#harrington!reader

Eddie wasn't even sure why he was here. Truly and honestly.

To him, these things were pointless. It was the worst possible place for a Munson man to be -- he didn't fit in. He didn't cheer. He didn't so much as smile for the first half of this torture.

Yes, he was being dramatic. A basketball game wasn't really torture. But it definitely wasn't his scene.

In truth, Dustin had dragged him there in hopes that he'd somewhat enjoy himself (that and Dustin didn't want to be alone with Mike and Lucas, who would just sit there and drool over multiple girls on the team, and Will who was silent). Steve sat across the gym, occasionally exchanging looks with Dustin about how the game was going. Dustin didn't really like sports either -- none of them did. But they all compromised with Steve, who wanted his best friends in the stands.

Plus, Steve's sister was on the court. That in itself had its own list of demands from Steve, who adored her.

"She needs more fans!" He'd exclaimed to the party.

Dustin hadn't been given much of a choice, not that he minded. He liked you anyways. That didn't mean that the rest of the party, however, had the chance to miss out on it either.

It was the Hawkins High Tigers versus the visiting team from Clint, and the energy in the gym was a thick, humid soup of popcorn grease, teenage sweat, and deafening squeaks of sneakers on polished wood. Eddie Munson felt like a black-clad inkblot on a page of beige and orange. He slumped in the bleachers, his denim vest adorned with patches of bands no one here had heard of, his expression one of profound, theatrical suffering.

Dustin, to his left, was explaining the finer points of a zone defense, which to Eddie sounded about as interesting as watching paint dry, but with more sweating. Mike and Lucas, a few rows down, were indeed engaged in their whispered, critical analysis of the cheerleading squad’s “aerodynamics.” Will just looked politely trapped.

Across the court, on the home team’s bench, sat Steve Harrington. King Steve. Former King Steve. Whatever. He was the assistant coach.. sort of.. More like after his game, he refused to leave the court because you'd be on it. Plus, the sports department loved him. He was out of his letterman jacket now, but he wore the posture of a captain still, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes laser-focused on the court. Not on the game, exactly, but on one player in particular.

Number 11. His twin sister.

The relationship between Steve and Y/N Harrington was Hawkins legend, a quieter, sweeter counterpart to the drama of Steve’s romantic escapades. Their parents were the classic ‘80s absentee type --successful, traveling, leaving their kids in a big, empty house with a pool and a stocked fridge. That emptiness had forged a bond between brother and sister that was unshakeable.

Steve, for all his past douchebaggery, had always been fiercely protective of you. He’d taught you to swim, to drive, to throw a punch (“Aim for the nose, it makes their eyes water, then you run like hell to me”). He’d scared off your first would-be boyfriend in seventh grade with nothing more than a slow, silent stare from across the cafeteria. He was your first call, your best friend, your unwavering defender.

And you, in turn, were his anchor. You’d seen through the “King” facade to the surprisingly dorky, deeply loyal guy underneath. You were the one who’d handed him ice packs after his fights with Jonathan Byers, who’d listened without judgment when he cried over Nancy, who’d helped him study for tests he was doomed to fail. You were smart, sharp-tongued in a way that could flay people but chose not to, and possessed a calm, steady kindness that was the exact opposite of Steve’s loud, performative charm.

On the court, you were a study in controlled motion. Basketball wasn't your passion, not like it had been Steve's, but you had a natural, fluid talent for it. Where Steve had played with a grinning, hair-flipping bravado, you played with a quiet, unsettling efficiency. You were the point guard, the team's strategist on the floor. You didn't waste energy on flashy crossovers or trash talk. You saw the play three steps ahead, your passes crisp and timely, your shots a high-arching, almost serene swish through the net. You led not by shouting, but by a sharp glance, a pointed finger, a nod that your teammates instinctively followed.

Steve didn't cheer. He observed. His jaw was tight, his body coiled as if he were on the court with you. When you got fouled hard by a Clint player a good foot taller, Steve was halfway out of his seat before the whistle even blew, a shout of "Hey!" escaping him. You just picked yourself up, brushed off your shorts, shot your brother a look that clearly said I'm fine, sit down, and calmly sank both free throws. Steve sank back, running a hand through his hair, the tension easing only slightly.

Eddie watched this whole exchange from his slouched position, his theatrical boredom momentarily forgotten. The protective ferocity from the brother was one thing -- predictable, almost primal. But your reaction… that was fascinating. The calm. The silent communication. The utter lack of fear or frustration. You’d taken the hit, assessed the situation, and converted it into points. It was… metal, in a weird, normie-sports kind of way. A silent, efficient vengeance.

Halftime buzzed. The teams filed off. Steve was instantly on his feet, maneuvering down the bleachers like a man on a mission. He met you at the sideline, handing you a water bottle. He was talking fast, gesturing at the Clint player who’d fouled you, his face animated with protective anger.

You listened, taking a long drink. Then you said something short. Steve paused, his bluster deflating. He scrubbed a hand over his face, nodded, and then -- in a gesture so brotherly it made something in Eddie’s chest twinge -- he reached out and carefully adjusted the sweaty, wayward strands of hair stuck to your temple. You offered him a small, tired smile and punched his arm lightly before turning back to your team.

“See?” Dustin said, as if this little drama proved his point. “He’s like a mother hen. It’s kinda sweet, in a terrifying way.”

“Hmm,” Eddie hummed noncommittally, his eyes tracking you as you walked away. He’d expected a Harrington through and through: polished, popular, probably a little bit vapid. But you… you had your brother’s fire, but it was banked, controlled. You had a stillness to you amidst the storm of the game and Steve’s hovering. It was compelling in a way Eddie couldn't explain, mostly because he was actively trying not to find a normie jock compelling.

It helped, at least, that you didn't look exactly like Steve. You had his eyes and his hair color, but you were gorgeous on your own. Put together, hair curled into ringlets that were pulled back into a neat ponytail. Your body had gentle curves and he could see how smooth your skin was from the bleachers. He felt like a creep. But he wasn't oogling. Just.. observing.

"Steve will kill you." Dustin snorted, eyeing Eddie's quiet staring.

Eddie jerked his gaze away, a scowl snapping onto his face to cover the heat he felt creeping up his neck. "Shut up, Henderson. I'm observing the socio-cultural rituals of the normie herd. It's anthropology."

"Right," Dustin drawled, not buying it for a second. "You're 'observing' her sweat patterns. Very scientific."

"I'm observing the fact that your babysitter has the emotional regulation of a startled badger," Eddie shot back, gesturing to where Steve was now pacing the sidelines, glaring at the Clint players as they warmed up for the second half. "One wrong move and he's gonna storm the court."

"Protective," Dustin corrected, but he was grinning. He’d seen the way Eddie’s eyes had followed you. This was more interesting than any zone defense.

"Pig-headed." Eddie muttered to himself.

The second half was unremarkable (besides your performance, of course). Your team swiftly and efficiently buried Clint in the dust, establishing a 30 point lead by the end of the game. As the final buzzer rang, Eddie grabbed his discarded jacket and started for the exit.

He felt his sleeve being pulled.

"Where the hell are you going? We have to tell her good game." Dustin said, as if it was completely obvious.

Eddie froze, a deer in the headlights of Dustin’s relentless social obligation. “No. No, we absolutely do not have to do that. The social contract states that we attended, we observed, we suffered. The obligation is fulfilled. Good game sentiments are for… for people in the same tax bracket.”

Dustin rolled his eyes so hard Eddie feared they’d get stuck. “It’s called being nice, Eddie. She’s Steve’s sister. She’s cool. It’s two words. ‘Good’ and ‘game’. You can manage it. I’ve heard you form more complex sentences when describing a gelatinous cube.”

“That’s different! That’s art!” Eddie protested, but he was already being towed through the thinning crowd by the determined fourteen-year-old, a human shield/liability.

They arrived at the edge of the court just as Steve was finishing his proud-brother recap. Eddie hovered awkwardly behind Dustin, wishing fervently that he was anywhere else -- preferably somewhere with more darkness and fewer fluorescent lights.

He saw you wipe your face with a towel, your expression one of amused tolerance for Steve’s theatrics. Then your eyes shifted. Past Steve. Past Dustin. They landed on him.

It was like being struck by a soft, quiet lightning bolt. Your gaze was so direct, so utterly lacking in the pretense or pity he was used to. It was just… acknowledgement. Soft, humane, and strangely calming.

"You were awesome! And I don't even like sports that much, but still." Dustin grinned, his face full of child-like excitement. He clearly looked up to you, just as he did Steve. It was clear for anyone to see.

You smiled back at him, a genuine, warm smile that transformed your face, making something in Eddie's stomach flip without his permission. You acknowledged Mike, Lucas, Will with a kindness that seemed effortless. Then, you turned back to respond to Dustin.

"It's just ball. But.. thank you." You said humbly, patting Dustin's shoulder.

"It's not just ball. You're the best on the team. Easily." Steve, ever your biggest fan, continued to gas you up just as he had before the other boys arrived.

You rolled your eyes, but the fondness was undeniable. “You’re biased.”

“I’m objective!” Steve insisted, slinging an arm around your sweaty shoulders, ignoring your half-hearted squawk of protest. “It’s a scientific fact. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

It was then, with Steve’s arm around you, that your gaze drifted back past his shoulder to Eddie. You were still smiling, that warm, post-game glow softening your features, but your eyes held a different question now. They flickered between Steve’s proud, oblivious face and Eddie’s carefully neutral one, as if you were observing a fascinating, unspoken dynamic. 

And then you spoke. Not to deflect, not to dismiss. You saw him. “Iron Maiden. Nice.”

Three words. That was all it took. Three words, and the carefully constructed wall between Eddie Munson and the world of Steve Harrington developed a hairline crack. He stared, his clever retorts dying on his tongue. You knew the band. You’d not only seen the patch, you’d recognized it. It was a tiny, inconsequential thing, but in the social ecosystem of Hawkins High, it felt like a secret handshake.

He managed to recover, his voice dropping into a tone of mock-appraisal. “You know your metal, Harrington?”

You smiled, a small blush dusting your cheeks. You were shy too. How fun.

"Sometimes." A simple, humble word that left everything open to interpretation. Sometimes I listen. Sometimes I like it. Sometimes I notice things.

