#but also...

May I also offer:

The way his eyes narrow a little is almost so small that if you were anyone else, you mightn't have noticed it. But you are you, and you have spent way too much time in the last few years watching Steve Harrington like he was a thing to be studied.

He sort of was, sometimes.

The 180 he did from High school to now was one to be noticed.

And he seemed like he was over Nancy. Like he could move on he just couldn't find the one; too many failed dates or sparks that fizzled out almost as soon as they came. As if he somehow lost the charm he had in high school.

Or, he was stuck on Nancy and just didn't want to admit it.

But after the chaos with Vecna and what happened to Eddie Munson over a year ago now, Steve stopped going on dates. Stopped trying to find the girl he wanted. It was so painfully obvious why. Nancy had spent that entire situation with you all, and it wasn't just you who noticed, but Robin, Eddie, Dustin- anyone who spent more than five seconds in their vicinity together could see it.

Now, instead of going on dates that turned into nothing more than a 'yeah, that was fun, I'll call you,' But no calls would happen, he was doing his best to show off, show up Jonathan Byers.

Some ridiculous, asinine, macho man, dick measuring contest between two men who were supposed to be adults by now.

Jonathan was dating her; how insecure did he feel in the relationship that he was playing into Steve's childish actions?

And how much of a jerk was Steve for seemingly taking advantage of the rift in the relationship between Jonathan and Nancy currently? Did he even realize how shitty what he was doing was? Or were his eyes really just covered in glasses that had Nancy Wheeler's name painted on them, so wherever he looked, all he saw was her?

"What?" Steve scoffs then, shaking his head as if you'd just offended him, "What are you talking about? I don't think Nancy's still 'the one,' whatever that's supposed to mean."

"Steve."

"What?"

"Do I look like I was born yesterday? Like I live under a rock?"

"Not yesterday, that'd be weird. Under a rock? Sometimes, when you come in early and your hair isn't brushed."

Narrowing your eyes, you lean back in the rolling chair, kicking your feet onto the desk, much to Steve's chagrin.

"How many times do I have to tell you, keep your feet off the damn table, I have to work here, you know?" He all but pushed your feet as he put another cassette into the organizer for them all.

Applause, laughter, booing, ridiculous noises. All cassettes with sound effects for the radio. Along with that silly rubber chicken on the table that you just loved watching Steve reach for with a dead serious expression on his face and squeeze into a microphone.

It's all very serious business.

"My shoes aren't that dirty," you huff, but pull your feet back down anyway, leaning back in the chair to stare at the ceiling in the booth, "and you're just changing the subject."

"No, I'm not. I told you, I don't know what you're talking about."

Steve doesn't even look at you this time as he says it, jaw ticking, like he's chewing on something tough and unsavoury.

"You do," it's your turn to scoff, spinning the chair back and forth with your foot, "unless the puppy dog eyes you make at Nancy and the tension between you and Jonathan is all just a figment of my imagination."

"Probably your imagination. You were always really good at imagining stuff," he mutters, "like when you imagined you saw Tom Cruise walking down the street."

"I didn't imagine that! I thought I saw a guy who looked like Tom Cruise."

"Seriously, why the hell would Tom Cruise be in Hawkins, of all places?" He continues, shaking his head.

"Steve."

"All I'm saying is you have a great imagination."

"You still love her."

"I don't- why is this even a conversation right now?" He groans, clearly getting annoyed. Frustrated.

"Because, just-"

Why was it a conversation right now?

Was it to fill in silence? A topic to discuss out of boredom- out of curiosity? Just words to listen to?

Or, was it some form of self-flagellation, because deep down, you were so painfully in love with the idiot across from you? And maybe you liked pain? Maybe you just needed to know- confirm that you weren't it. Never would it be you.

Steve tosses a cassette with a little more force than necessary- the plastic clanking against the dividers between each cassette as he sets it inside, like it's personally offended him.

"Seriously," he mutters, not looking at you still, "why do you even care so much about this anyway? You're acting like this is your problem, when it's not."

His words hit a painful place within your chest that you've been cradling close for a while now. A place with bandages that were barely holding together as it was; each time he looked at Nancy how he did, it etched away at something deep.

It's late. Maybe you're just overtired; overemotional. Or, maybe, you just love him way more than you should- more than you wished you did.

You could just back down. It's not a fight worth having, your brain says. But those words are fuzzy in the back of your mind because part of you is hurt- he is right. It's not your problem.

You should just drop it.

But your heart wins the battle with logic. Something fractures in your chest. A new fracture, which meets with an old one to create one big snap.

"Because, Steve," his name comes out harsher than you mean for it to, "I am so tired. I'm tired of watching you chase after someone who broke your heart a few years ago. Someone who has failed to see you - doesn't see you how you deserve to be seen."

