spread across his face like a reward. 

A reward to the hours he spent doing nothing but wait for you at every party, not even listening to anyone’s words because all he could think about was you. 

“You came.” He’d said. Like he wasn’t sure you would. Like it mattered more than it should.

You’d roll your eyes, brushing past him. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

But you’d stay. That was the thing.

You weren’t a party person. Never had been. You hated the noise, the mess, the people who got too close, too loud. You’d hover in the kitchen, or sit on the counter with a drink watching everybody mush into one another, or disappear into quieter rooms and somehow, Steve always ended up there with you.

Not hosting. The thought that it was his party completely left his mind the moment you showed up. 

Now the kitchen is full, and he doesn’t step foot in it. Now the quiet rooms stay empty. Now he doesn’t even try to look.

“Steve!”

He barely reacts when someone drops down beside him on the couch, too close, too energetic for the hour.

A girl. Familiar, but not familiar enough. Her hand lands on his arm like she’s done it before.

Maybe she has but he can’t remember, too lost in the thought of that it should’ve been you. 

It shouldn’t feel wrong. But it does.

Because it should’ve been you.

You, reaching for him like that without thinking.

You, nudging him when he drifted too far into his own head.

His brain does this cruel thing. 

It expects you. It always does.

You never even had to say his name.

You’d barely get the first sound out—“S—”—and he’d already be there, turning, stepping toward you like it was instinct, like he was tuned to you in a way he couldn’t explain.

“This party’s insane,” the girl says, laughing, leaning into him like they’re sharing something.

Steve glances at her, blinking slowly.

Her words take a second to land. He forces a smile. It’s automatic at this point. “Yeah.” He agrees. Not bothered. 

She keeps talking about someone in the backyard, something that happened earlier, something that probably would’ve been funny hours ago.

He tries to listen. But it all blurs together.

Her voice fades into the background, mixing with the music, the outside noise of people chatting. 

And all he can think about is how you would’ve reacted.

You would’ve made a face. You would’ve leaned over and whispered something sarcastic in his ear.

You would’ve pulled him away after thirty seconds because you knew he wasn’t actually listening.

His jaw tightens slightly.

The girl laughs again, nudging him. “Are you even listening right now?” Not really. 

He huffs a quiet, humorless breath.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t push, either. Just shrugs, already half-distracted by something else.

That’s the thing about these people. No one looks twice. But you would. In fact, you wouldn’t look away the first time in the first place. 

You would’ve kept him company all through every party. 

At some point, he ends up in the bathroom. He doesn’t remember walking there. The door clicks shut behind him, muffling the noise just enough that it feels like stepping underwater.

For the first time all night, it’s quiet.

Steve grips the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection. At his messy hair due to being run through one too many times, red rimmed eyes and his hollow expression. 

One of the memories hits him again, sharper this time. 

You, sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly, watching him with that look, half amused, half something deeper. He knows you’re about to say something that’s been bugging your mind. 

“I think you’re trying too hard.” You say, firmly, shrugging like this wasn’t the sentence that has been washing up your mind every time you get Steve in moments like these. Away from the crowd, without anyone to impress. 

“What?” He answers, obviously a little confused. 

“This,” you’d said, gesturing vaguely. “The whole…King Steve thing.”

He’d frowned.

“It’s just a party.” But you both knew it was’t. 

You shook your head, softer now.

“I like you better when you’re not like this.”

Not like this. Steve swallows, looking back at himself now. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Because you were right. And worse because he knows it.

He stays in there longer than he should.

Long enough that the party starts to feel distant. Long enough that the silence becomes heavier than the noise ever was.

When he finally steps back out, it hits him all over again. The mess. The people.

The version of himself he slipped back into without even realizing it.

Someone calls his name from across the room again. This time he ignores it.

Instead, his eyes drift—slow, searching—toward the front door. Like they have all night. Like they keep doing without his permission. And the door? It’s closed. Of course it is.

After everyone has left, Steve ends up back on the couch. Same position. Same spot. Like he never moved.

Except now the house actually is empty.

Cups litter the floor. Something sticky clings to his shoe when he shifts. A chair is knocked over near the kitchen. The air smells stale, heavy with everything the night dragged in and left behind as a reminder of what’s left to clean  up. 

He stares at the door again. One last time.

Again. It’s stupid, at this point. Really stupid. 

He knows you’re not coming. You haven’t in weeks. Maybe longer.

He just… didn’t want to admit it.

His throat tightens slightly, something uncomfortable settling in his chest. Because for the first time all night, there’s no distraction left. No noise to drown it out. No one to pretend in front of.

Just him.

And the quiet realization that’s been waiting for him to stop running long enough to catch up.

His gaze lingers on the door a second longer before finally dropping, his head tipping back against the couch.

A slow breath leaves him.

Another memory hits him. 

It had never been about the parties for you.

Steve knew that.

You didn’t show up for the music, or the people, or whatever reputation came with being seen at his house. Half the time, you barely spoke to anyone else.

But you always stayed for him.

That was the part he didn’t understand at first.

Not until he started noticing the way your eyes tracked him across the room. Not in a clingy way. Not like you needed him.

More like you were making sure he didn’t lose himself in it.

There were nights you’d catch his wrist as he passed, just for a second.