His hand came up to rub the bottom of his chin, a small smirk curving onto his lips. He couldn't help it. The smirk was automatic, a way to channel the sudden, disorienting rush of triumph and vulnerability into something he knew how to wear.

"Sometimes," he repeated, letting the word roll around in his mouth like a new flavor. "Dangerous word, 'sometimes.' Leaves a guy guessing."

His eyes held yours, the playful challenge in them belying the frantic beat of his heart. He saw your blush deepen, just a shade, and it was the most thrilling thing he'd witnessed all night -- more than any three-pointer, more than any victory buzzer. He'd made the unflappable Y/N Harrington blush.

Steve, whose radar for any interaction involving his sister was finely tuned to a paranoid frequency, immediately picked up on the shift. The easy, proud-brother vibe hardened into something more alert. He stepped forward, his body subtly inserting itself into the space between your line of sight and Eddie.

"Alright," Steve said, his tone light but with a steel underneath. He put a guiding hand on your back. "You're still sweaty. Let's move out."

You allowed yourself to be steered, but not before you shot one last look over your shoulder. It wasn't the smile from before. It was a quick, bright glance, your eyes meeting Eddie's with a spark of curiosity, shyness, and interest. And then you were gone, swallowed by the hallway leading to the locker rooms.

He'd never felt so satisfied.

He'd expected you to have the same cocky bravado that your brother did, maybe even some of his goofy inability to shut up. But you were so different. You were quiet, humble, shy. A Harrington? Shy? Was it even possible for that to happen? It was the shyness that got him. That was the hook, sunk deep past his defenses. Steve Harrington was a lighthouse -- loud, obvious, impossible to miss. You were a carefully banked fire, warmth you had to get close to feel.

The following Monday, he saw you in the hallway. You were at your locker, head down as you swapped out books. Eddie, leaning against the lockers a dozen feet away with Gareth, pretended to be engrossed in a debate about the merits of a new dice set. But his eyes were on you.

He saw a guy from the basketball team -- a junior, broad-shouldered and grinning -- approach you. “Great game Friday, Harrington. You really showed ‘em.” The guy’s tone was friendly, but his posture was all swagger, leaning into your space.

You looked up, offered a small, polite smile that didn't reach your eyes. “Thanks, Mark.” Your voice was quiet. You turned back to your locker, a clear dismissal.

The guy, Mark, either didn't get the hint or chose to ignore it. He leaned closer. “A bunch of us are going to get pizza after practice tomorrow. You should come. Be nice to have the star player there.”

You stiffened, just a fraction. Your fingers tightened on the spine of your history book. Eddie saw it -- the subtle discomfort, the way you shrank ever so slightly. You weren't afraid; you were just… unwilling. And you didn't seem to have Steve’s loud, easy way of brushing people off.

Before Eddie could even think about moving, a voice cut through the hall.

“She’s got plans.”

Steve materialized from the crowd, his presence like a thunderclap. He didn't shove Mark, but he stepped smoothly between him and you, his smile wide and utterly devoid of warmth. “Family thing. Sorry, man.”

Mark backed off immediately, hands up in a ‘no problem’ gesture, his confidence evaporating under Steve’s pointed stare. “No worries, Harrington. Another time.”

Steve waited until Mark was gone before turning to you. His expression softened. “You okay?”

You nodded, that small, private smile returning. “I had plans?” you asked, a hint of amusement in your voice.

“You do now,” Steve said firmly, but he was smiling too. “My treat. I’m thinking… waffles.”

You laughed softly, and the tension left your shoulders. “Steve. I get out of practice at six. Waffles?”

“So? Waffles are a state of mind.” He slung an arm around you and steered you down the hall, throwing one last, sweeping glare around as if daring anyone else to try.

Eddie watched the whole scene, his blood humming. He’d been right. The shyness wasn't weakness. It was a preference for quiet. And you had a dragon for a brother, ready to breathe fire at the slightest hint of a threat. But you’d also handled it yourself, in your own quiet way, before Steve had even arrived. You’d been about to shut it down. Politely, firmly.

He wanted to hear you do it. He wanted to be the one you didn’t shut down. But he knew he couldn't do it the way Mark did. He had to sneak up on you, make you comfortable with his presence. Fond of him. Nudge you into a conversation rather than a full on push. And preferably without Steve punching him in the nose.

That afternoon, he skipped his usual haunt behind the bleachers. He went to the library. He found you at a corner table, head bent over a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, a highlighter in your hand. You were alone.

He slid into the chair across from you without a word.

You looked up, startled. Your eyes widened, and the blush -- god, that blush -- spread across your cheeks instantly. You glanced around, as if checking for Steve, then back at him.

“This is a study zone,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“I’m studying,” Eddie whispered back, leaning forward. He plucked the book from your hands, ignoring your gasp of protest. He glanced at the page. “Holden Caulfield. Phony-hating, melancholic rich kid. Overrated.”

You stared at him, shocked into silence for a moment. Then, a spark ignited in your eyes. Interest. “You’ve read it?”

“Everyone’s read it,” he said, handing it back. “It’s a rite of passage for disaffected youth. But if you want a real story about alienation and screaming into the void, you read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Or listen to Ride the Lightning.”

A soft smile that you tried to push down formed onto your face as you refocused onto the book.

"Maybe." Your attempt at dismissal was clear. A closed-ended response, intending to cut the conversation short.

Eddie didn't push. He saw the dismissal for what it was: not a rejection, but a test. A shy person’s wall, erected to see if he’d try to climb it clumsily or respect its boundaries. He chose the latter.

“Maybe,” he echoed, his tone thoughtful, as if considering the word itself. He leaned back in his chair, putting a little more space between them, a gesture of non-threat. “The patron saint of ‘maybe.’ That’s you, Harrington.” He tapped his own temple. “Keeps a guy on his toes, just like 'sometimes'. I respect it.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his canvas bag and pulled out a battered, dog-eared paperback. He slid it across the table toward you. The cover was a psychedelic explosion of colors, the title in loud, drippy letters: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson.

“A counter-offer,” he said, his voice still low. “No pressure. No due date. Consider it… supplementary material. A different perspective on the great American freak-out.”

You stared at the book, then at him, your earlier attempt at closure clearly thrown. Your fingers hovered over the cover, not touching it. “I…"

You didn't know what to say. Usually, boys didn't get this far with you. He could see it. The slight widening of your eyes, the way your breath hitched just a fraction. You were thrown. Off-balance. Most guys, he guessed, either backed off at your quiet maybe or tried to bulldoze through it with louder compliments, bigger gestures. He’d done neither. He’d offered a book. A piece of his own weird, wonderful chaos, handed over without demand.

It was the perfect move.

He gave you a lazy, knowing smile, the kind that said I see you, and it's okay. "It's not gonna bite," he said, nodding at the book. "Well. The prose might. It's a little rabid. But in a fun way."

He pushed his chair back and stood up, the movement slow and deliberate. He didn't loom over you. He just gathered his bag, letting the moment stretch, letting you sit with the choice he'd laid in front of you.

"I'll be seeing you, Harrington," he said, his voice a low murmur meant just for you. He didn't say around. It was a promise, or a prediction, or maybe both. Then he turned and ambled out of the library, the chains on his boots making the softest chink-chink sound against the quiet.

He replayed the interaction in his mind a few times before the excitement wore off.

About a week later, he caught up to you, just like he said he would. Outside Dustin's house. The party was meeting up to hang out. Usually, if it didn't involve D&D, Eddie didn't come. But.. he had new motivation. He had parked his van down the road on the curb, walking up to the front lawn. Steve's car was in the driveway, so he knew you'd both be there.

With Max and El, you sat in a lawn chair, reclined into the sun. It was a warm day in October, so your sleeves were rolled up and you wore shorts, exposing skin that hadn't yet paled from its summer tan. The sight of you stopped him in his tracks for a moment. You were bathed in the golden, late-afternoon light, looking relaxed in a way he’d never seen you at school. You were laughing at something Max said, your head thrown back slightly, the line of your throat elegant and exposed. The sun caught your hair, turning it golden brown. You looked soft. Approachable. Real.

It was dangerous.

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his vest and forced his feet to move, the gravel of the Henderson driveway crunching under his boots. Dustin, who was trying to explain the rules of some complicated board game to a bewildered Will, spotted him first.

“Munson! You made it!” Dustin crowed, as if Eddie’s presence was a personal victory. Which, in a way, it was.

The chatter on the lawn paused. Mike and Lucas looked up from where they were attempting to fix Lucas’s bike chain. Steve, who had been leaning against his car with a Coke, straightened up, his smile remaining shockingly easy. Eddie was sure it wouldn't stay that way -- the more he tried to woo the unsuspecting man's sister.

And you. You stopped laughing. Your eyes found him, and that familiar, faint blush painted its way across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose. You sat up a little straighter in the lawn chair, pulling your knees to your chest -- a subtle, self-conscious gesture that sent a bolt of pure, possessive warmth straight through Eddie’s core. He knew it was because of him.

“Figured I’d see what the plebeians do for fun when they’re not rolling for initiative,” Eddie said, his voice carrying across the lawn with practiced nonchalance. He nodded at Steve. “Harrington.”

“Munson,” Steve replied, his tone neutral. The unspoken what are you doing here? hung in the air.

Eddie ignored it. His gaze slid back to you. “Harrington,” he said again, this time softer, the word just for you.

“Eddie,” you replied, your voice quiet but steady. You didn't look away.

Max, sharp as a tack, glanced between you and Steve, a slow, knowing grin spreading across her face. El just watched with serene curiosity.

“So, are you playing or what?” Dustin demanded, holding up a fistful of colorful game money.

“In a minute, Henderson. Let a man soak in the ambience.” Eddie’s eyes stayed on you. He took a few steps closer, stopping a polite distance away, leaning against the trunk of a large oak tree. “Burning the midnight oil with Thompson again, or have you recovered?”

You smiled, a small, private thing. “I’m recovering. I think I needed the sunshine.”

“Sunshine is overrated,” Eddie said, but he was smiling too. “All that… cheer. It’s suspicious.”

You actually laughed, a soft puff of air. “Suspicious?”

“Absolutely. Hides all the interesting shadows.” He let his gaze drift meaningfully around the sunny, suburban yard before bringing it back to you. “But I’ll allow it. For today.”

