While Mike, Dustin and Lucas were busy finding El in the woods you'd been busy building a life. You had a fake name, a fake life- a regular one.

See, when Steve met you he met you by the pretence. You'd turned up in school a year before everything that begun, settling into high school life quick, like you were trying to hide. No new girl got through without Steve's attention and he was annoyingly enamoured by you.

You weren't trying to be known by him, or anyone. You kept your head down, did your work and didn't make a sound.

Then Will Byers went missing, then the gate opened and closed and opened again and the both of you were taken into a world of monsters. Except it was always your world and kidding yourself any different was a game.

Steve always remembered when he and Dustin found you in the woods, in the small garden shed you'd made a home, sobbing because you were a monster, like them, like everything they fought against.

002.

But Steve never saw you as that, just like Mike never saw El as 011. You were a person with a name you'd made for yourself and you... you were Steve's person.

────────────────────────────

" We don't need a magic bean!"

Nobody had been listening to each other, let alone Steve as they all tried to come up with some great plan to kill Vecna. But he yelled out and got everyone's attention.

Steve bristled under the eyes watching him, looking for help. He met your gaze and found your small smile.

You nodded. You always knew Steve knew a little bit more than he let on and maybe than he knew. There was no time like the end of the world for him to figure it out.

Steve met your gaze and took a deep but shaky breath in. " We... we don't need a magic bean. We got a bean stalk right here."

No, you did not doubt your boyfriend but you wished he'd get to the point.

Steve gathered everyone around the table, grabbing a torch and a slinky.

Robin followed next to you. " Does your boyfriend think now is a good time to play with his toys?"

You shrugged. " He might yet surprise you."

" Dingus usually does," she smiled, nudging you with her elbow.

Steve placed the torch up and began: " Okay, this flashlight is the Squawk radio tower and this slinky is the bridge," he said, putting it over the torch. " We'll never reach the Abyss from the tower, right? But Max said Vecna is drawing our worlds together. So, we let him and we wait and we wait as he draws it closer and closer. When it's close enough and the tower is poking through one of the rifts and boom, my girlfriend makes her move-"

He said it so proud, throwing out an arm in your direction.

Some thought this wasn't the time for him to be bragging and flirting but few smiled.

Steve gave you one of his grins before turning to your sister. " And El, of course. I'm talking meditation things, entering Vecna's mind, ambushing him. In your face dickhead and then, stopping the spell, halting the worlds from moving and- boom! We've got a beanstalk, it's perfect."

Dustin shared an astounded impressed look with you.

That was your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who never had to be in the fight but stayed because he loved you and had made a promise that one day it'd all be over and you'd live happily ever after.

" All we gotta do is climb up it into the Abyss."

Erica nodded. " I like it."

" It's not totally insane," said Mike.

" Thank you."

" But there's a big problem, a big one."

" We can't reach into Vecna's mind when he's too far away," said El.

Steve sighed, thinking his plan had failed.

You knew it hadn't. " Maybe not," you said to El, taking Steve's side and taking the slinky. You needed to do something with your hands. You'd been avoiding El for reasons you still couldn't face. " If the Upside down is under his realm or whatever it's still frozen in time which means all of Brenner's things will be there including-"

" The bath," said El.

" If you can make it into his mind, I can walk you through it, guide you," said Max. " I know his sick mind in and out."

You looked at Max, who was as much a little sister to you as El. " You've already been through so much."

" I can do it," she insisted.

Steve's hand squeezed your shoulder, a small curve to his lips to comfort you.

" I should be there too," added Kali. 008.

You had not met her with El, you only knew her as if today. The one who wanted to kill Dr Kay for the experiments she'd done and kill Henry. The one who wanted it all to end, one way or another.

You looked to Hopper as Kali spoke. His head shaking just enough for you to tell he knew what she was doing and he didn't like it.

There was a needle at the edge of your mind, a pull for attention.

El.

You glanced at her only a little. She stared blankly at you.