Not to stop him. Just to ground him a little. 

“Hey,” you’d say, softer than the rest of the room.

And that was enough.

Enough to cut through the noise. Enough to make everything else feel distant. He’d lean in without thinking, like your voice existed on a frequency meant only for him.

And you’d always notice. Always.

The second his smile stopped being real. The second his laugh went a little too loud.

You’d actually listen. 

At least when you were there.

The house is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful yet—just empty. Hollow. Like something’s been taken out of it and nothing’s replaced it since.

Steve doesn’t move from the couch. He hasn’t for a while.

The clock still blinks. The floor still sticks. The air still feels too thick to breathe properly.

And the door— The door is still closed.

He lets his head fall back, eyes slipping shut for a second, exhaustion finally starting to settle into his bones now that there’s nothing left to distract him from it.

This is it. This is what’s left.

A trashed house. A quiet morning. And the realization that he spent the whole night waiting for someone who was never coming.

A knock breaks the silence. Barely there.

Steve’s eyes snap open. 

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Because his brain, still stupid,hopeful and desperate—won’t let him believe it.

Not yet. The knock comes again.

Still quiet and still unsure.

He’s on his feet before he fully registers standing, crossing the room faster than he means to, heart racing something sharp and uneven in his chest.

His hand hesitates on the doorknob for half a second. Then he pulls it open.

And it’s you.

You look out of place.

Not because you don’t belong there, but because the night has already ended, and you weren’t part of it this time.

Your eyes flick past him, briefly taking in the mess behind him; the cups, the overturned chair, the remains of everything.

Then you look back to him.

There’s no smile this time.

Just something careful still settled on your face. 

“Hey.”

His throat feels dry. Unsure. Like his brain is still catching up, too much happening all at once. 

“Hey,” he echoes, quieter.

For a second, neither of you moves and it feels awkward in a way it’s never been before.

Like you don’t quite know where you stand anymore.

“I, uh—” you start, shifting your weight slightly. “I think I left my jacket here. A while ago.” 

It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But Steve nods anyway, stepping back to let you in.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s probably…somewhere.”

You walk past him slowly, more cautious than you used to be, like you’re not sure what version of him you’re walking into.

After all it has been weeks and you never know what to expect with Steve. Or with you. The last few weeks you’ve spent avoiding him because facing your feelings with the fact that Steve the hair Harrington could never like you.

Even if you always saw right past that persona. He didn’t.

He closes the door behind you, watching as you move through the space that used to feel familiar to you. During evening, at least. 

You don’t head for the kitchen. You don’t make yourself comfortable. You just look around taking it all in. 

“This is new,” you say quietly.

Steve huffs, but there’s no humor in it. He knows what you mean. 

 “Not really.”

He lets silence overtake everything for a quick pause, hoping that what he says next won’t mess up the moment even more. 

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

You glance at him, something flickering across your face, searching for his eyes like there’s a right answer and that’s where you’ll find it. 

“I didn’t,” you admit. “Not for that.”

Not for him. The words hang there, unspoken but understood.

Steve nods slowly, looking down at the floor for a second. “Yeah.”

He clears his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet house. “Where do you think you left it?”

Another dumb excusable question you’re both aware of. 

You shrug slightly, arms crossing, bracing yourself against a feeling you can’t explain yet.  

“I don’t know. Your room, maybe.”

His jaw tightens a little at that. You haven’t been up there in weeks. Not since the last party you came to. 

“Yeah. Okay.” He nods once, not letting another memory flood both of your minds this time, then he gestures vaguely toward the hallway with a head shake. “It could be there.”

You hesitate before moving. Just for a second,  deciding if this is a mistake, like you’re giving yourself the chance to turn around and leave.

Steve notices. Of course he does. He notices everything about you.

“I can check,” he rushes. “You don’t have to-“

“No.” You shake your head, cutting him off, softer this time. “It’s fine.”

You step past him before he can say anything else.

He follows, a step behind, like he used to, but it feels different now. Less certain. As if he’s not sure he’s allowed to be that close anymore.

You reach his bedroom door first, pushing it open slightly, surprised it wasn’t locked.

Even more surprised when you see how untouched it is compared to the rest of the house. He didn’t let anyone in here.

You scan the room again, slower this time, like you’re giving yourself something to do.

“It’s cleaner in here,” you say, glancing back at him. “That’s new.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh from the doorway. 

“Yeah, well. People don’t usually make it this far.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “I feel special.”, you joke, with a laugh, but the words had more weight to it. The word joke not holding it’s meaning anymore. 

He shrugs, but there’s the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You are.” Like he’s not even thinking about it. 

You chuckle, hoping he doesn’t take it the wrong way and look away first, stepping further into the room, crouching slightly to check the side of the bed still holding onto the story. “If I find it covered in something gross, I’m leaving it here.”

“That’s fair,” he says. “Honestly, I’d probably do the same.”

You glance up at him. “You would not.”

“I would,” he insists, pushing off the doorframe a little, stepping into the room. “I have standards.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You threw a party for half the town.”

“Hey,” he points at you, mock-offended, “those are unrelated issues.”

But you don’t know the parties aren’t for half the town. They’re not for his neighbours, for his classmates or anyone he ever knew.

They’re for you.