He was almost giddy at the genuine smile he'd managed to coax out of you. But he had to reign it in. He wasn't trying to get flattened by your brother today, especially not in front of you. It would be terribly embarrassing and detrimental to the metal brand. He saw the exact moment Steve decided to intervene. It was a subtle shift in the older Harrington’s posture -- the shoulders squaring, the easy slouch disappearing. Eddie felt the impending storm like a change in barometric pressure. He was skating on very thin ice over a lake of pure, protective, hairspray-scented rage.

Time for a tactical retreat.

“Well,” Eddie said, pushing off from the tree with a sigh that was only half-feigned. “Duty calls. Henderson’s about to bankrupt himself with poor property management, and someone’s gotta witness the carnage.” He gave you a small, conspiratorial wink. “Save the rest of the review for me, yeah? I want the director’s cut.”

When he turned around, he grinned at your brother.

"Easy, tiger. Just asking about a book. That's all. We both read."

Steve’s eyes narrowed, but the brotherly aggression bled out of his stance, replaced by skepticism. “You.. Read?”

“Shocking, I know,” Eddie said, spreading his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. “Words on pages. Sometimes they even have pictures. It’s wild.” He kept his tone light, teasing, but he made sure to meet Steve’s gaze head-on. No guilt. No backing down. Just two guys having a weird, tense standoff about literature in a backyard.

Steve glanced past him to where you were sitting with a mixture of apprehension and what looked like… salty amusement.

“Just keeping the intellectual currents flowing in this town, Harrington,” Eddie continued, slinging his thumbs through his belt loops. “Someone’s gotta do it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with Monopoly-induced despair.”

He gave Steve a final, easy nod -- a peace offering that was also a declaration of I’m not scared of you -- and sauntered over to the game board. He threw himself down on the grass next to Dustin, immediately launching into a dramatic critique of Mike’s decision to buy Baltic Avenue.

“A bold strategy, Wheeler! Let’s see how it plays out for you when I park a hotel on Boardwalk!”

For the rest of the afternoon, he was the loud, chaotic, perfectly normal Eddie Munson. But his awareness was split. One part was on the game, harassing the kids. The other part was a high-frequency sensor tuned exclusively to you. He noted when you sat back down with Max and El, when you got up to get a drink, the soft sound of your voice when you spoke. He didn't look over often, but he didn't need to. He could feel your presence like a low, warm hum in the background of everything.

When the gathering broke up, he walked back to his van, the cool October air doing nothing to dampen the fire in his chest. He was so close. So close to breaking completely into your walls. He got closer every time. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he finally let the full, triumphant grin break free. He cranked the engine and slammed in a tape. The opening riff of “Run to the Hills” exploded through the speakers, a perfect, pounding anthem for his victory.

But.. not everything proved to be so peachy.

That next Tuesday night, as he did every Tuesday night, he sauntered into the local diner to secure his favorite. A beer he wasn't ID'd for and a slice of blackberry pie. The familiar scent of grease, french fries, and pastries flooded into his nose as he pushed the door open. It was usually empty around this time. During the day, the jocks were there for their after-practice pizza or cheeseburger, which is why he only came at night. But the surprise he felt when he came upon you sitting in a booth, alone and all dolled up, could've caved his chest in.

Your hair was curled, gorgeous as usual. You wore a light but unfamiliar dusting of makeup (that your naturally lovely face didn't need), with a thin layer of pink gloss on your lips. You were clearly dressed for a date -- a cute little skirt, a floral top, and pretty buckled up shoes. What really alarmed him, though, was the fact that mascara blackened tears steadily traveled down your cheeks.

It was bad enough that you'd come here for a date that wasn't with him. But it was even worse that, clearly and evidently, you'd been stood up. How or why someone would stand you up, he wasn't sure. But it had happened.

Every instinct in Eddie’s body screamed to march over to that booth, to slide in across from you, to demand a name so he could go find the guy and introduce his face to the business end of a wrench. But the raw, vulnerable devastation on your face -- the kind that came from a quiet, private humiliation -- stopped him cold. This wasn't a scene for his usual brand of chaotic intervention.

He stood frozen just inside the door, the bell above it giving a final, pathetic ting. You didn't look up. You were staring into a milkshake you hadn't touched, a single, fat tear plopping into the whipped cream.

Eddie’s heart did a painful, complicated twist. It wasn't just jealousy, though that was a hot, green coil in his gut. It was a fierce, protective rage on your behalf, mixed with a crushing wave of empathy. He knew what it was like to be the one left waiting. To be deemed not good enough, too much, too other. But for you? For you to be treated like this? It was an obscenity. He was sure Steve was probably out plotting a murder, even though the explanation for you being stood up may have been that he'd already committed one.

He took a slow, deep breath. The Eddie who would make a scene, who would crack a joke to deflect, who would play the loud, uncaring freak, retreated. Someone else stepped forward.

He walked to the counter, not to his usual stool, but to where Marge, the perpetually tired waitress, was refilling the ketchup bottles. “Hey, Marge,” he said, his voice low. “Two slices of the blackberry pie. Two forks. And two coffees. Put it on my tab.”

Marge gave him a knowing look, her eyes flicking to your hunched form in the booth, then back to him. She nodded once. “Comin’ up, hon.”

Eddie didn't go straight to your booth. He went to the jukebox in the corner, fed it a few quarters, and made a selection. Not Iron Maiden. Not something loud. He chose something slow, something old -- a melancholy, bluesy track that wouldn't intrude, just sit in the background like a sympathetic hum.

Then, carrying the two plates of pie and two mugs of coffee balanced precariously, he approached. He didn't ask if he could sit. He just slid into the booth opposite you, setting the desserts and coffee down with a soft clink.

You looked up, startled. Your eyes, red-rimmed and swimming, widened in surprise and a flicker of embarrassment. You quickly swiped at your cheeks. “Eddie. You don’t have to--”

“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupted, his voice gentle, a tone he rarely used. He nudged one of the pie plates and a fork toward you. “Blackberry. Best in town And the coffee’s fresh. Might as well not let a good outfit go to waste.”

You stared at the pie, then back at him. A fresh tear escaped, but a wobbly, incredulous smile touched your lips. “You’re not going to ask?”

“Nope,” he said, picking up his own fork. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. “Guy’s an idiot. That’s all the context I need. The ‘why’ is irrelevant. The facts are: you look beautiful, and he’s missing out on pie. His loss is my gain.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, with such complete, unwavering certainty, that it seemed to cut through the fog of your hurt. You let out a shaky breath, a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, and picked up your own fork.

You didn't talk about the date. He didn't let you. He talked about the pie. He talked about Marge’s mysterious, possibly mob-connected husband. He talked about the time Gareth tried to use the diner’s grease trap in a questionable science experiment. He made you smile, then actually laugh -- a small, real one -- when he described Dustin’s attempt to order “the most protein-rich item on the menu” to fuel his brain.

He made the world small and safe, contained within the cracked vinyl of the booth. The jukebox played its sad, sweet song. The coffee steamed. The pie disappeared bite by bite.

When the tears had fully dried and your smile was a little steadier, he leaned back, studying you. “Feel like getting some air that doesn’t smell like fry oil?”

You nodded, looking relieved. “Yeah.”

He paid the tab, leaving a tip that made Marge raise her eyebrows. He held the door open for you, and you stepped out into the crisp night. He didn't try to take your hand. He just walked beside you, his hands in his pockets. Your skirt swished around your thighs, Mary Jane platforms crunching the gravel. You looked up at the moon, the light casting shadows. There was still mascara stuck to your cheeks, inky black.

He halted you for a moment, the touch on your wrist causing electricity to bolt up your arm. But the touch wasn't done yet.

Before he could stop himself, his hands came up to your face. Brown eyes bored into yours, a warm liquid sensation traveling down your spine, as he gently wiped the coal-colored makeup from your cheeks. The sensation was foreign, but not unpleasant. In fact, you were sure it was the most pleasant touch you'd ever felt. Eddie's fingers were rough from guitar strings, but gentle and soft in their ministrations.

He didn't just wipe; he cradled your face, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

The world shrank to the space between his palms. The distant hum of traffic, the rustle of the autumn leaves, the chill in the air -- it all faded into a blur. All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the quiet shush of his thumbs against your skin, and the dark, bottomless pools of his eyes watching you, watching for any sign of protest or pain.

"There," he murmured, his voice a low rasp that vibrated in the quiet space between you. He didn't pull his hands away immediately. They lingered, his thumbs making one final, sweeping pass along your cheekbones, as if committing the clean lines of your face to memory. "No more evidence that you were even sad about that asshole."

You couldn't speak. You could only stare, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The electricity from his initial touch had settled into a deep, resonant hum, a current that seemed to connect his skin to yours, buzzing with unspoken things.

Finally, slowly, he let his hands fall away, dropping back to his sides as if the action took great effort. The night air felt ten degrees colder where his touch had been. You missed it immediately. The loss was a physical ache. You stood there on the quiet street, the imprint of his hands still burning on your skin like a brand. You wanted to reach out, to pull them back, to feel that rough gentleness again. But you were frozen, held in place by the aftermath of his touch and the raw vulnerability still humming in your veins.

He saw it -- the want, the hesitation. A slow, understanding smile touched his lips, not smug, but profoundly tender.

"Steve would break my face right now." He said quietly.

The statement hung in the air, a stark, honest truth that somehow broke the tension without shattering the moment. It wasn't a complaint. It was an acknowledgment of the dangerous, delicious line they were walking.

A surprised, watery laugh escaped you. It was a small sound, but it felt like a release. "He would," you agreed, your voice still a little thick. "He'd use that nail bat he keeps in his trunk."

Eddie’s grin widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "See? You get it. The constant, looming threat of blunt force trauma. It's the foundation of any good courtship."

Courtship. The old-fashioned word, coming from him, sent another shiver through you. It felt deliberate. Chivalrous, even.

Eddie was a vision in the moonlight. Dark curls with almost a purple hue. Warm brown eyes, features pronounced in the shadows. The rings on his decorated hands glinted silver, chain bracelets hanging from a wrist. Since you'd first seen him, you'd acknowledged that no matter how odd people seemed to find him, no one could ever call him ugly. He was easy on the eyes, very much so. And it turned out that you didn't find him odd at all.