You straightened up, grabbing the hand Steve had on your shoulder and held it. You banished El from your mind. She only winced enough for you to see.

" Dig it," said Steve, breaking you out of your trance. " Kill the dick, rescue kids, we're all heroes. If Lucas is right we don't have a lot of time, so we have to move fast."

" One final thing," said Dustin, walking over to the two of you with a timer in hand. " The cherry on top. On the way out we drop a bomb near the exotic matter. Set a timer, escape the Upside down. The bridge collapses and with it: the Abyss, the Demos, the Mind Flayer, all of it, gone. Game. Set. Match."

You smiled at Dustin. You hated to see the bruises, the cuts on his face but knew you were slowly getting him back. That grief was slowly becoming something for him that he could wear and not be itchy in. You ruffled his hair under his hat. " Game set match."

" Let's do it," said Nancy, nodding. She was already gearing up for the fight of their lives. " Kill Henry, save the kids get the hell out before it blows up!"

Lucas yelled an agreement, his sister following as everyone hoped. There was a chance, a high chance you did it and all got to go home.

" Did I just come up with the plan to save the world?" asked Steve as the gang started to pile up to ready themselves.

You glanced at him. " Was about time." You rose up, pecking him on the cheek.

Everyone got to business, everyone but-

Steve's arm wrapped around your waist and tugged you into him. You'd have gasped if Steve didn't slot his lips over yours, kissing you deep and pouring everything he'd ever promised you in the kiss. His arms were tight around you as you bent at the knees, arching into him as he dipped you.

He pulled the both of you up. You squealed.

Steve pulled back, gazing at you. " I love you."

You looked down at his lips, up to his eyes. Your fingers brushed his cheek bone as you brushed back his hair. You wanted to remember it all.

Steve kissed you quick before moving past. " I've got a good feeling about this!"

Your stomach was twisted into knots, un-determined if they were the good sort that came with hope.

" Hey kid, you ready?" you heard Steve ask.

" Yeah, Steve. I am." El.

You turned in time to see Steve place a comforting hand on her head. You knew he wanted to ruffle her hair as he often did with Dustin or Max but it was brushed back and gelled in place.

He left you and El alone.

El stood there like she didn't want to be where she was. " Can we talk?"

It was the talk you never wanted. The sort you'd hoped wouldn't have to be said out loud because looking at you sister, you already knew what she was going to say.

────────────────────────────

So the battle was won and all bad things must come to an end.

The Abyss had been made of sand, fire, mountains and rocks that jutted out more like talons and claws.

It had been you who took the axe to Vecna's head as he lay impaled on one of his own spikes. He had turned to you, recognising you as the closest thing he had to an ally when under Brenner. He'd spat our blood as he pleaded.

" Please... no."

You took the axe to him and in two harsh fell swoops killed him.

Still everything weighed heavy. Your talk with El, Kali's death. And Steve-

Jesus Christ, you'd almost lost him. You'd been with him when the radio tower met the crashing down sky and he pulled you to safety, tumbling down himself. You'd never been so terrified in your life, never felt your pulse race as fast as it did then.

You'd dove for him without care if you went over with him. You'd caught him in time and the both of you had collapsed holding each other. Still it wasn't enough.

Steve drove the truck with the kids in the back and the party.

As much as you wished you could sit next to him, hold him too tight you thought you might throw up if you did. Why he had to run under the belly of the beats and pop those eggs, you'll never know.

You settle for winding down the window and lie your head out. " Never thought there'd be a day I like breathing this stuff in."

" Hey, what're you doing? You're gonna get cold," he said, reaching for your hand and holding it.

" I'd rather die of frostbite then have to not have the window open," you said. " Steve, I love you but you're killing my nostrils. You stink."

He cringed, daring to look at you. " That bad, huh?"

You looked at him and slowly nodded. You squeezed his hand.

With great apprehension, Steve bowed his head and took a whiff of his jacket.

" Holy shit," he didn't even let go of your hand, driving with no hands on the wheel as he quickly cranked down his own window. " God baby, how can you even be sitting this close to me?" he gagged, fingers gripping the wheel tight.