Why would he keep throwing them and pretend to thrive someplace that didn’t include you. Even if that place included you for the last few hours only. 

You stand back up, brushing your hands together like you actually found something, even though you didn’t.

“Still not seeing it.”

Steve nods slowly, looking around like the jacket might magically appear if he tries hard enough. “It’s probably..uh..” he gestures vaguely toward his closet. “Check there, maybe?”

You pull the closet door open, pushing aside a few hanging shirts without much hope. “I’m not digging through your entire house for one jacket.”

“Wow,” Steve says lightly from behind you.

“Didn’t realize it meant that little to you.”

You glance back at him. “It’s a jacket, Steve.”

“Cold mornings are serious,” he shrugs, looking away from you.

There’s barely anything there—just a couple of boxes, a pair of old shoes.

And then something small, half-hidden near the corner. You reach for it without thinking.

“…wait.”

Steve shifts a little. “What?”

You pick it up, turning it over in your hand, squinting at it for a second, then your expression changes.

“…no way.”

Steve already knows that tone.

“What?” he asks, a little more cautious now.

You stand up, holding it out slightly. “You still have this?”

It’s a keychain.

Cheap. Plastic. Slightly scratched. From one of those dumb arcade prizes.

Steve freezes for half a second when he sees it. “Oh,” he says quietly.

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Oh?”

“I mean-it’s just-” he gestures vaguely, already losing the point, “it was in there.”

“You won this for me,” you remind him, as if he needs any reminding, turning it between your fingers. “And then got mad when I said it was ugly.”

“It is ugly,” he defends, a small smile creeping in despite himself.

“You were so proud of it though.” you add.

“I worked hard for that,” he shoots back. “Those machines are rigged.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. “I think I said something like, ‘Wow, I’ll treasure this forever,’” you recall.

“You were lying,” he says immediately.

“Obviously.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I knew that.”

You look at it again, “I lost it like…two days later.”

“I know.”

That makes you glance up at him. “You do?”

Steve shrugs one shoulder. “Found it in my car.”

“…and just kept it?” you ask, searching for his eyes. 

He hums, then, even quieter, “Yeah.”

“You’re weird.” You rush, before you could let your mind think too much of it. This meant nothing, you and Steve were nothing. 

“Getting that a lot today,” he mutters in response.  But he’s smiling a little.

You step out of the closet, still holding the keychain, your fingers brushing over the scratched plastic absentmindedly.

“Still not my jacket,” you scoff, dramatically, feeling less out of place now. 

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “Guess not.” With raised eyebrows and a smile spreading into a grin already. Like he knew it wasn’t there anyway as much as you did. 

Neither of you moves much after that.

You’re closer now. Not on purpose, it’s just how it ended up.

You glance down at the keychain again, then back up at him. “You kept a lot of stuff like this?”

“No,” he says. “Just…some things.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Important things?”

He lets out a quiet breath, like he didn’t expect that question. “Something like that.”

Your breath catches, taken back deciding on what you’re about to do next. 

You shift your grip on the keychain, and your hand brushes his, this touching him on purpose.

Steve’s gaze drops for a second, then back up to your face like he’s searching for what this really means and the answer is on your face.

He takes a deep breath. 

“You still think it’s ugly?” he asks softly.

You hum, pretending to think about it. “…yeah.”

He nods. “Fair.” Then you add, just as quiet: “But I’d probably keep it now.”

You don’t move away after saying it. Neither does he. There’s barely any space left between you.

Steve lets out a small breath, deciding something again, knowing he didn’t give it a second thought. Not even a first one. “You can.”

You look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “You can keep it.” He looks down at where your hands are still touching. “Was kinda yours anyway.”

You push harder against his hand, probing for one of his fingers, his hand, you don’t even know, just wanting to hold a part of him in some way as slick as you can be. 

“yeah?” You mutter, not losing your focus.

You settle on the finger closest to yours as quickly as you can, not wanting to make this more awkward than it already might be. He reaches for the keychain, both of you holding it tightly now.

But at the same time you’re scanning his eyes, scouring for any possible hint that says he doesn’t want this, blinking as a way to cue him and let him know he can still pull away. 

And instead of saying anything else, you lean your face closer, just slightly at first, giving him time to meet you there, if he wants to. 

For a second, nothing happens.

Your breath mixes with his, close enough now that you can feel the hesitation in it, not unsure but like he’s not entirely sure this is real and happening. 

His eyes flick between yours, searching, almost waiting for you to pull back, giving you every chance to.

You don’t. But you don’t get closer either, letting him decide what comes next. 

So he closes the distance.

It’s careful, barely there at first. His lips are brushing yours so lightly it almost feels accidental. 

Like a test. And you still feel his reluctance, waiting for you to make it go away and confirm that he can be resolute in this. 

And instead of stopping, you lean in just a little more. 

That’s all it takes for the kiss to settle, both his and your lips catching each other tentatively. Chasing the taste of one another.

Steve exhales quietly against your lips, like something in him finally gives in and his hand lifts, slow, almost unsure, before resting gently at your side, still grounding himself in the fact that this is happening.

You tilt your head slightly, deepening it just enough to feel real, not rushed.

His thumb shifts faintly against your arm, a small, absent movement, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You try to think of how maybe this shouldn’t be happening, like your lips shouldn’t be so desperate and in seek of his the second he pulls back to breathe. 