In fact, the yearning in your chest to kiss him was physically tangible. You'd never felt that way about a boy before. You'd hated most. But since Eddie had forced himself into your attention, you'd had thoughts of close to nothing but. The only thing that stopped you was hesitancy. Not even the threat of Steve. You could keep him at bay.

You felt Eddie coming closer now. You smelled his sharp, dark cologne, leather, and cigarettes. His intense stare mingled with yours.

"You okay?" He whispered.

His whisper was a soft vibration in the scant space between you. It wasn't just a question about the tears, or the diner, or the idiot who stood you up. It was a question about this. About him being this close, about the unspoken thing crackling in the air like static before a storm. It was a check-in, a last chance to retreat.

"Eddie?" You whispered, finally utilizing your voice.

"Hm?" He hummed, towering over you.

"Can I.. Can you.." You attempted, almost unable to get the question out. Your whisper quivered.

He understood. He saw the struggle in your eyes, the way your lips parted around a question you couldn't quite form. The yearning wasn't just in your chest; it was a live wire strung taut between you, vibrating with a need so palpable he could feel it in his own bones.

He didn't make you finish. He didn't tease. He simply bowed his head, bringing his face even closer, until his breath fanned warm against your lips. His voice dropped to a husk, a raw, intimate sound meant for you alone.

"Ask me," he murmured, his eyes holding yours captive. "Just ask me, sweetheart. I'm right here."

The permission, the gentle encouragement, was your undoing. It gave you the courage to voice the soft, burning words.

"Kiss me."

It wasn't a question by the end. It was a plea. A command. A revelation.

A slow, devastatingly tender smile touched his lips -- the last thing you saw before his eyes fluttered shut. "God, yes," he breathed, the words a prayer against your mouth.

And then he did.

His kiss was everything you'd dreamed and nothing you could have imagined. It was soft, at first -- a reverent press of his lips to yours, a silent thank you for asking, for wanting. Then it deepened, as his arms slid around you, pulling you flush against him. One hand splayed wide on your back, anchoring you; the other cradled the base of your skull, his fingers tangling gently in your hair.

He kissed you like he was learning you, like you were a map to a treasure he'd spent his whole life searching for. There was hunger there, a pent-up intensity that made your head spin, but it was tempered by a breathtaking sweetness, a care that left you utterly disarmed.

You melted into him, your own hands finding purchase on his shoulders, then sliding up to cup his jaw, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin. The world ceased to exist. There was only the scent of him, the taste of coffee and night, the solid warmth of his body against yours, and the exquisite, consuming rightness of his mouth on yours.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, you were trembling. He was too. He rested his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged, his eyes still closed.

"Okay," he whispered again, but this time it was a dazed, wondrous sound. He opened his eyes, and the look in them -- full of awe and a fierce, blazing joy -- made your knees weak. "Yeah. Now Steve's definitely gonna kill me."

You laughed, the sound bright and clear in the quiet night. You slid your hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft curls at his nape. "Worth it," you murmured.

Then, you ran to his van with the promise of Eddie driving you home.

The drive to your house was a blur of murmured nothings and stolen glances, the silence between you now a comfortable, charged hum instead of an awkward void. Eddie’s hand found yours on the gearshift, his fingers lacing through yours, the cool metal of his rings pressing against your skin -- a tangible reminder of the ring already warming on your thumb. He didn’t let go until he had to put the van in park in front of your darkened house.

He killed the engine, and the sudden quiet felt immense. The only light came from the porch lamp and the faint glow of the dashboard, painting his profile in soft gold and deep shadow.

"Saturday," he said, his voice firm now, a vow. "It's a date. A real one. No shadows, unless they're on a movie screen. Just you and me."

"Just you and me," you echoed, the words a promise.

He kissed you once more, quick and sweet, a seal on the agreement. Then, with obvious reluctance, he took a step back, putting space between you again. The cold air rushed in, but you didn't feel it. You were burning from the inside out.

"Get inside," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Before I do something really stupid, like kiss you again and forget about your brother entirely."

You smiled, a real, full, unreserved smile that lit up your whole face. "Goodnight, Eddie."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

You turned and walked into your house, your steps light. You didn't look back, but you knew he was watching until the door closed. Leaning against it, you touched your lips, still tingling from his kiss.

The hesitation was gone.

Starcourt Mall still feels like the most magical place on Earth to you.

The lights are way too bright, music is blasting from some store nearby, and the air smells like cheap perfume mixed with popcorn and sugar. You walk happily through the crowd, swinging a small pink shopping bag in one hand… and holding Mike Wheeler’s hand with the other.

Mike, meanwhile, looks like he’s being personally victimized by capitalism.

“How many more stores are left?” he complains for the fourth time in less than ten minutes, dragging his feet dramatically. “I swear we’ve already been here.”

“Michael,” you say in a sing-song voice, turning to stand right in front of him. “We’re literally just getting started.”

His shoulders slump like he’s lost a war.

“We’ve been here for hours…”

“Only because you’re being dramatic,” you reply sweetly, flashing him that smile — the one with the big lashes Steve always says are “straight-up dangerous.”

Your brother taught you a lot of things growing up.

One of them: when you smile like that, no one ever tells you no.

Mike swallows.

“So… what store is this now?” he asks carefully.

“Makeup,” you answer, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Mike drops his head back.

“I knew something bad was gonna happen today.”

You laugh, gently tugging his hand to pull him inside with you. The place is a pink paradise — lipsticks, glosses, eyeshadows, tiny bottles, mirrors everywhere.

Your eyes light up instantly.

“Look at that color,” you say, pointing at a lipstick. “It’s like… cherry, but flirtier.”

Mike nods, absolutely lost.

“Yeah. Totally. For sure.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s bored. Whiny. So incredibly dramatic.

That’s when an idea hits you.

You step closer, lowering your voice like you’re about to share a top-secret secret.

“Hey, Mickey…”

“Yeah?”

“If you behave,” you say, tilting your head just a little, “I’ll let you help me test everything later.”

He frowns.

“Test…?”

“My makeup,” you clarify with a smile. “I promise it’ll be fun.”

Mike turns red all the way to the tips of his ears.

“O-okay,” he says quickly — even though he has absolutely no idea what you mean.

A few hours later, you’re sitting in the Wheeler basement.

It’s cozy, messy, and smells like home. Mike is leaning back on the couch, and you’re sitting right on his lap like it’s the most normal thing ever. Your legs rest on either side of him, and Mike is so stiff he looks afraid to breathe wrong.

“Are you comfy?” you ask, shifting just a tiny bit.

“Y-yeah,” he answers, voice slightly higher than usual. “Very comfy.”

In front of you sits a small mountain of lipsticks, glosses, and balms you bought. You look at them proudly.

“Okay,” you say. “We begin.”

Mike’s eyes go wide.

“Begin what?”

You grab the first lipstick, twisting it open slowly.

“The tests,” you say, like it should’ve been obvious. “You promised to behave.”

Before he can respond, you lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

You leave behind a pink mark that smells sweet.

Mike completely blanks.

“Oh.”

“That one’s strawberry,” you explain. “Do you like it?”

He nods way too fast.

“Y-yeah. I like it. A lot.”

You grab another.

This time, the kiss lands closer to the corner of his lips. The color is deeper, the scent stronger.

“Dark cherry,” you say. “This one’s bold.”

Mike has no idea where to put his hands anymore. He keeps them stiff at his sides, like touching you might be illegal.

“E-everything looks good on you,” he murmurs.

You keep going. One. Then another.

Small kisses, soft kisses, kisses that leave different colors all over his skin. Vanilla. Peach. Mint. Each one smells different, each one makes Mike melt a little more.

“You smell like… a rainbow,” he says dumbly, half smiling.

You giggle.

“Is that good?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Really good.”

You rest your forehead against his for a moment, admiring your work. Mike’s face is covered in colorful kisses, and he’s smiling so hard it almost hurts to look at.

“You’re an excellent test subject,” you announce proudly.

Mike looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“I’ll do this whenever you want.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You snuggle a little closer, completely content, not noticing how utterly gone he is — not noticing how Mike stays perfectly still, breathing slowly, just trying to process how much he likes you.

For you, it was just a fun afternoon.

For Mike Wheeler, it was the best day of his life.

『••✎••』

The first thing you notice is the noise.

Juke Box Hero is blasting so loud the car doors rattle with it, bass thudding through the seat and into your ribs like a second heartbeat. The second thing is the smell: cheap pine tree air freshener battling with stale cigarette smoke and something else, something sharp and metallic that you think is just… him. Billy Hargrove.

You’re staring at your hands, clenched so tight in your lap that your knuckles are white. Your jean jacket feels scratchy against your skin, your t-shirt suddenly too thin. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to get out, to throw the door open and roll onto the pavement, but you’re doing at least fifty down Maple Street, and that seems like a poor life choice.

"You gonna hyperventilate all over my passenger seat?"

His voice cuts through the guitar solo, low and rough. You flinch, a full-body jerk you couldn’t stop if you tried. You risk a glance at him. He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other propped on the windowsill, tapping a cigarette against the door frame. He’s not looking at you. His profile is sharp in the dashboard lights, the curve of his jaw, the way a stray curl of blond hair falls against his forehead. He’s wearing that worn denim jacket over a black t-shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showing off the wiry strength in his forearms.

"N-No," you manage to get out, the word barely audible over the music. You clear your throat. "I’m fine."

He scoffs, a quiet, humorless sound. He finally turns his head, just for a second, and his blue eyes catch the light. They’re not angry, which is somehow worse. They’re just… assessing. Cataloguing. Like you’re a bug he’s thinking about crushing.

"Right."

That’s it. He looks away, back at the road. The silence, other than the rock music, stretches. It’s thicker and heavier than any quiet you’ve ever experienced with Steve. With your brother, silence was comfortable. It was a shared space, filled with unspoken things. This silence with Billy Hargrove is a void. It’s a void where you’re pretty sure you’re about to fall in and disappear.

You hate that you’re in his car, not that you had much choice. When Billy Hargrove pulls you away from the wall you were using as a lifeline at the party Steve had warned you to never go to, you hadn’t exactly been in a position to argue. The guy who'd been cornering you had looked like a predator, and Billy… Billy had just looked bored. But he’d looked at you, a flicker of something in his eyes you couldn't read, before he’d stepped between you and the other guy. "She's with me," he'd said, his voice leaving no room for argument. And then he'd grabbed your wrist, not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough that you knew it wasn't a request, and led you out to this monstrosity of a car.