You smiled at him. Because no matter what state, beaten up by bullies or Russians or demobats, you'd always be with him. You'd never have it any other way.

There was a sudden blare of horn and a flash of light as a military truck over took you. There was only a glimpse of Hopper and Murray's grinning faces before they cut you off.

" Assholes," you both uttered.

If Steve didn't have one hand in yours and the other on the wheel you were sure he'd have flipped them off.

But he wasn't letting go of your hand until he was.

" Hey, I know that was difficult back there but you did it," he brushed his hand through your hair, however sweaty and covered in sand it may have been.

You relaxed into his touch.

He glanced at you. " Hard parts over and now we get the rest of our lives."

Steve went back to watching the road but you watched him.

" Tell me about the rest of our lives," you said like asking for a story to send you to sleep.

Steve didn't take his eyes of the road but he licked his lips and there was a glint of excitement in his eyes. " Okay... okay, well you know about the six kids we'll be having."

Any other time you'd have kicked up a fuss about six, instead you nodded and waited for more.

" And every summer we'll go up somewhere, Yellowstone maybe. You know like a real family like we never had. But before that... I mean, I've been thinking. We get jobs, maybe sell my parents place and get somewhere smaller and save up to get that house you like Forest Hill. We'll paint the kitchen yellow cause you've always wanted a yellow kitchen. I figure Dustin won't let us off that easy, he'll be on uncle duty, heck he's probably got Godfather t-shirts ready."

You couldn't help but laugh, only turning away when a stray tear rolled your cheek.

Steve looked back, trying to get a look at you. " What? What is it?" he chuckled.

You wiped at your face quickly. " Just. sounds nice."

" It will be."

Steve was looking at you when Hopper and Murray swerved.

" Steve!"

He only knew something terrible was about to happen because of the panic in your voice.

Spikes in the road were waiting to welcome you home, piercing your tires and throwing you off. The kids in the back screamed and yelled as Steve swerved, breaking hard and trying to make as safe a stop as possible.

You'd hardly gotten to a stop when your door was thrown open.

" Out! Out! Get out now!"

You did so, hands up.

" Don't touch her!" Steve yelled, trying to get to you over the seats, but he was being pulled out the other end. " Don't you hurt her!"

With a jerk of your neck the soldiers were sent crashing into the truck. In the middle of the chaos, dozens upon dozens of soldiers pulling at you all nobody noticed you run as you tried to interfere with everyone's minds so you'd go un-noticed.

Only one saw you.

El called your name but was thrown up against the truck, next to Mike. Their hands were reaching desperately for each other but never quite touched.

El knew what you were going to do. She couldn't be there with you.

────────────────────────────

Steve lost sight of you as he was being carted away by soldiers, guns nudging into his back harshly. " Alright! Alright!" he'd comply, heck, he'd been in this situation before. All he cared about was getting a look at you. He couldn't see you in the chaos.

The military, they'd use you and El just like they had Kali. Your life of freedom was supposed to start today, not whatever this was.

" Steve!" he'd wanted it to be you calling his name but it was Robin who was pushed next to him. Their hands were made up on there, guns at their backs.

" Robin! Robin! Where is she? Can you see her?"

" No!" she sounded as panicked as he felt. She looked around but nothing other than the kids being pushed and shoved, torn apart. Holly was taken from Nancy, Joyce was trying to hold onto Will and Jonathon at once.

Dr Kay marched past them. " Sargent! Sargent, where is she? Where's zero-zero-"

There was a sickening crunch that nobody could miss as Dr Kay's neck snapped and she crumbled to the floor.

The soldiers didn't know what to do, the kids all looked around in the shouting and screaming.

Steve tried to look for El. " El?"

There she was, next to Mike. But she wasn't looking at the dead body of the Doctor that was hunting her. Neither was Mike, or Lucas.

Steve's brows furrowed, lights blinding him slightly. It was Dustin who gave it away as he looked past Steve and toward the gate to the Upside down.