You should be bothered by sweat building on his pinky from you gripping it so tightly, but you just want more, more and more. 

Because you know you’ve wanted this for weeks. Weeks spent away from him, the moment only living in your imagination.

When you finally pull back, it’s unhurried, neither of you moving far, both still hovering in it, wanting it to continue. Your breath is uneven.

Steve lets out a quiet, disbelieving exhale, his eyes still half on yours, like he’s afraid if he looks away it’ll disappear.

The keychain is still in his hands, pressed between his fingers.

Steve glances at it, then back at you, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. “..definitely not here for the jacket.”

You huff softly. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Don’t.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, still close. “Okay.” 

Truthfully, you thought he was being a bit of a drama queen. But you weren’t going to tell him that when you were perched on his lap - curled up against him as he ranted on about how Keith was making his job at Family Video harder than it needed to be.

“He’s doing it on purpose too. The asshole wants to torture me into quitting,” Steve huffs.

“That’s so unfair,” you muse, shifting yourself closer to wrap your arms around his neck.

He continues to gripe about Keith being an asshole, Robin egging it on, and the never ending flow of customers who are rude to him.

And you’re trying to listen, really you are. But he’s looking particularly gorgeous today - clad in his light wash jeans that hug his thighs and the cute little polo shirt that peeks out from under his work vest. The first couple of buttons are popped open, exposing a small tuft of chest hair underneath that’s practically begging you to feel him up.

Your eyes wander to his lips as they move rapidly, then to his eyes that look dark brown in the moonlight and hazel in the shine of the daylight. You move on to tracking the unlimited amount of freckles and moles that dance across his skin, the same ones you swear you could count one day if he held still long enough.

God he’s a vision, and you just have to let him know.

“You’re so pretty, Stevie,” you grin, interrupting him mid rant.

Steve raises his eyebrows, “Oh you think so, honey?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pressing your lips along his jawline - giggling when you notice the kiss prints drenching his skin.

“Why’d you stop?” He frowns playfully, arms locking around your waist.

Your thumb rubs at the smudges littering along his jaw, “Lipstick’s getting on you.”

“Don’t wipe it off,” he complains, “I like being marked by you.”

The statement makes you bashful, and you can feel heat creeping up your cheeks.

“You blushing, baby?” He grins, which furthers the flush that you feel rushing to the tips of your ears.

“No,” you mutter, ducking your head.

He pouts, “Oh c’mon, sweet girl, don’t hide from me.”

Steve’s thumb and pointer finger hook under your chin, coaxing you to look at him.

But when you do, there’s something off about him. You can’t tell what it is, but it’s there - like a slight glimmer wavering around him, coating his being in something sickly that you don’t understand.

“Steve?” Your eyebrows furrow, trying to make sense of the image in front of you.

“Don’t hide from me,” his voice turns sour, becoming bitter and dark as it envelops you.

You try to move, desperate for answers, but something is tethering you to him - forcing you to stay still.

“It’s only a matter of time before I find you,” he sneers, face twisting and contorting - human flesh turning into grotesque veins.

You’re no longer in Steve’s living room, cozied up next to him while he frets about his day. Instead, you're in the lap of an all too familiar figure that you’ve been relentlessly trying to run from.

“Let me go!” You scream, fighting with every fiber to break away from his hold.

When it gives, you’re thrust backwards - landing in a puddle of remains, trying not to think too hard about whose they might be.

Your body is heavy, aching with exhaustion as you stare up into the abyss of the world you can’t comprehend, the one you’ve been trapped in since that fateful night Vecna consumed you.

You know you’re a target out in the open like this, a sitting duck for him to hunt down, but you’re tired of resisting - growing weary that you may never return to the physical realm.

And so you let yourself drift, succumbing to sleep from one world of nightmares to the next.

The combination of the bright fluorescent lights, low drum of machines whirring, and strong scent of disinfectant never failed to give Steve a headache.

It throbbed menacingly, a strong stinging sensation that felt like a bruise being poked over and over again - almost like it was warning him that each time he stepped into the miserable place of Hawkins Memorial, he’d be leaving disappointed.

But he would take a headache every damn day of his life if it meant you weren’t the one resting on the hospital bed in front of him.

“C’mon, honey. Need you to pull through this,” Steve mumbles, thumb stroking along the frigid skin of your hand that’s wrapped in his.

You’re unresponsive, as you have been for the past year and a half, and Steve’s never been more anguished than watching each day tick by without a sign that you could hear him.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this without you. Things are,” he sighs heavily, shaking his head, “not great.”

He grasps onto your hand more firmly, threading his fingers through yours and brings your arm to his lips. He tenderly presses kisses to your skin - careful to avoid the needle digging into the tissue underneath your forearm that's connected to an IV drip.

“This quarantine is driving people stir crazy. The crawls keep leading nowhere. And your brother,” he trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

Dustin had been a huge pain in his ass for the past few months. Steve knew the teenager was grieving - knew that he lost a piece of himself when he lost Eddie and couldn’t fathom the idea of having to live in a world without his older sister too. And he knew that Dustin also had far too much pressure thrust upon him than he should at his age.

But your brother was taking it out on Steve - constantly snapping, snarking, and throwing harsh quips his way.