He flicks the cigarette out the window, a brief orange comet in the dark. He reaches forward and turns the volume down, just a notch. Not enough for conversation, but enough that you can hear yourself think again. It feels like a concession, and you have no idea what to do with it.

"Which way to King Steve’s castle?" he asks, and the nickname is laced with that same familiar venom you’ve seen him aim at your brother a hundred times.

You swallow, your throat suddenly tight. "Left on Jefferson. Then… It’s the big house on the corner. The one with the stupid birdbath."

A small, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips. "Stupid birdbath. Got it." He takes the left a little too fast, and you’re pressed against the door. You don’t make a sound. You just brace yourself, your fingernails digging into the worn vinyl of the seat.

You can’t help it. Your mind replays every interaction you’ve ever witnessed between him and Steve. The shove in the hallway. The sneering comments at basketball practice. The way Billy looks at him with a kind of focused, predatory glee, like a wolf that’s picked the weakest-looking sheep from the flock. And yet, here you are. Steve’s little sister, in his car. A contradiction that makes your head throb.

You risk another look at him. The streetlights paint stripes across his face as you drive. There’s a tension in the set of his shoulders, a rigid line to his spine. He’s driving like he has somewhere better to be, but he’s the one who offered. He’s the one who pulled you away from that creep at the party. Why? The question hangs in the air, unanswered and unanswerable. You’re not stupid enough to ask it.

"It’s… It’s just up here," you murmur, pointing a shaky finger toward the familiar silhouette of your house. The lights are on in the living room, a warm, welcoming glow that feels like it belongs to a different planet.

He slows down, the engine of the Camaro rumbling ominously as he coasts to a stop a few houses down. He doesn’t pull into the driveway. He just idles at the curb. The silence now is absolute, the radio turned down to a low hum.

You fumble with the door handle, your hands shaky. "Thanks. For the ride. And… you know." The and you know hangs there, a clumsy offering of gratitude for whatever it was he did back at that house. You still don’t have a word for it.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks straight ahead, at the illuminated window of your house. "Your brother know you’re out playing dress-up with the Hawkins High rabble?"

His tone is flat, back to that dismissive, acidic edge. It’s almost a relief. This you understand. This is the Billy Hargrove you watch from a distance, the one who makes Steve’s jaw clench and his hands fist at his sides.

"I’m fifteen," you say, a little more heat in your voice than you intended. "I don’t need his permission."

Billy finally turns to look at you, and the intensity of it pins you to the seat. In the dim light, his eyes are like chips of ice. "Fifteen," he repeats, the word rolling off his tongue like it’s a joke. He leans over, not close enough to touch, but close enough that the smell of him—smoke and something warm and spicy—invades your space. He braces one arm on the back of your seat, boxing you in. "You know what guys like that—the one I pulled you off of—do to fifteen-year-old girls who play dress-up?"

Your breath hitches. You can’t look away from him. The air in the car feels thick, charged with something you can’t name. You shake your head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

"Call yourself lucky I was bored tonight," he says, his voice dropping to a low murmur that’s more terrifying than any shout. He’s so close you can see the faint stubble on his chin, the way a vein pulses in his neck.

Then, just as quickly, he pulls back. The spell breaks. He slumps back into his own seat, the casual indifference snapping back into place like a rubber band. He turns the music back up, Foreigner wailing through the speakers once more.

"Get out," he says, staring at the steering wheel.

You don’t need to be told twice. You practically fall out of the car with how eager your trembling body is to escape. You almost trip on the curb, your sneakers scraping against the pavement. Before you can reach the passenger door and slam it shut, you risk one final glance over your shoulder. He’s already watching you, not in that predatory way from before, but with something that looks almost like… expectation.

"Hey," he calls out, his voice barely audible over the music. You freeze, your hand on the cool metal of the car door.

He doesn't look at you. He just reaches into the glove box, and for a terrifying second, you think he's going for a gun. But instead, he pulls out a slightly crumpled pack of Marlboros and taps one out. He sticks it in the corner of his mouth, but doesn't light it.

"Don’t let me see you at a party like that again," he says, the words muffled by the unlit cigarette.

You have no idea how to respond. Are you being warned? Threatened? Saved? All three at once? You just nod, a jerky, uncoordinated motion. You suspect any word you try to form will just die in your throat.

He gives a short, sharp nod back, a dismissal. That's it. The conversation is over. You turn and walk away, not looking back again. You can feel the Camaro's engine rumble as he revs it once, a final, aggressive roar that seems to echo in your bones. Then the tires squeal as he peels away from the curb, leaving a cloud of acrid smoke and the fading sound of rock and roll.

You stand there on the sidewalk, in the space where he just was, and you can still feel the thrum of the bass in the soles of your feet. You watch his red taillights disappear around the corner, a final streak of color in the otherwise dark, quiet street.

Your legs feel like jelly as you make your way to the front door. You fumble with your keys, your fingers refusing to cooperate. When you finally push the door open, the warm, familiar smell of your house hits you—the clean, simple smell of home you didn’t realize you missed. It feels like stepping into another world.

Steve is in the living room, sacked out on the couch. The TV is on, some late-night movie playing silently, the screen flashing blue and white light across his face. He's half-asleep, head lolling to the side, but he stirs when he hears the door.

He squints at you, one eye still mostly closed. "Hey. Where'd you sneak off to?"

Your brain goes blank. You can't exactly say, Oh, you know, just got a terrifying, tension-filled ride home from your mortal enemy after he threatened some sleazeball at a party I wasn't supposed to be at. That's a conversation you're not equipped to have. Ever.

"Just... learning a lesson in humility, I think," you finally say, the words coming out in a rush.

He snorts, pushing himself up to a sitting position, scrubbing a hand over his face. "God, you sound like Mom. You get stuck talking to Mr. Clicks?"

Mr. Clicks was the history teacher with the prosthetic hand. A fate worse than detention.

"Yeah," you lie, the lie feeling smooth and easy. "After-school special in the making."

Steve seems to accept this. He's sleepy, and the world is simple for him right now. He flops back down. "Well, you're home. He can’t force you to write an essay about the Teapot Dome Scandal from here. Night."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Night, Steve."

You turn and head for the stairs, your feet silent on the plush carpet. But as you put your foot on the first step, Steve's voice, clear and sharp this time, cuts through the quiet.

"Hey."

You freeze, your hand tightening on the polished wood banister.

"What's that smell?"

Your heart drops into your stomach. Pine. Smoke. Something else.

"Smell?" you ask, trying for innocent and probably landing somewhere near 'caught with my hand in the cookie jar.'

"Yeah. Smells like... a forest fire in a cheap bar."

You force yourself to turn around, to face him. He's sitting up again, fully awake now, his brow furrowed. He's looking at you, really looking at you, and you feel like a specimen under a microscope.

"I passed some guys smoking," you say, another lie, another brick in the wall you're frantically building between you and him. "The wind must've blown it my way."

Steve squints at you, but he seems to let it go. He's too tired to connect the dots that are screaming at you. The dots that spell H-A-R-G-R-O-V-E. But you know. And the knowing is a heavy, cold thing in your gut.

"Okay. Well. Go wash it off. It's gross."

You nod, mutely, and flee up the stairs. In the bathroom, you lock the door and lean against it, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You look in the mirror, and it’s at least half a minute before you recognize the person staring back at you.

Your hair is a mess. Your eyes are wide, a little wild. And when you lift the collar of your t-shirt to your nose, you smell it. The pine tree, the stale smoke, and that other thing, the sharp, clean scent of Billy Hargrove’s cologne, clinging to you like a ghost. You feel a dizzying sense of unreality, like you've been to another planet and brought back an alien artifact.

He remembered the first time he'd seen that smile. He thought about that moment often, especially when they hung out. How she'd stood up for him against the bulliest, and once they were gone, she'd turned around and given him a smile, one of her front teeth missing at the time. ''If they bother you again, come to me!'' 

Little Mike Wheeler had only managed to nod, then. Watching mesmerized as she walked away to join her friends at the merry-go-round. And that's how it was for the next few years, just him starring at her from the distance, afraid to approach her. She'd told him to go to her if bullies ever bothered him again, but he never dared to, scared of being annoying or seeming weak. 

Thus, they didn't talk. Until Steve got wrapped up in the whole Upside Down bullshit, and in turn, his younger sister. 

Who now sat on the table in front of him, reading his notes, in his notebook. Sometimes, when he thought too much about all those small, insignificant contacts they had, he felt his chest tighten. 

The party had made their way to the Squawk after school had ended, since Steve, Nancy, Robin and Johnathan were there most of the time. There had been a crawl a few days ago and no new one planned for now, so they were mostly sitting around, trying to think of other ways they could take out Vecna. Or if he was even still alive. 

''Y/n, we can go practice now,'' Nancy's voice broke him off his trance and he looked up, realizing he'd been staring at Y/n this whole time. His eyes scanned the perimeter, noting that no one had seen him. Or if they had, no one mentioned it. He cleared his throat and picked up his backpack, pretending like he was searching for something. 

''Oh, great!'' Y/n closed the notebook, sliding it on the table. ''I'll look at it later again, if you don't mind. Thanks.''

Mike swallowed, rapidly nodded. ''Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course. No problem.''

He followed her with his eyes as she left to pick up her guns, and when she disappeared behind the corner, he looked at Nancy standing not too far away, arms crossed and giving him a pointed look. ''What?'' 

''Hm.'' Nancy looked him up and down. ''Nothing.'' 

The two were gone for about an hour, which Mike spent actually focusing on rereading his notes on the Upside Down, thinking that he might be missing something. People went in and out, and every time the door creaked, he'd look up and check if it was Y/n. It never was, much to his disappointment. 

When she came back, she made a beeline for her brother, excitedly talking about how many targets she'd gotten. He'd been staring until something dropped on his table, and he jumped, looking at Nancy as she put the guns down. 

''You're staring.'' 

''I'm not.''

Nancy hummed, unconvinced. She fixed something on her guns Mike didn't understand, and his eyes kept flickering between Y/n and Nancy. ''So, uhm, how did the practice go?'' 