Suddenly, he's looking at you. Not at the stupid amount of unorganized cassettes in front of him, or the dividers between each cassette he puts away. Not the red marker he left uncapped as he goes over letters that are fading on the sides of the plastic.

He looks at you as though you've grown a second head. Like you're speaking Latin to him, and expect him to understand.

"...what?"

Fuck.

Shit.

You said too much. But not enough- but just enough that he's looking at you incredulously. So dangerously close to just outright telling him you love him and his stupid hair. A realization that you've almost just said it. Without really having to say it.

"Nothing. I didn't mean-" hands rub at your tired eyes, a sickening feeling in your gut like you just did something embarrassing in front of an audience of people, "nothing. Forget it."

You stop slumping in the chair and reach for a couple of cassettes. Just- something, anything to do with your idle hands. Something to focus on. Anything but him.

Hopefully, he just drops it. Like you should have, 2 minutes ago.

But of course he doesn't. Why would he?

"No. Not forget it, seriously, what was that supposed to mean?" he presses like he's the bad cop interrogating someone. His confusion hardened into irritation, something close to anger. Defensive.

"It means-" the sigh that escapes you is almost painful, "it means whatever you think it means- can we just drop this, please?"

"No, apparently we can't," his eyes narrow at you, and you realize that isn't a look you like to see directed towards you, "because you brought this up in the first place. Digging at something that isn't even your business. Acting like you have it all figured out have me all figured out-"

A pause. The air is thick as you suck in a sharp breath, waiting for him to stop. Or keep going. Either one.

"-when you don't. You don't have me figured out. You don't know anything."

He practically spits that last part out. You don't know anything.

You've seen Steve upset before, angry. Mainly when Dustin or the others fuck around and don't listen to him, ending up hurt or in a worse situation than they started.

But that was more annoyance, irritation, affectionate annoyance. The type of mad you get when you're worried about someone.

This? Isn't that. This is just plain annoyance. Anger. It's confusing and jarring and - painful.

The silence between you is so deafening. You swear on everything; you can hear the sound of his jaw ticking and unticking.

Wide-eyed, you try to figure out what you say to that. His reaction is more than you expected, especially since you hadn't thought your words were bad like that.

"Shit- wait-" realization dawns on his face suddenly, and the other negative emotions wash away like nothing. You wouldn't say he was even mad now, "-I didn't mean- shit. That is not what I meant, Jesus, I didn't-"

He may as well be talking to a wall at this point, because you've checked out mentally.

You didn't know him. You didn't know anything.

Why did that hurt so much?

It's late. You're tired. He's probably tired.

Standing up from the chair, you put the cassettes you were fingering back down on the table, pushing the wheeled chair back toward the table.

"It's fine," you say, even though this feels like the farthest thing from fine right now, "you..."

You swallow thickly, mouth feeling like sandpaper as you grab your coat off the back of the chair you'd just been sitting on, not bothering to put it on as you pick your bag up too.

"You're right."

"What? No- don't-" he steps toward you as you skirt past him, headed for the door to the booth, "I shouldn't have said that, I didn't mean it- god. Don't go-"

"It's getting late," you cut him off, voice small, "I'm tired. You probably are too. I'm gonna head home."

Steve doesn't say anything after that. Words are like peanut butter, sticky in his mouth. All he can do is watch as you leave quickly, no slamming of any doors, just quick steps and quiet doors shutting.

Honestly, Steve would've preferred for you to slam a door or two. To be angry at him. But the quiet pain, the hurt look on your face? He couldn't handle that.

Inside the now empty booth, Steve stands there, looking where you'd just been, his fingers holding a cassette, silent.

"Shit."

-

There have been a few times in his life when Steve knew he had fucked up. And fucked up bad. Like when he was friends with Tommy H and Carol in high school, and they spray-painted Nancy's name on the Hawk theatre with a less-than-savoury word.

All because he saw what he thought was Nancy cheating. After being so worried about her, after actually finding himself not wanting anyone else but Nancy; no random flings, just Nancy. He wanted serious.

He still regretted ever doing that.

But then, Nancy broke his heart. And how long did it take her to get into a relationship with Jonathan Byers? The same guy he saw her being held by in her room after she told him she couldn't go to the movies?

Barely any time.

Steve sighed, a long, painful sound as he pressed the balls of his hands into his eye sockets, sitting where you'd been sitting 20 minutes ago. Pressing till he saw little stars and different colours. 

"What's wrong with you, man?" He says it to himself because Robin isn't here to slap him upside the head, Dustin hasn't been around much to say anything, "Why would you say that?"

This was another time he knew he fucked up. Maybe not as bad as spray painting Nancy and the word Slut in the same sentence on a movie theatre sign. But, still. Fucked up. Shitty.

Why did he feel so bad? And why did what you said affect him so much?

Tired of seeing you chase after someone who broke your heart. Someone who doesn't see you how you deserve to be seen.