Steve was nearing his boiling point over it - ready to open his mouth and release words of fire that he wouldn’t be able to take back. Each time he almost did so, he was reminded of you.

Reminded that he barely had time to say goodbye before you were ripped away from him, which ultimately always made Steve resist the urge to lob something hurtful back towards Dustin.

So instead of telling your motionless body that your little brother was being a raging prick to him, Steve simply says, “He needs you.”

Steve thinks about the night he lost you often, though it continues to rip open the wound in his heart again and again each time he replays it in his memories.

“You can’t,” Steve had protested.

“I can,” you replied firmly, thumb easing against the little wrinkle that formed over his brow bone.

Steve swallowed thickly, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you have Nancy and Robin to fight with you. Dustin has Eddie to protect him. But Max and Lucas need one of us. I’m going with them, Steve,” you answered, set in your decision to not leave them behind.

“That wasn’t the plan,” he retorted, gripping your waist tightly.

“It wasn’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t let them go alone,” you countered.

Steve felt his throat tighten, felt the familiar sting of tears threatening to fill his eyes, “I don’t want you to leave me.”

“Steve,” you cupped his face, fingers splaying out gently along the expanse of his neck, “I need you to trust me.”

“I do trust you, but I’m scared. You said it yourself, this time is different. Heavier. One of us might not make it out of this, and it cannot be you,” he implored, reaching up to grasp lovingly at your wrists.

You took a deep breath, “Steve, I love you, and-.”

He shook his head, cutting you off, “No. No, don’t do that to me. Don’t act like this is goodbye.”

“But it could be,” you whispered, “and I need you to know that you’ll be fine without me if something does happen.”

Steve scoffed at the thought, “I would never be the same without you.”

“You’d have to try. For Dustin. For me,” you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

He closed his eyes, let his hands slide down to your elbows - tried to ground himself in the moment, because if it truly was the last time he touched you, then he wanted to soak in your presence - bathe himself in these tiny pieces of yourself you were giving him before you were gone.

And when Steve heard the four chimes of that fucking clock a couple hours later, he thought Max was a goner - didn’t realize he was the one that would be brought to his knees at the sight of you, broken and bloody in her arms.

Steve still can’t shake Dustin’s cries that night - had to watch him scream his lungs out over Eddie dying before he repeated the same devastating noise at the sight of you.

He hears it in his nightmares, hears the screeching of the demobats, hears the own strangled sound of despair he let out when he saw you lying lifelessly in the aftermath of the battle.

The steady beep of your heart monitor drags Steve out of the horrific things that plague his mind, trying to focus back in on the sight of you in front of him - not moving, but at least you’re breathing.

“I need you,” he admits brokenly, forehead dropping down to rest against your thigh.

His palm lands against your knee, thumb brushing lazily over the thin material of the white cotton blanket that covers you.

“Please, honey. If you can hear me at all, find a way to show me,” he begs, feeling an overwhelming amount of agony from the lack of your reply.

A light knock at the door makes him look up to see Robin poking her head in, lifting her fingers in a brief wave to announce her presence.

She tentatively walks across the room towards Steve, quietly taking a seat next to him. She knows better than to ask if anything has changed at this point, and Steve finds her silence sickening, because god when Robin is silent - it meant that she thought things were bad.

“Steve,” she eventually says, placing a hand on his back.

He makes a rapt noise of recognition for her, but doesn’t take his longing eyes off of you - admiring your beauty even in the dullness that’s taken over your features from being stagnant for so long.

“When was the last time you showered?” Robin probs, no judgment in her tone - just pure concern for the well being of her friend.

“Dunno,” he mumbles desolately.

“Go home,” she presses, “take care of yourself. You know she’d be heartbroken if she saw you wallowing like this.”

Steve hates that she’s right, but still doesn’t move from his spot, “I don’t wanna leave her alone.”

“She won’t be alone. I’ll stay with her. Plus, I brought another visitor,” Robin tilts her head to the hallway, silently insinuating whoever came with her is out there.

“Dustin?” He questions.

Robin nods softly, “Yeah. The little twerp insisted he come today. Said he had a feeling she might wake up soon.”

“God, I hope so,” Steve admits.

“Me too,” she agrees quietly.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before he sighs, untangling himself from you before standing up.

“Gonna go home and freshen up, then I’m coming right back,” Steve declares while heading for the door.

Dustin’s leaning against the wall when Steve exits, “No updates?”

Steve closes his eyes briefly, disappointment washing over him at the question, “No. You doing okay, man?”

Dustin shrugs noncommittedly, “Could be better.”

“Yeah, same,” Steve replies dully.

He misses his friendship with the boy, hates the strained riff that hangs over their heads.

And he misses you. Misses how you could mediate things between the two of them. He often finds himself wondering if you never come to, if things will ever return to the way they once were between himself and your brother.

He places a soothing hand on Dustin’s shoulder, “I’m stepping out for a bit. Call me if you need me.”

Dustin nods solemnly, not bothering to bid Steve goodbye before walking into your room.

You wake up to the sound of Steve begging, watching as he clings to your frail body.

Please, honey. If you can hear me at all, find a way to show me.

His voice rings in your ears, the statement a loud roar echoing through your brain, but the sound of it is ripped away when you see the clouds beginning to shift - covering the vision in the hazy red of the sky.