Stopping whatever she was doing, Nancy looked at him. ''Are you seriously going to ask me this after every single lesson?'' 

Mike scrunched his eyebrows. ''What, am I not allowed to start small talk now? Care about how my sister's doing?''

''We both know that's not why you're asking.'' Nancy said as she pocketed one of the guns. ''Why don't you just talk to her yourself?'' 

Nancy had known about his crush for years, when she'd started dating Steve and Mike had been incredibly jealous because he, too, wanted a Harrington to himself — how his sister had gotten one was still beyond him — so he couldn't even bring himself to feel embarassed in front of her. 

Looking over Nancy's shoulder, he slumped. ''She's busy.'' 

Nancy looked over, too. Y/n was still talking with Steve, who was messing around with some casettes inside the recording studio and only humming in response. She looked back at Mike. ''So, talk to her later.''

''What if she's busy later, too?'' Mike reasoned immediately, almost defensively. ''It's not like I know all her plans or her schedules.'' Well, he wishes he did, but they weren't on those therms yet. 

Nancy pinched the bridge of her nose. ''You're impossible.'' Then she walked away, ignoring Mike's offended look. 

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─────────

Nancy had sprawled all the bullets they owned on the table, counting them. Murray was supposed to come back with a delivery soon, but he couldn't deliver too many at once, and they had to use the ones they have sparingly. 

''How's it looking, Nance?'' 

Steve had made his way to the table, standing with his arms crossed and looking over the supply. 

''It's okay. The lessons with Y/n are taking a toll on the supply, but we can still manage. It's still better to have another shot in the group,'' Nancy said as she started packing up the bullets again. 

''Speaking of,'' Steve said as he hopped on the cleared out table. ''How are those going?'' 

She opened her mouth, about to answer, then remembered the day before. How Mike had asked her the same thing. How she'd told him to ask her himself. She looked down at the bullets, and the three guns she'd laid out. 

''Steve.'' She said it with such seriousness that it felt like she was planning a crawl. She looked at him, and he looked rather concerned about what was to come. ''What do you know about your sister's feelings towards my brother?'' 

Steve blinked once, twice. As if he couldn't believe what she was asking. Then he scoffed. ''Isn't it obvious?'' 

Nancy picked up two of the guns, looking between them. ''I think we're going to need Murray to smuggle more bullets next time.'' 

Lord knew they needed at least some fun in their lives. 

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─────────

After spending another day anticipating news of a new crawl and staring at Y/n, Mike and the rest made their way to the Sqawk again. They put their bikes in their designated spot, away from prying eyes if anyone happens to pass by and see five bikes lined up in front of the, mostly, abandoned radio station. 

When they entered, Nancy and Johnathan were talking on one of the couches, while Robin and Steve were in the radio booth, messing around with the equipment. Mike was surprised as his sister looked at the group, shooting up from the couch. 

''Mike! I was waiting for you.'' 

Mike stopped in his tracks at that, looking around and pointing at himself in confusion. ''Me?'' His sister looking for him sounded scary. 

''Yes, you.'' Nancy said. The party stopped behind her, all looking at the scene, waiting to see what kind of trouble he was into, ready to laugh. Y/n was looking, too, and Mike wished the ground would swallow him whole. Being scolded by his older sister in front of the girl he's liked since the first grade was a nightmare scenario. 

''What is it?'' Mike asked, shifting from one leg to the other. His eyes shifting between Nancy and Y/n. 

''I've been thinking, and Y/n was right. It's not good to only have two shooters in the group. But I also think three also isn't enough. It's always better to have more trained people,'' Nancy explained, and Mike furrowed his brows. ''So, I was thinking that I'll start teaching you how to shoot, too.''

''What? I want to learn, too!'' Lucas' protest came from the back, raising his hand. 

Nancy looked over her shoulder, her eyebrows narrowed. ''You have your slingshot. You're fine.'' 

Lucas immediately put his hand back down and nodded.  ''Yeah. Yeah, you're right, Nancy.'' 

''Right.'' She looked at Y/n, then back at Mike. ''Since both of you are here, why don't we get to it?'' 

Mike narrowed his eyes at Nancy, then they widened. ''Now . . .? Together?'' 

''Yes, together. It's more efficient that way.'' 

In all sixteen years of his life, never has Mike Wheeler expected that his sister could pull off something like this. 

''Okay, just give me a moment to go to the bathroom and I'll be right there!'' Y/n dropped her bag on the ground and rushed off. 

Mike took the time to take a step closer to Nancy, his voice low. ''What the hell are you doing?'' 

''I don't know what you're talking about. As I said, we need more shooters. Did you hear that or were you too busy staring at her?'' Mike's mouth dropped at her words, having no comeback. Nancy grinned and left to pick up the guns. 

Mike found himself outside not even ten minutes later, gun in hand. It felt weird holding it. Sure, he was used to seeing Hopper and Nancy around with guns, shooting at people and Demogorgons alike, but this was different. Holding one himself felt weird. But, if he was actually decent at it, he would at least have another means to protect himself and the people he loves. 

And he also got to practice side by side with Y/n, though he wasn't necessarily sure if that was a good or a bad thing for his concentration. 

Nancy had shown him how to handle the gun, and he'd tried to take a shot once or twice, and wasn't even close to hitting the coca cola cans she'd set as targets. He huffed as he lifted the gun again, standing rather awkwardly, trying to mimic poses he'd seen in comics. But he felt embarassed, unable to concentrate as he felt Y/n looking at him. 

''You need to relax, Mike. Of course you're not going to be a perfect shot from the first try,'' Y/n reassured him, reloading her own gun. ''Give yourself time.''

Right. If only that was the problem. ''Okay.'' He took another shot and completely missed once again. He huffed. 

''Hey, Nance!'' 

All three turned back to see Steve leaning out of the door, squinting his eyes at the sun. ''Johnathan is calling for you. Can you come for a moment?'' 

The moment Nancy didn't question it, Mike knew Steve must be in on it, too. ''Yeah, sure!'' Nancy looked back at Y/n. ''You mostly know what to do. Can you get him up on track?'' 

Y/n nodded, again flashing that smile of hers that almost made Mike drop his gun. ''Of course! No worries.'' 

Nancy walked away. This wasn't the first time Mike and Y/n had been completely alone, but this felt different. Nancy was trying to give him a push. So what was Steve's deal? Why was he helping? 

Unless . . .

''I think the reason why you're not hitting the targed is because you're holding the gun wrong,'' Y/n said, raising her hands and letting them hover over his. ''Look, let me show you.''

Mike swallowed as she touched his hands, gently fixing his grip on the gun. It wasn't much different from how he'd been holding it, but he wished he'd held it more wrong so her touch would linger longer. 

''Okay, try now. And breathe. You're just practicing. You can do it.'' Y/n reassured him, taking a step back. 

''Okay, okay.'' Mike nodded, raising the gun up again. In his head, he thought he must've looked pretty badass like that, but he knew in reality he most likely looked incredibly awkward, and that must've been what Y/n was seeing. Get it together, Wheeler. He straightened his back a little and took a breath, closing one eye and squeezing the trigger. 

The shot rang throught the air and one of the cans fell. His eyes widened. ''Holy shit.'' 

''Oh my God, you did it, Mike!'' Y/n cheered, jumping over to him and wrapping him in a side hug, startling Mike, making him drop the gun on the ground. ''What did I tell you?''

''Yeah, yeah.'' Mike breathed out, wrapping one arm around her, contemplating if he should fully hug her, but by the time he'd decided he should, she'd already pulled away. He missed the embrace immediately and cleared his throat, picking up the gun from the ground. 

''Now, just do it again. Hopefully it wasn't a lucky shot.''  

From behind, Nancy and Steve watched the two through the door without either of their siblings realizing. Steve scoffed. ''Seriously, she couldn't be more obvious and Wheeler still can't pick up the hints? Come on now, she doesn't even hug me. Henderson hugs me more than she does!''

Nancy chuckled. ''They're both idiots. Which, I think, just makes them even more made for each other.'' 

“well, it’s decided. next summer, we aren’t leaving the apartment.” mike clapped his hands together after he shoved the rest of the stuff in his backseats.

you raised an eyebrow playfully, “oh, it wasn’t that bad.”

“your brother,” lately it had been your brother, and not steve— not even sarcastic or mocking mister harringtons, “doesn’t knock.”

you bit back laughter, nodding in agreement, “you broke into his house…”

“i climbed through the unlocked window!”

“on the second story of his house…”

“i’m sorry, are you on his side!?”

you snorted and pulled mike in for a kiss, “of course not. but you weren’t really quiet and i think you were trying to make yourself known on purpose.”

there was the briefest smirk on mike’s face that you would have missed if you didn’t know him.

“he let you stay over.”

“he made us keep the door open every night.”

“sex ed teacher…” you pointed out with a smirk.

“we aren’t thirteen! we’re twenty something! and under any other circumstances— live together, alone.”

you lifted an amused eyebrow, shaking your head. you put your hand on his shoulder and sighed dramatically, “ah, but these aren’t any other circumstances, michael. these are stevenstances.”

mike took a full step back, staring at you blankly. he blinked once, while you struggled to hold in your amused laughter.

“oh god, i hoped i would never hear that word again.”

the entire party had heard it several times growing up. always paired with the hands on his hips, eyebrows lifted in his disbelieving, disapproving stare and a five to twenty minute lecture.

you broke out laughing and mike just looked at you with a slightly embarrassed, slightly amused— but mostly with that look of exasperated disbelief.

you had already said your goodbyes to dustin, will, lucas and max and now just waited for steve to get back from the school to say goodbye to him, too. you had had dinner at the wheeler’s almost every other night, and they had no opposition to you staying the night there. you suggested sleeping in the basement one night like old times and mike didn’t even point out that it was because you didn’t both fit in his twin size childhood bed. karen had cried again when mike hugged her goodbye and holly said she already missed another girl that wasn’t mom being around. she hugged mike goodbye as well, but mike knew where he stood with his sister, compared to you…

“is he going to try throwing a party?”

“i think that was what last night’s dinner with all of us was.”

“wow, he really has calmed down…”

steve pulled up five minutes later, tires squealing as if he was going to miss you leaving. mike muttered something under his breath and braced for the oncoming steve harrington goodbye.

