It’s one thing for Steve Harrington, self-proclaimed Halloween hater, to not mind when other people decorate his space. That can just be written off to him being polite and kind, even though Dustin would scoff at that and Eddie would laugh and Mike would call him out on the word “polite” being anywhere near his name.

The point is, being around other people’s decorations had some kind of plausible deniability. Him putting up Halloween decoration himself, however, there’s no deniability in that.

“What’s that?” Dustin asked as he slid into the backseat of Steve’s BMW, pointing at the ghost charm that dangles from the rearview mirror. Steve offered (read: was blackmailed) into driving the boys from the Wheelers house to the arcade even though they had perfectly functioning bikes. But then Dustin said they were teaching you how to play some game whose name he couldn’t remember and he definitely didn’t want you walking all that way, and since he was going that way anyways….

“Nothing,” Steve snapped back, staring straight ahead. Hopefully that would be the end of it and no one would s—

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” offered Mike, the traitor. His hair was long and in his eyes, like Eddie’s, but Steve could still feel the suspicious, almost accusing glare through the mess. “Looks like a decoration.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “It’s just an air freshener. I know teenage boys stink but you guys know what that is.”

“A ghost air freshener,” Lucas said, right in his ear. Steve had half a mind to kick him out, but he’d already started driving to your house and he didn’t want to be late. “That’s for Halloween, and you hate Halloween. You always buy those dumb trees.”

“Why are you paying so much attention to my spending habits?”

“Because they’re terrible.”

Steve glared at him through the rearview mirror (the traitor). “Don’t think I won’t make you walk.”

Your house was pretty close to the Wheelers and already decked out, considering Halloween was at the end of the month and it was only October first. Fake, giant spider webs stretched up the front yard to the porch, and pumpkins and Halloween decorations dotted almost every inch. Your house looked like it was out of a cartoon about the Addams family and your outfit matched it, all black and muted colors. Your smile, though, that made Steve feel like he’d sipped pure sunshine.

You slid into the passenger seat, your designated spot (to no one’s surprise and to your complete obliviousness). “Oh a little ghost! He’s so cute! Is he for Halloween?”

“Yeah, Steve,” Dustin asked with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Is he for Halloween?”

Rock and a fucking hard place. “Uh, yeah. It looked like it would fit the vibe, you know, and it smells nice.” Which wasn’t a lie. Steve genuinely did like the way it smelled, and the thought of you smiling at him the way you were now (warm, bashful, a little endeared) made the fact that it was a ghost a good thing.

You were endeared, maybe a few shades more than that. Steve’s indifference to Halloween was a well-known fact in the merry band of nerds (their name) that he chose to hang out with. Robin still talked about the year she got him to decorate his house with one (just one!) skeleton like it was a badge of honor. Now here he was, Levi jeans and orange sweater, with a ghost dangling from his car, glancing at you with a smile as he pulled into the arcade parking lot.

Maybe Mike thought he was quieter than he was; maybe he just wanted to ruin Steve’s life specifically. Either way, the entire car heard him over the radio when he murmured, “Man you really do turn into the people you love.”

Steve flushed and turned around so fast that you would be concerned about whiplash if you weren’t replaying what Mike said over and over again. People you love. “Alright, go play your damn games.”

None of the boys said anything, Mike looking almost uncharacteristically apologetic through the window. You smiled out at Dustin and said, “I’ll meet you guys in a few minutes, okay?” You could almost feel the man beside you turn into a statue.

“Okay.” He glanced between you and Steve nervously but ultimately chose to follow Mike and Lucas, leaving the two of you staring after the arcade door as it shut beside him.

“I’m sorry he said that,” Steve said almost frantically, eyes locked on the steering wheel so he didn’t have to see whatever horrible embarrassed look was on your face. “Mike never really knows when to shut up and he’s an instigator. He’s an idiot, actually. I’m really sorry; I can take it down if you want and —“

Your hand on his bicep shocked him into silence, and when he looked up at you, you were smiling like he’d given you a gift. “I don’t want you to take it down, Stevie.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to take it down,” you repeated, “I like it. Why are you saying sorry for liking me back?”

“Because I don’t want to — pause. Did you say back?”

You laughed, and it was the best sound Steve had ever heard in his life. He wanted it bottled up for him only, the only thing sustaining him for the rest of his life. “Eddie kept saying I was really obvious.”

“He kept saying that to me too,” Steve replied. “He’s just stupid.” He wasn’t entirely sure what’s happening, but you were still looking at him. Your hand fell onto his, right on the console, and relief burst inside his chest, a cool relief like a sip of water when you were parched.

Liking him back. What the fuck?

“I don’t think either of us are much better right now.”

His hand, of its own volition but also because it knew if he didn’t do this he would never forgive himself, cupped your cheek, and he didn’t even have time to ask before you said, “yes,” and leaned in. And he was kissing you.

Steve Harrington was kissing you like he needed it to breathe, like it was the difference between him being able to keep going or crumble right then and there. Steve Harrington liked you back.

You parted, and fell back into each other once, twice, before he pulled away far enough that he could talk. He whispered, “If those kids come out here and stop me, I’ll strand them, I swear.” Your answering laugh felt like absolution.

✮⋆˙ ★⋆｡ °⋆ 𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑

"How bad is it right now?"

Vikt takes a terrifyingly long drag of his cigarette, gulps down his glass of gin like it's water in a desert oasis. He sighs, worries his lip. "Four. To be generous."