“Steve!” Your throat feels raw from screaming his name, pleading for him to return to you.

You’ve lost track of how many times reaching him has been at the tips of your fingers, only for the illusion to fade - like a carpet being yanked from under you with nowhere soft to land.

Tears stream down your face as you frantically spin around, praying that you could see him one more time.

“No, please, no,” you cry, stumbling over a gnarled root that sticks out from the ground.

You land harshly on your knees, hands cutting open from the fall - nauseated by the blood that starts to seep out.

You squeeze your eyes shut, “It’s not real. It’s not real.”

The phrase is what keeps you going - playing on repeat because you know that your physical body is intact, have seen it when that blissful image of Steve appears in the thunderous clouds above you.

You’ve watched him hopelessly for months now, maybe longer, but time has been too hard to keep track of in this prison world that Henry has locked you away in. You’ve been hiding from him - somehow finding holes in his mind, and he lets you linger in pockets of memories that he won’t enter.

It feels like he’s toying with you sometimes, willing to let you go if you can play his game and find the way out. But as each day passes, you find it harder to distinguish what’s tangible and what’s not - slowly dwindling into madness.

The only thing keeping you from spiraling completely has been the glimpses of moments with Steve that flash in brief seconds before withering away.

You can feel one starting to creep into the crevices of your brain; the time you admitted you saw a future with him.

You were at Lover's Lake, watching the sun set across the horizon - fading into faint pinks and oranges as it drifted down.

The two of you were lounging on the hood of Steve’s Beamer, basking in the warmth of the summer evening - listening to the chittering of nightlife taking over.

Steve was leaning backwards, extending his legs to let your head rest on his lap, and his hand was combing gently through your hair.

“You’ve been quiet for a while, Stevie,” you mumbled, eyes growing heavy in content from his fingers working at your scalp.

“Hmm,” he hummed softly, eyes flickering towards you.

“I wanna know what you’re thinking about,” you rolled over, allowing yourself to look up at him.

If you could burn the image of him behind your eyelids you would, because the look on his face was one of pure adoration - staring in awe of your radiance.

“When I was younger, my parents would take me here during the summer,” he moved his thumb to brush gingerly along your jaw.

“Yeah?” You prompted, curious to know where he was going with that lead.

“Yeah. They were always distracted though. They’d be giving each other the silent treatment after an argument, or they were too focused on worrying about appearances in front of other families. Forced me to get really good at being creative since I didn’t have anyone to play with,” he continued, letting his index finger skim over the delicate skin under your eyes.

“There had to have been other kids there,” you remarked.

He shrugged, “There were, but uh, if you can believe it, I was kind of shy back then.”

Your heart faltered at the thought of him being a child and feeling the weight of being left out, even if it wasn’t intentional.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, curling a hand into the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t be. It made me realize that I won’t ever let my kids have to experience that,” he mused.

Your breath hitched, “Your kids?”

“Well, our kids. They’d have each other at least and-,” Steve cut himself off after realizing what he revealed.

His eyes squeezed shut, and he pinched the bridge of his nose in embarrassment, “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

You watched him internally panic for a second, before pushing yourself up so you could relieve the tension that you saw settling over his shoulders.

“Hey,” you started, pressing a reassuring hand against his thigh.

“That was stupid, forget it,” he groaned, dragging a hand roughly down his face.

“What if I don’t want to forget it?” You refuted.

“You mean it?” He asked timidly.

You crossed your legs underneath you and wrapped a hand around his bicep.

“I’ve thought about it too,” you admitted.

His eyes grew glassy as he let out a sharp breath of disbelief through his nose, “Seriously?”

You released a quiet laugh, “Of course. I know we’re young, but I see a future with you, Steve. And I can’t see myself having any of it - kids, marriage, whatever it may be - if you’re not there with me.”

“Fuck, I think I’m falling in love with you,” he confessed.

You let your eyelids flutter closed - nose nudging his, “It’s about time, Harrington. Because I know I’m falling in love with you.”

Steve slotted his lips with yours, no longer able to hold himself back from proving to you the unadulterated affection he has for you - capturing your mouth hungrily in swift, greedy presses to emphasize his appreciation.

You pulled back just a fraction, “Plus, we’ve got practice carting Dustin around. He’s kind of like our trial run, isn’t he?”

Steve laughed against your mouth, giddily pressing his lips against yours until you were light-headed with want.

The memory jolts something within you, like numb limbs gaining strength after falling asleep, and suddenly you can see it; the picture of yourself opening up in front of you, nearly paces away.

A sudden burst of sentences reverberates throughout the inner workings of your being.

Fight for Dustin. For me.

I need you, honey. We all need you.

I can’t do this without you, baby.

Please, come back to me.

It’s the last one, spoken so rawly by your lover that it spurs you on, forces you to move your feet from a trudge to a sprint - recognizing that this moment is critical, the one that could change the tides and tip the scale towards your loved ones victory against the sinister world you’ve been bound in.

There’s only one name that echoes inside of you as you get closer to a taste of the world - the real one, the one that you’ve been separated from for far too long - and it’s Steve.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve throws his keys on the kitchen counter, scrubbing his hands over his eyes, pressure building from yet another day without you waking up.