“good, you didn’t leave!” steve was jogging towards you, out of breath, trying and failing to adjust the sunglasses on his head.

“you said you would chase us down and pull mike out of the car, if we did…”

you caught the way he and mike exchanged glares as steve pulled you into a hug, “did i?” his tone was innocent, looking down at you with an innocent smile, “i was kidding…”

steve, thankfully and to his full credit, did not cry. also to his credit, he hugged mike goodbye. mike looked stiff and briefly terrified, but awkwardly patted him on the back, “if you ever miss her again, you could always come visit. we do have a spare room…”

you thought you were hallucinating.

you glanced between the two of them, somewhere between amused and shocked. steve looked at you, for permission. you smiled to yourself, “you would always be welcome, steve. and you can see how nonthreatening wisconsin is…” steve blinked, waiting for a smart comment. when none came after ten seconds, he looked at mike again, “seriously?”

mike rolled his eyes, “yes, man. i’m not trying to keep her from you. and i don’t want my girlfriend’s brother to hate me…”

you bit back a snort, looking between the two of them like you were imagining this.

“seriously? i mean— i don’t hate you.” maybe a part of him did. very small. a bigger part, if he thought about the fact that mike wheeler was a boy with hormones. “i would actually love to. i’ll figure out dates… and i won’t overstep. and i—“

you pulled steve into a hug to shut him up, “i love you. don’t spiral too much while i’m gone.”

“right…” steve let out a nervous laugh, “i love you too. you better call me more!” you allowed him to ruffle your hair with minimal sighs and eye rolls.

you turned to mike in the passenger seat, just staring at him. mike eyed you with mild concern, lifting his eyebrows slightly to question what he did. you smiled, “that was very…” grown up. adult like. greatly leaning into the charming of your brother. highly respectful. “..suspicious.”

and then mike smirked and you knew you had been right. “if he comes to our house,” mike shifted into gear, “he can’t get all…steve on us.”

“oh, god.”

mike wheeler would traumatize your brother yet…

you stepped back into your apartment and immediately felt your shoulders lighten and your stomach go all fuzzy. “home.” you dropped your bag and turned to mike with a wide smile. it was still surreal that you had an apartment. you had a place to call home with your boyfriend. you remembered when it felt surreal to call mike your boyfriend. the apartment had been decided on before the relationship… and then your best friend and roommate turned into so much more in just one evening.

your own place to call home, shared with your favorite person in the world.

“cook tonight or order something?”

mike already knew the answer, however. your favorite local bar and grill had the best burgers you had ever had, paired with the type of fries that were crispy with the textured outside. you had brought it up probably ten times in the month you were in hawkins. top all that off with a chocolate milkshake and your new found guilty pleasure, root beer and it was your perfect evening.

mike had already ordered when you returned from unpacking.

“alright, twilight zone marathon?“ you glanced at mike with a sad wince, “when did we get old?” you draped your self over him dramatically, passing him the already greasy paper bag of food. “i resent that very much. not going to a party does not make us old.”

you stole the fries from him, “staying in and watching nerd movies does not make us old.”

mike snorted, “yes. our date nights consisting of us cooking together and dancing in the kitchen does not make us old.”

you eyed him, chest constricting just at the thought, “god, i’m so in love with you it’s disgusting.”

mike just smirked— a softer smirk than his usual cocky or smug one— and kissed you quickly. you tugged him closer before he could pull away and as usual it got much more heated than it needed to. you untangled your fingers from his hair and shifted, not yet breathless. mike groaned slightly as you pulled away from him. he sighed, shifting uncomfortably, “we’re definitely not old…”

mike was hunched over the desk, squinting entirely too hard at his notes.

“michael,” you yanked the coffee you had brought home away from him and earned a pout, “where are your glasses?”

“i don’t need glasses…”

you placed the coffee down and put your hand on your hip. mike glanced up at you, his mild irritation melting to an amused smile, “oh god, you look like your brother.”

“and you look like a middle aged businessman with your squinting and how much you’re hunched over.”

mike narrowed his eyes, “rude.”

you snatched mike’s glasses from your nightstand and returned seconds later, “put them on.”

“i don’t…like them..”

this had been a struggle for three days and you had yet to see the glasses actually on his face.

you crossed your arms and tilted your head slightly, “and why not?”

“they make me look….different.”

“mike.”

“i don’t actually need them… they’re more of a suggestion.”

“mike… can i at least see them on you?”

but mike was actually fidgeting. as if the thought of you seeing him in them would change how you saw him completely, “i… really don’t…”

babying him would only get him exasperated with you and make him more embarrassed so you shifted to his language, “michael wheeler, if you don’t put those goddamn glasses on your face, i will ground you.”

mike’s eyes widened, mouth falling open like he was trying to come up with a smart comment or argument. instead, his voice came out as a squeak, “what? i— wha… but—“

oh and he knew exactly what you meant.

mike just stared at you for a few more seconds in stunned silence. his expression was that of horror, betrayal, disbelief and the slightest hint of something like enjoyment. he snatched his glasses from you and shoved them on his face. he disheveled his hair in the process, his puppy dog pout only doing even more for his current look, “happy now?”

and oh, holy shit were you...

the scolded, defeated expression, the messy hair, the nerd glasses that you were finally beholding… absolutely none of your thoughts were appropriate. you just nodded, staring at him with your mouth slightly open.

“what?” mike crossed his arms, expression shifting to that of a grumpy scolded puppy.

and when you bit your lip mike’s expression shifted. his eyebrows shot up, shoulders straightening just slightly.

“you are the hottest fucking nerd i’ve ever seen in my entire goddamn life.”

what ensued shortly after would go down in the permanent mike wheeler memory folder, even after having difficulty remembering dustin and will’s birthdays.

“ah, ah…” you had chided him, as the make out took a turn, “glasses stay on, wheeler.”

you never had to remind mike to wear the glasses again.

“i have good news and bad news!”

you already had dinner cooking when mike walked in, backpack nearly dragging, exhaustion evident on his face. “is the good news that it’s almost thanksgiving break? and the bad news that it isn’t thanksgiving break yet?”

he really did look so exhausted that you almost didn’t even want to tell him. but he lifted his eyebrows, expression softening as he took you in. “that smells amazing… god, now i have to eat it and not starve myself so i die before finals.”

you almost snorted, “well now i don’t want to tell you…” you kissed him on the forehead as he collapsed against you in a desperate, clingier than usual hug.

“no, no, tell me… i can take it.” his tired, whiney voice made you hold back a smile as you wrapped your arms around him, “good news or bad news?”

“bad news first, always…”

you winced slightly, hugging him even tighter like it might lighten the blow, “my brother is coming…”

mike’s body went rigid and you audibly heard his breathing catch, “where?” mike took you in fully, taking a full step back to stare at you incredulously, “here? steve’s coming here? you’re kidding— when?”

you grimaced, passing him a plate of food that he glanced at in mild disinterest, realizing there had been a catch.

“monday…”

mike collapsed forward with his head on the table and a groan. you didn’t dare tell him that reminded you exactly of steve.

“but—“ you dragged mike’s head back up by his hair and put your hand on the table so it softened the blow of him hitting his head against it.

“look at what i read in the paper!”

mike’s head shot up, now staring at you with wide eyed disbelief. he nearly ripped the paper grabbing it, eyes wide as he scanned the page.

“no way…” he said it mostly to himself, expression disbelieving. mike looked up at you as if he needed clarification, “they published it… they— that’s… that’s my…” his eyes darted back down to the paper and you almost laughed.

“that’s my column… i actually— i wrote it and everything—“

you bit your lip, feeling greatly like you were about to burst into tears from pride. before he could even put the paper down you were nearly jumping into his arms, shrieking, “written by mike wheeler! you! my mike wheeler! my boyfriend’s a published author!”

“in the paper, baby—“ but he was smiling so widely and his attempt to talk himself down and make himself a lesser deal wasn’t even working.

you pulled him in for a kiss before he could say another word and whatever he was about to say died on his tongue. he was still smiling when you pulled away, “i should probably send a copy to my mom… and maybe nancy?”

you felt like you were going to completely explode from excitement and pride, “and steve? ha, i already did!” you were practically vibrating as mike just looked at you with a disbelieving smile, “of course you did—“

“and dustin! and will! and lumax!”

mike was laughing now, not fully able to handle how adorable you were and how much he loved that look of pride and overjoyment in your eyes, “did you take the entire stack?”

“i might have. but i need my copies too!”

“to show me?”

“and to frame!”

“oh my god— you really are your brother’s sister…“

you took mike’s arm and dragged him over to the wall by the couch, decked out in movie posters and polaroids and photos of the two of you. and right in the center— almost laughably small for it’s emotional weight— a framed cut out of mike’s column.

mike looked almost near tears as he just shook his head. he eyed you adoring amusement, “i’m gonna have to marry you for this, harrington.”

“mike.”

mike leaned against the doorframe, looking at you with an innocent expression, “yes?”

“please be nice…”

“i am always nice!”

“mike….”

“i will…only mess with him a little…”

you gave him a soft amused smile, lifting an eyebrow. you knew he would provoke and tease and steve would only slightly hate it. you continued to adjust the spare room and mike crossed his arms, “i think the room is fine…”

“i know… i just—“

“having your older brother come stay with us is mildly terrifying for you? you already feel awkward? you’re over analyzing everything about everything?”

you smiled to yourself, constantly reminded how perfect mike was for you, “yes…” mike eyed you softly, tilting his head slightly. there was a knock on the door and you nearly tripped, scrambling to your feet and rushing across the apartment.

steve pulled you into a hug before you had even opened the door fully. if he felt any amount of anxiety or awkwardness about the visit, he didn’t show it.

“hey, professor harrington! good thing you knocked! we might have been in the middle of a roleplay.”

“wheeler, i’m not a— god, and here i hoped dnd would die in college…”

“oh, no— i said nothing about dnd… it’s more of a...personal project. she gets really into it…”

steve choked slightly, stumbling as he took a step forward.

you eyed mike in exasperation. it had not even been thirty seconds, “i’ll show you around—“ you grabbed steve’s arm and pulled him all the way inside the apartment and away from the opposing magnet that was mike wheeler. you would have several days of the bickering and banter. steve had driven far enough and the least you could do was show him around and help him get settled before your boyfriend began verbally sparring with him.

steve would not let you take his bag, once again asking who you thought you were.