That had cracked open something in him that had already been long cracked, but had been held together with a jury rig of duct tape and denial.

You were right. Nancy didn't see him as he deserved to be seen. She hadn't paid him any mind like that again till 18 months ago, when she saw how 'mature’ he'd gotten.

Meanwhile, you were always there. You saw the change in him long before she really did.  That he'd been that way for a while now.

It leaves a sickening feeling in his gut. It makes his heart feel painful, like someone's trying to squeeze the life out of him. Or, make lemonade with it.

He tries to distract himself. Picking up cassettes again and shoving them back in their place; how many kinds of 'oohs' and 'ahhs' does Robin need? Oh- and the APPLAUSE tape case is kinda cracked. Didn't matter, it was only small-

The stupid rubber chicken on the table falls and makes a pitiful, weak squawk. It would be funny if the noise didn't somehow replicate his current mood.

A little pathetic, a little sad, a lot of regret.

What did a rubber chicken have to regret anyway? 

Steve grabs his keys.

He couldn't sit here with these feelings lying heavy in his chest; feelings he wasn't even sure he understood. All he knew was that it made him feel sick. And thinking about how he hurt you makes him feel even sicker.

The rubber chicken makes a shrill noise when he accidentally steps on it. Like a dying animal.

And then he's driving to your house without even realising he's subconsciously made that decision.

He doesn't even know what he's going to say. He just knows he can't leave it till tomorrow.

-

You're still awake, sitting on the floor by your coffee table with a container of leftover pasta from dinner.

Your home is so empty. Quiet. When Hawkins had that 'earthquake' which only you and a select few others knew was not just some earthquake, your parents were quick to get out of Hawkins before the military came down and locked Hawkins down.

They had tried to get you to leave, too. But you were legally an adult, and you refused. You couldn't leave Hawkins like this, not when you didn't know if Vecna was truly gone. Not when Steve, Dustin, Lucas- everyone was still here.

But now you were in your family home alone. Too big for one person. Too quiet. Lonely.

The TV is on, but it's static-y. Your dad never got around to getting a new one, and to get it to work, you needed to mess with the antenna till it wasn't even worth it anymore. And you weren't doing that.

It probably looked pathetic. Sitting there, with only a nearby lamp on, leftover pasta in front of you and a cup of tea that's going cold.

But no one was around to see it anyway. It didn't matter.

Then a knock at the door makes you nearly jump out of your skin, the fork you had clattering beside you.

Of course, you know who it is. Because no one else in Hawkins would be at your door nearing 12 in the morning except for one person.

Any chance of pretending you're asleep is pointless because you didn't turn the light off over the porch door when you came in. You forgot.

So you get up. You open the door and try to act normal. Like, whatever that conversation was 40 minutes ago in the Squawk headquarters hadn't even happened.

Steve stands there, the light of the porch making shadows across his face. It could be something out of a romantic, sad movie.

His hair is a little wild- which, granted, it always kind of was- but in a way that was put together; he ran his hand through it a lot, but it always just somehow looked good. Steve cared about his hair; he always had. But now, it just looked like he'd run through the wind to get here. Like he'd run his hands through it one too many times and in a way that suggested exhaustion. Stress.

It's cold and windy, and this could be something-

"You're wrong."

Is he serious?

His eyes look serious and determined. Frustrated. Irritated.

You immediately frown. Face drawing together as you stand there, confused. Blinking a few times at him, you almost can't believe that's what he came here to say. But it's Steve, why are you not surprised?

"You did not just come here at almost 12 am to tell me I'm wrong, again," you deadpan, half a mind to shut the door, "you already said that earlier, Steve."

"No, just hear me out!" He sounds frustrated and a tinge desperate as he runs his hands over his face.

You cross your arms over your chest, your hip pushing out as you stare at him, waiting, expectant. Because you honestly have no idea what he's about to say. What you're ‘hearing out.'

"I don't love Nancy," he huffs, almost petulant, "maybe I thought I did still? I don't know. I just want someone to, I dunno, see me? How I am now. And, I don't think she does- but, like- I don't think she's the one-"

He looks like he's trying to solve the biggest, most intricate math problem in the world. As though there are literal equations behind his eyes that he can't understand, till suddenly-

Realization. Eyes opening a little more, the crease in his brow is present but softening a bit. A little bit of colour draining from his face.

"You- noticed though," he suddenly frowns, his lips pressing together, looking down, the crease forming deeper once more, "you always did. I'm out here, acting like a fool, looking to Nancy to make me feel seen, and notice who I am now. To- love me? Because then maybe I'd be worthy of it-"

You stand there, frozen. You feel like a statue, or what you imagine it would feel like to be a statue. He's almost rambling, not looking at you as he keeps going.

"I never had to prove myself to you. I never needed to earn it. I was always worthy of everything."