He leans against the cold surface, back digging into the granite as his eyes find the coffee cup that sits idle by the sink. It was your favorite to use when you spent the night at his place, and there’s a faint lipstick stain that’s wrapped around the rim - dust collecting inside the unwashed dish.

Steve can’t help but feel haunted by the ghost of you in his own home.

He lets himself pretend through the fragments of you he has left, because he’s starting to forget what your voice sounded like, what your touch felt like, what it felt like to be looked up and down by you when he wore your favorite yellow sweater of his. The same one he was wearing when you recognized that you were in love with him. Which was now gone, and yet another torturous reminder of his loss.

It’s why the coffee cup sits untouched, why he can’t sleep on your side of the bed, why he can’t bring himself to wash the last t-shirt you slept in. He swears there’s lingering traces of your perfume wafting through the air sometimes from it.

He imagines you dancing in the emptiness of his living room, twirling in his arms because if he lets himself sink into reality; he fears it means accepting that he’s lost you, that there’s no hope for you to return to him.

The first thing you notice when you come to is the darkness that reigns behind your eyelids. You can feel your muscles twitching, aching to move, but your body is not cooperating with the messages that your brain is signal firing.

You hear a sharp intake of breath, feel the warm press of someone’s hand slip into yours, the scrap of a chair indicating they’re moving closer.

The familiar rumble of your little brother’s voice infiltrates the room.

“Dusty?” You slur, tongue feeling heavy from not being used.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he squeezes your hand.

“Where, w-,?” You stutter, feeling an aggravating pain shoot through your vocal chords.

“Hey, take it slow. It’s been a while since you’ve talked,” Dustin reprimands.

“Steve,” you whisper, voice cracking - desperate to know where he is, eyes in a flurry of movement from trying to peel open.

Dustin slowly swims into your gaze, though it’s still blurry, and the intensity of the lights shining in your eyes causes streaks to glide across the room.

Another head comes into frame, and you recognize Robin’s voice before you can even see her clearly.

“Holy shit, Henderson. You’re awake,” she squeals, making your face pinch up in a wince.

“Robin,” Dustin seethes.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just so good to see you moving. Harrington’s going to be beside himself,” she says eagerly, voice lowering significantly.

At the mention of your boyfriend, you try to fight against the lethargy that’s taken over your body.

“Steve, I need Steve,” you croak, feeling like cotton’s been shoved in your mouth with how dry it is.

Robin jumps out of her seat, “I’ll call him.”

“Can you get the nurse after?” Dustin asks, and she nods her head before swiftly exiting the room.

You try to force yourself into a sitting position, wiggling around in frustration at the fact that you can’t seem to control your body.

Dustin places his hands on your shoulders, “You’ve been immobile for a long time. You need to stop before you hurt yourself.”

“Dustin, I need Steve,” you repeat, tears quickly filling your lash line.

“Wow, not even a hi for your favorite brother?” He jokes, reaching out to brush a stray tear of yours away with his knuckle.

“I’m so sorry, Dusty,” your head starts to clear, fog disappearing - realizing your only brother is the one here for you, and all you can think about is Steve.

“It’s okay. I just missed you, you know?” His throat constricts, leaning forward on his knees.

“I missed you too,” you utter, giving him a small smile.

Dustin catches you up to speed on the things you’ve missed - Eddie passing, Hawkins splitting open, El returning, searching for Vecna, and the list goes on.

“Steve brought me out of this. I don’t know how, but he did,” you murmur once he’s finished.

“That doesn’t surprise me. He’s been hovering over you nonstop. Usually isn’t gone for more than an hour at a time if he can help it,” Dustin grins.

“Really?” Your smile wobbles, heart swelling at the thought of him waiting for you.

“Yeah, he,” Dustin pauses, because it was once hard for him to believe his next words, “he really loves you.”

It’s then that the nurse comes in, paging for a doctor before hustling over towards you.

“It would be helpful if you stepped out so we could run some evaluations on her,” she instructs him politely.

“No way. I’m not leaving her,” Dustin scowls.

“It’s okay, Dusty. I’m okay. Just, get Steve for me, please?” You request weakly.

He sighs at your insistence, “If you need anything, have someone get me. Robin and I will be in the hallway.”

Robin frowns when she sees him step out of your room, “He’s not picking up.”

“He’s probably on his way back,” Dustin guesses.

The two of them sink into the chairs that line the hallway, feeling antsy at the span of time without being able to check in with you.

Finally the doctor leaves, sharing some brief updates about the stability of your condition - leaving to contact Claudia Henderson, who no doubt will be making her way to the hospital in record time when she hears the news.

Dustin stands, stretching out his arms, and Robin immediately seizes his hand - lugging him to crouch behind a medical cart that just happens to be big enough to hide them.

“Robin, what the hell?” Dustin yelps, and she swiftly covers his mouth with her hand.

She points down the hall towards Steve, who’s rounding the corner.

“Why are we hiding from Steve? We want him to know,” Dustin slaps her hand away.

“Because if we run into him, I’m gonna blabber about it and don’t you think it’ll be better for him to find out on his own?” She quips back, gesturing at the melancholy look on her best friend's face.

Dustin gives a hesitant pause, but ultimately concedes, “Yeah, guess you’re right. But I call spying on them from the doorway.”