“this was my room. it kind of turned into a mini library…”

steve dropped his bag on the bed, glancing around the room, smiling to himself that you had never lost your love of books, “you were roommates before you were dating?” he wasn’t sure why this surprised him. he actually liked the thought of you having your best friend as a roommate rather than a random stranger in college dorms… “why didn’t i know this?”

“i figured you may have freaked out if i told you?”

“is that why you didn’t want me helping you move in?!”

“well, i did tell you mike was there to help…”

steve lifted an eyebrow, almost amused, almost impressed. “i’m guessing roommates didn’t last long? shit, four years and you didn’t tell me… it would have been easy to hide it, i guess.”

you smiled to yourself, “the just roommates lasted about a month. but i kept my own room for…longer.”

“longer?”

you just smirked, “do you want details?”

“probably not— what is that smell? did you order food?”

“oh, that’s just mike.”

“mike? wheeler cooks?”

“most nights…”

steve felt his brain short circuit. he stared at you for several seconds, eyebrows lifted, as if that was the most unbelievable thing he had ever heard. as if everything he had assumed and prepared for was horribly wrong.

mike appeared seconds later, ladle in hand, “what is wrong with this?” you sipped the sauce in his hand and hummed, “god, that’s good—“

mike pouted slightly, “it’s missing something…”

you stared at him, tried it again, “paprika and more salt.”

mike snapped his fingers and disappeared back into the kitchen, satisfied.

steve stared at you, mouth gaping. you just smiled softly. you could almost see the sparks erupting from steve’s ears. his version of mike wheeler was already being blurred and disproven. you shrugged innocently, “i’m gonna help with dinner. let me know if you need anything.” steve mumbled something about being the one supposed to take care of you and stood to follow you. steve stopped short at the sight of you laughing over the stove, mikes arms around you, kissing your temple.

mike glanced over his shoulder, not taking his hands off you, “do you want a tour?” steve was briefly wondering if he was being lured into false sense of security. but mike just eyed him expectantly, absentmindedly stirring whatever he was cooking that smelled incredible.

“i—“ steve caught your amused, yet soft expression and blinked, “sure… yeah, i’ll take a tour…” mike gave you a mischievous smile as he brushed past you. you opened your mouth to scold him, already knowing he was going to say something that made steve’s face go all red.

“living room,” mike motioned to the open space directly connected to the kitchen. steve admired the numerous movie posters, drawings he knew were yours, the singular fleetwood mac poster that had moved from your room, and the framed column of mike’s he knew had been your doing. mike led steve to the not quite hallway, “you saw her old room…” mike pointed tiredly, “bathroom,” mike returned through the living room and to the closed door. he opened it, “other room,” mike stood by the bed and gestered vaguely.

steve coughed loudly as mike sheepishly smiled and pulled the pillow out from between the headboard and wall, “oops…” steve did turn several shades of pink, jaw slowly clenching, forcing himself to breathe deeply.

you glanced up from the oven, eyebrows lifted, turning an accusing glance to mike about your brother’s slightly ill expression. steve sat at the kitchen island, sighing faintly. “come look at this—“ steve let you take his arm and pull him to the desk in the corner that had been dubbed infamous. steve eyed the orange christmas lights hanging above the desk and knew they had to be your doing. more posters and various drawings and steve acknowledged the sketch book you were passing him.

steve was still flipping through it when mike slid a bowl of chicken and cheese and rice and the really good smelling sauce in front of him. “these are amazing…” he muttered, holding the book like it was fragile. you smiled to yourself, “my professors seem to think maybe not…”

“they’re all idiots.” mike slid into a chair beside you, “truly, you should meet one of them… they’re damn fools.”

“they have to be if they don’t like this—”

“i know. she’s wasting her time in their stupid classes…”

steve and mike went back and forth about your talent and how stupid everyone’s opinion was if they disagreed. you fought back a smile, listening to them carry on for most of dinner. steve froze suddenly, bowl empty, staring at mike with the oddest expression. mike blinked once, raising his eyebrows, “yes?”

“when the hell did you get glasses?”

mike blinked, once, twice, glanced at you with a disbelieving expression, “you just noticed them?”

“i try to avoid looking at you, wheeler. sometimes it makes me irrationally angry.”

you snorted. mike narrowed his eyes slightly, “your sister happens to really like my glasses.”

“oh god,” steve muttered under his breath. he should have known mike would manage to twist glasses, too, “i was just asking—“

“she actually doesn’t let me take them off sometimes.”

you gritted your teeth, giving mike a glare that was returned with a smirk. steve exhaled slowly, rubbing his face. he muttered another curse, standing up and starting to collect dishes.

“you don’t have to do that—“

steve cut you off, still half muttering, “gotta do something with my hands… might strangle wheeler…”

you snorted again and mike just smirked, “thanks, mister harrington… if only your students knew how cool you really were.”

“wheeler…” steve huffed in exasperation, scrubbing the dishes like they were the source of his irritation.

later you were tucked between the two on the couch, blanket up over your stomach. steve yawned again and you looked at him, “you can go to bed… you don’t have to..wait for us…”

steve eyed you, “i’m not waiting for you…”

mike glanced over you at steve and almost smiled, “i think he’s terrified to leave us alone.”

steve’s jaw ticked, glancing at mike with distaste.

“you know we’re usually left alone… we actually live together, left alone.”

“yes, wheeler, alright…”

“besides, if she decides to be needy, you being here won’t stop her—“ you smacked mike square in the chest and he coughed out a laugh.

steve stood to his feet, eyes wide and cheeks red, “i’m going to bed—“

you rolled your eyes and sent mike a glare.

“goodnight, steve…” mike nodded to steve who tripped on his way towards the spare room. steve waved over his shoulder, mumbling something else under his breath. mike just put his arm around you and smiled contently, “and don’t worry! i won’t do the thing that makes her scream—“

there was a distant thud and a loud curse and mike jumped to his feet and dodged you lunging for his head.

your very part time job had kept you late one night again and mike and steve were preparing to go get you themselves.

“she’s working way too hard—“

“oh, i know— i suggested she drop a class or two and she looked at me like she was going to rip my head off…”

“she’s always done that… she’s always pushed herself too hard and burnt herself out.”

“you’re telling me like i don’t know that… i grew up with her. i’ve been the target on many of her breakdowns when she inevitably snaps…”

“she shouldn’t even have to work—“

“dude— you guys are in college. you can’t possibly expect to take care of everything, wheeler…”

“i just think–“

“dude. she would fight you tooth and nail, anyway. even back in hawkins, she would rant about how much you carried by yourself. too much, wheeler. don’t start doing that now.”

“you just agreed that she works too hard—“

“yes, because she takes on too much. bartending three nights a week is not the issue… she’s in what— six classes? eight?”

“it’s junior year… she’s just…”

“ambitious.”

they said it at the same time and steve snorted, “shit, wheeler, you’re almost making me love the idea of you two.”

mike raised his eyebrows, “well, shit— i’m failing my role of boyfriend, then.”

“no, exactly— that’s it. i was so worried about you two… about you with her… but honestly— you’re perfect. i mean you literally put her above everything. i don’t want you to think you have to do all of it. it is a partnership, you know…”

mike stared at steve for a moment, “it is… i mean, i know… it is. i just wish i—“

“dude, you’re twenty two—?”

“twenty three...”

“twenty three and expecting to take care of her yourself? come on…”

“you are telling me i shouldn’t strain myself over taking care of your baby sister? your sweet girl, your precious younger harrington…”

steve glanced at mike with a smirk, “yes, wheeler. insane, i know.” steve rubbed his face and sighed, “shit, you’re too good for her. i can’t possibly hate you any more.”

mike smirked to himself. he had never wanted steve to hate him— he only wanted maximum irritation and a dangerously red face after mike’s many comments. the silence started to feel like a straight jacket and steve cleared his throat.

mike was fidgeting, steve shifted. “what i said— um… i didn’t… when i freaked out– i didn’t realize.. you were so—“

mike smirked, “not always an asshole?”

“i don’t think you’re— well, okay— maybe not as much as i thought…”

mike smirked again, “i’ll take it.” steve looked at him incredulously, “it’s no longer a mystery why she picked you, wheeler.”

“oh no, don’t start liking me now, harrington! it will throw off the entire dynamic!”

steve snorted, “right. we wouldn’t want that… we can’t let her know the two overprotective men in her life that both love her almost get along.”

mike actually laughed, “absolutely not.”

silence shifted again and steve cleared his throat, “the jokes… i… just.. tone them down maybe? slightly?”

mike narrowed his eyes, “no. sorry, that’s not possible.” mike shrugged, frowning apologetically. steve stared at him, not surprised and not even that exasperated. “fine… fine. then i’ll keep giving you lectures and advice and reminding you to be safe and—“

mike fought off the devilish, mischievous smirk threatening to take over his face. he made his expression neutral. mike sat up, shoulders straight, looking steve dead in the eye.

“she’s pregnant.”

steve choked on the air in his own lungs. he sputtered and coughed and stood to his feet, hand over his chest. “wh— fuck— oh, hell— wheeler! i— wheeler—“

mike snorted, actually bursting into laughter, “yeah, right! oh that was so worth it—“ mike snorted at steve’s disbelieving, tense expression. his face “no, we aren’t animals with no self control, harrington.”

steve rubbed his face, cursing, wondering if he was actually currently at risk of a heart attack. he swore he could actually sense his first few grey hairs. “wheeler, i swear to god— that wasn’t funny. that wasn’t even—“ whatever smart remark or stern lecture steve was about to make died on his tongue immediately.

mike stared at him, expression foreign to steve.

“i want to marry her. i’m asking you first…”

okay, so this time it definitely was a heart attack. steve held his chest, eyes wide, not sure he had actually heard him right. “i—“ steve’s voice was nearly a wheeze, “wh— wheeler— y—“

mike just stared at steve and steve stared back, no longer recognizing the sarcastic little shit that had bullied and harassed him, second only to dustin— “wh—“ he was asking steve? before—

steve actually felt tears in his eyes— he knew mike would laugh at him and never drop this. he opened his mouth and mike spoke again and popped the warm swelling bubble in steve’s chest.