"Steve..."

Your voice has never been so soft, so small and quiet.

"I'm not saying I'm having some big moment of realization, like this is some shitty romcom- or- or something like that, that's-" he sighs, "I don't even know what it is I'm feeling right now. But it’s different-"

He huffs, as if frustrated with himself. A hand runs through his hair, again. Somehow, it still looks good.

"But there's- god, there's something. Right?" Steve looks at you like you know all the answers, like you understand him, what he's saying- feeling, "with me. And you- us."

Your heart stutters. It's not an 'I love you,' which you're honestly glad for, because you want him to love you naturally. You want him to fall in love slowly and softly- till he's sure of it. Till he's-

"And I feel like such an idiot," he grumbles, "because this whole damn time, you've been right there. And I wasn't looking- I never stopped to really think. Which, I'm good at, I guess. Not thinking-"

You hate it when he does that; he boils himself down to the brawn, no brains. He decides to do the things that are physical and dangerous because he's ‘not as smart' as everyone else, and if anyone is going to be in danger, it should be him.  And the others fed into that, whether they realized it or not. Even as a joke.

"Stop that," you can't help but scold him, even as he word vomits in front of you, laying his heart on a platter to observe with you because, god, he's confused too.

"Stop-" he blinks, then his eyes soften, and a weak laugh leaves his body, "that's what I mean. Only you would... Tell me to stop putting myself down like that in the middle of... Whatever this is I'm doing."

"Yeah, well, stop doing it then," you look away, feeling your face start to burn as he says that, calls you out.

He just smiles at you for a long moment. Before it falls, and he sighs deeply, "I don't think I'm making. Am I making sense? I'm not saying any of this right-"

"Start from the top, then."

Steve blinks like you just slapped sense into him, and he stutters, "uh, the top. Yeah- well. You see me. And I've been an idiot. I don't love Nancy anymore, I just... Want to be loved? That sounds pathetic-"

He steps closer, the space between you suddenly smaller- you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and it makes you want to move closer and step away all at the same time.

"I never needed to prove anything to you," his voice is quieter now, and it sounds like a lump has formed in his throat, "and I feel stupid for not seeing it before. Because maybe if I did, maybe if I put all that energy I wasted on Nancy on you-"

His hand, hesitant, gives you every chance to step back and create a line between you, a barrier, as it moves to your wrist. When you don't stop him, his fingers wrap around your wrist, squeezing. Not enough to hurt you, but to ground himself- or you. God, maybe both.

"-Then maybe I'd have saved myself a lot of bellyaching about Nance, about my failed love life," he whispers, his face so close you feel his breath fan across your own face, "saved myself a lot of... Shit, I don't know."

You could kiss him. He's that close- you could kiss him.

But maybe that's not what he wants- what this is- but it sure feels like it is, and the things he's saying suggest this is what it is. He might just be-

Warmth. Soft and sweet against your lips. Tentative in its beginnings, unsure and questioning. Allowing you to stop it. His lips on yours.

Something you never thought would happen. Ever.

Oh. So maybe it was something he wanted.

You don't pull away, but he does, "shit- sorry-"

He doesn't have a chance to finish the thought, because you're pulling him back in with your free hand on his neck- not rough, gentle. But with purpose.

The noise he makes is one of surprise, as if the man hadn't just kissed you first. Eyes wide open- then softening, closing, just barely open. The hand holding your wrist lets go, and slides down to your hand, fingers curling around yours. His palm is warm.

Breathing out through your nose, you let him find the confidence to kiss you back. And whith the knowledge you want the kiss, he's angling his head a little. It wasn't hard to know why he was known for creating the make-out spot at Skull Rock, in high school. His free hand touching your jaw, like you're something fragile, long fingers against your warm skin-

And then it stops. Because at some point, you need to breathe. And talk about whatever that was supposed to mean.

Crickets at least make it not completely silent. However, it somehow makes it worse anyway.

"So-" he starts, looking at you, really looking- like he's really seeing something he wished he saw before, "...we should go to the Hawk. See a movie."

"Are you asking me on a date?"

He huffs, hand dropping from your face, but the other still holding yours.

"Yeah," he narrows his eyes at you, "but I was trying to sound cool about it, thanks."

There he is. Steve Harrington. Funny, sarcastic- so easily him. And it makes you smile, head tilting a little.

"Yeah. Not right now, though, it's 12 am."

"Well, obviously."

"Yeah, obviously."

The way he looks at you is something you never thought you'd experience.

He isn't sure what his feelings are exactly; he couldn't pinpoint it if he tried- but he doesn't want to try and pinpoint it. Doesn't want to overthink it, because whatever it is, it feels amazing. It feels like a warm blanket, a safe place. He doesn't even need to try to prove anything to you. To name a feeling in that moment.

Because you've always seen him. You've never pushed him.