Robin rolls her eyes, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Steve’s perfected the route to your room where he’ll avoid running into nurses that like to give him looks of pity each time he shows up.

He first stops by the vending machines to grab himself a shitty coffee and a snack for you. It’s a habit he can’t put down, buying something for you despite the fact that you can’t eat it right now.

There’s a whole box full of items that sits untouched in your hospital room - overflowing with expired food at this point, but Steve doesn’t have the heart to throw them out.

He trods up the back staircase, avoiding eye contact with anyone who could possibly stop him and ask where he was headed. Finally, he stops by your door which is now closed - probably Dustin’s doing he assumes, who likes to claim it keeps the noise level to a minimum. The walls are paper thin not matter what, but Steve doesn’t have the energy to debate him on it.

He swings the door open, and starts to chatter, which is his typical routine when he’s visiting you.

“Well, honey, I got you the regular M&M’s today. They were out of the peanut ones. Can you believe that shit? What kind of establishment runs out of the best type of-,” Steve’s rambling is cut off when he walks into your room and sees you, sitting up - on your own.

The coffee in Steve’s hands crashes to the floor, black liquid seeping across the vinyl flooring - soaking into the bottom of his jeans and coating his Nike shoes with the maroon swoops, arguably having just ruined his favorite pair, but it’s the least of his concerns.

His jaw drops in disbelief, blinking rapidly to decide if you were a figment of his imagination, wondering if his brain is making you up due to sleep deprivation.

“Hi Stevie,” you rasp, wishing you could throw yourself at him.

Steve’s frozen, planted on the spot he’s standing in, because hearing your voice - the same one that he swore he might’ve been forgetting - has just bloomed out of you, flooding his brain as it ricochets around the room.

“Steve,” you whimper, can’t help but let out a breathy sob at seeing him just a handful of feet in front of you.

The whine that escapes you knocks him back into motion, practically skidding through the spilled coffee and kneeling down by the edge of your bed - legs digging into the hard floor.

“Am I dreaming?” He asks, hands reaching out to you - stopping himself from touching you because he’ll surely be wrecked to find that none of this is real.

You smile faintly, “I don’t think so.”

Steve carefully lets his fingers glide across your palm, and when your fingers twitch - feebly curling around his own for the first time in ages, he can’t help but let the tears track down his face which sets off your own.

“God, I can’t believe you’re real. And here. How are you here?” His lips part, uncertainty still keeping him at bay.

You’re not ready to disclose the torture you’ve been through, so you simply lock your fingers through his and plead, “Hold me?”

Steve’s mouth flounders, letting himself finally believe he hasn’t somehow conjured up a replica of you, “Course I can, honey. C’mere.”

He scooches himself onto the bed, maneuvering your body to rest against him - back pressed to his chest, head tucked under his chin while his arms wrap tightly around you.

“I’m so sorry,” he groans, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up, honey.”

“It’s okay, Steve,” you try to reassure him.

“No, I knew not to leave you today. Dustin had a feeling you'd come back to us soon. Little shit is always right,” he grumbles, hating himself for not being there.

Fragile laughter bubbles up within you, “He always is, isn’t he?”

“I’m so sorry,” he cries, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“Steve,” you tilt your head back just a fraction, the best you can do for now, “you have nothing to be sorry for, baby. I know you’ve been here every day.”

“Because I knew you’d come back to me,” he tenderly dots kisses to the back of your neck.

“And I knew you wouldn’t give up on me,” you murmur, sniffling as you feel the pressure behind your eyelids build again.

“Never,” his voice is warm, laid bare with honesty.

Steve continues to grace you with his devotion, mapping your body with his hands, and it’s intimate in a way you’ve never experienced with him before.

“Can’t believe you’re here,” he repeats himself, letting the phrase hang between you two as he continues to lavish you - nose grazing your jawline, lips attaching sweetly under your ear before catching the corner of your mouth.

You suddenly feel the wet droplets that roll down his pretty face and land on the slope of your collarbone, making you itch to wipe his tears away. You try your best to shift, but no matter how much effort you put into it, you can’t get your body to move, which makes you grunt in irritation.

“What’s wrong? Does something hurt, honey?” He implores.

You bite your lip in annoyance at not being able to comfort him, “No. It’s just, I can’t move yet, and you're crying.”

Understanding ripples across his expression - knowing you're aching to provide him solace. He brings your hand up to his cheek, guiding your fingers to wipe swiftly under his eyes, along the highs of his cheekbones, before trailing down to catch the tears that puddle under his jaw.

It’s messy, but a reminder that you’re miraculously here in his arms.

“I love you,” he rasps, inhaling sharply - still in astonishment that you haven’t slipped away yet, that you haven't dissolved like ice melting under the ray of the burning sun.

And when Dustin and Robin sneakily slide in the room later, pretending like they weren’t on the verge of crying themselves, giving you the space to open up about what you’ve experienced, Steve continues to keep you grounded - unwilling to let you go, declining the notion of letting you go for even a moment, because he’ll be damned if he has to dance with the ghost of you again.

well, this started as a part two to they don’t know about us because i had some requests for that, but it just didn’t feel the same. hence why there’s hints of similarities if you’ve read that imagine!

Divider credits to @lobster-graphics

Main Masterlist If interested

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