They're sitting out on the penthouse's awning, a breeze carrying the refreshing mix of the pool's water and the cut grass bringing some lightness to the tension. Vikt breathes it in heavy, exhales a plume of smoke; he's probably been doing this song and dance the whole time in an attempt to relax.

"Almost called up Molly this morning for something to shut it up," Vikt suddenly reveals. His voice is quiet, monotone.

"Fuck you still even have that bitch's number for?"

And the way Vikt looks at him. Not quite a glare, but it's damn close. But it isn't hostile... no, there's a glimmer of shame in his eyes. All he answers with, really, is a shrug, and Kerry has to calm himself down because he can't get angry. These sorts of days are inevitable—recovery isn't linear, as his guru likes to say. He breathes, holds it for a second, lets it out. "Well... I'm glad you didn't."

"Yeah..." Vikt huffs without a tangible ounce of conviction.

So, Kerry scoots on the bench to face him and immediately takes both of Vikt's hands into his own. Squeezes them tight as he coaxes Vikt to turn toward him.

"Look at me, babe." Kerry doesn't continue until Vikt does so. "I'm not—fuck, I can't say I'm not upset. But I... I get it, okay? And all I want is to just... to help you like you've always helped me. Look, I know by now, I don't need to tell you that, but, well, could do for some remindin' right now."

Kerry offers a smile, though he's not expecting anything in return. So when Vikt's hands grip back, strong and sure with thumbs caressing Kerry's knuckles, he's a bit surprised.

"I love you, amor." Short and sweet as it is, the sentiment is thick with adoration and sincerity; he says everything he wants to in those four words.

Kerry's eyes burn, but his smile only grows, and he gently eases Vikt to lean in closer and closer—until he's within reach for Kerry to press his lips to Vikt's. Chaste as it is, the kiss is so fuckin' intimate and warm, telling more than either could begin to.

He sighs. Sinks his head back into the wall of plush pillows, rubs his face with his hands. The soft snoring beside him is grounding. He’s trying to mend his cracking composure because fuck, every time he wakes from these dreams, the loneliness eats at the fiber of his being.

Vikt trudges to the bathroom, habitually popping open his handful of medication bottles and downing them. The cold water soothes his burning throat, feels good as he washes his face. And there he stays, hands clenching the vanity’s edge, chin tucked to his chest.

Still, he haunts him. 

Still. 

He starts to shake. Fuck.

He misses him. Misses those stupid quips, that irritatingly cheeky smirk… and strangely, the rockerboy’s company, invasive as he could be sometimes. 

Misses the man who quickly became the only family Vikt’s ever had.

A light drip begins hitting the sink, though the faucet has since been turned off. His throat tightens, throbs. Struggling to contain the sobs lodged there, and he can’t swallow them down. They escape. Echo against the linoleum walls. They’re loud, pained, stricken with grief. 

Still, he’s gone. 

And yet, he can’t leave.

“Babe,” a rasping voice, fatigued and concerned, drawls from the doorway. That familiar, warm presence presses right against his back, gentle hands snaking around to rest over his heart—his heart that hurts…

“Do you… still see him sometimes?”

Gently, lips meet the notch between his shoulder blades. “Yeah. Mostly reminiscing on the old days, y’know?” He trails off. The way he always does when his thoughts toe into the shadows, before he quickly recovers his path. “Same dream?”

“Yeah. Same one.” Vikt sighs, tries to wipe the grogginess from his eyes. “Fuck, Ker, it just… always feels so real. He takes me there, and he talks to me like I’m there. It’s like he’s… like he’s not actually gone. He fucking thanks me… and then I always wake up feeling… devastated, almost…”

Kerry hums. He understands. “My guru always told me it was grief dreams. Said they usually happen when your brain hasn’t processed the loss… or somethin’ like that. I had them for a while… after, y’know…”

“They ever go away?”

All Vikt responds with is a light growl. His head shifts, eyes fluttering open—reluctantly. "Hrm...? What... time is it?"

"Fuck if I know." It's true; Kerry hasn't bothered to leave the bed. And, frankly, what does it even matter? "What, got somewhere to be?" he asks with a snicker, fingertips sneaking underneath the blanket set low at Vikt's hips.

That damn phone rumbles from the bedside table, and Kerry's about to sigh in defeat when Vikt's hand smacks down on it hard enough to shut it up. And he doesn't move otherwise. Kerry laughs as from the pillow, he hears a gruff, "No."

"They okay with that?"

Vikt shifts again, and finally, his eyes—well, one of them—crack open, eyelashes fluttering and optics gleaming in the sunlight. The wrinkles at their corners are always so prominent when Vikt wakes, and Kerry always traces them lightly with his thumb.

"Fuck 'em," Vikt drawls. He sighs deep, readjusts so he's laid on his side to properly face Kerry. He groans, yawns (and tries to hold it back, which is adorable). "Let 'em figure shit out themselves for once. I've... got better things to do..."

As he mumbles, Vikt scoots closer, until he's pressed close with his head tucked underneath Kerry's chin. Steady, hot breaths tickle his neck, the spot peppered by gentle kisses amidst the protesting moans seeping from Vikt's lips. Kerry runs his fingers up and down Vikt's ribs, absolutely relishing in the hums it elicits. He swears he can even catch the tail end of some light snores. "Do you now?" he eventually asks without much need for an answer; he can guess.

All Vikt does is nod, offers a low "mhmm" without any more elaboration—or any haste to change his position. He's quite content right where he is, seems like.