" Oh no," the kid had mumbled but it reached into Steve's ears as he turned.

Oh no.

Oh god no.

You stood in the gate. No soldier in sight, no friend there either. There was only you and what any minute could be death.

Steve pushed against the soliders with all his might.

" Steve!" Robin yelled.

The solider made a grab at him.

" Get off me! Get off!" he yelled, cried, pulled or pushed he didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn't stand still.

" Steve! Steve, don't-"

" I said let me go-"

Steve pitched forward but didn't land in the gravel, he landed in water, in some place dark and far away.

" Steve."

Was he dead? Had the soldier's shot him? Were the both of you dead?

He glanced up and found you walking toward him in the darkness, in the water. You were the only thing of light.

Steve got up and ran to you. " Hey, woah, baby, baby," the stress and shouting of his voice wasn't there. He coaxed you gently. He wasn't even sure he was speaking but he felt your body soften when he caressed your arms. " What are you doing? What are you doing?"

You shook your head, tears falling.

" Hey, hey, hey, why are you crying?"

" It's the only way," you chocked.

It took Steve a moment to realise the two of you couldn't just hide out in here. That this wasn't a safe space but a final goodbye in the hole of a void.

" No," he said, disappointed. " No."

" Listen to me-"

" No, I won't-"

" Listen to me!"

" Put me back! I have to be there- I have to save you!"

You grabbed his cheeks, caressing them. " You have saved me, so many times, more than you know. Let me- let me save you."

" Save me? You're killing me baby, you're killing me," he cried, gripping your arms hard enough to bruise. Good, If he hurt you you'd make him apologise to you a thousand ways. For that you had to stay.

" I know, I know it'll hurt at first-"

" Hurt? You're killing me-"

" But I need you to understand-"

" No, no I don't," he cried. " Why are you- why are you doing this?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears falling. " Because it's the only way. If I live there will always be a key to the gate, there will always be Henry's blood in me and there will always be a chance this happens again. To some other poor kids. To some other town with innocent lives that I can't put at risk."

" Well I can't lose you," said Steve, spitting out the words as the salt of his tears stung his cracked lips. He was losing breath. The very air that he breathed was you. " I won't lose you."

" I'll always be with you, for as long as you want me to be," you sobbed.

" Now," he said. " I want you now, here, with me, always baby, why can't you see that."

In desperation Steve grabbed your cheeks and forced your heads together, like by some divine intervention you would know his thoughts and feel his feelings and feel his very soul being ripped out of him.

" I need you," he grit out, chocking on a sob. " I need you, why can't you see that?"

" You've never needed me, Steve-"

" Yes I have- I have, I do! I am nothing without you, nothing!"

" I need you to-"

" No... no don't say it-"

" Tell the kids I'm sorry," you cried.

Steve pulled you into him, gripping you and hiding his face in your shoulder to cry. " No." How could he face them knowing he let you go? How could he even look in the mirror.

" Tell Dustin I'm sorry he had to lose another friend-"

" What about El?" asked Steve, weeping now.

" When-when this place blows I'll use the last of what I have... wipe out the soldiers. She'll have to run but we talked about this."

Steve looked back, looking at you. He couldn't quite believe his last look upon you would be blurred by tears. " We talked about it."

" Tell Hopper I'm sorry-"

" Why are you doing this to me, baby?" asked Steve, searching around you for a way to stop it all.

" Tell Robin I'm sorry-"

Steve cried. " We were gonna have kids-"

" Tell- Tell Lucas he better marry Max-"

Steve hung his head. " You were gonna be the mother of my kids-"

" You'll find someone else, Steve, you can have everything you ever wanted."

" We were- our kitchen was gonna be yellow."

You took his face again, trying to wipe away his own tears when your hands were wet with yours. " I will always love you."

Steve didn't have any time to argue. Your hands came down to his chest and he thought maybe you'd kiss him and he'd wake up from the dream- the nightmare this clearly was.

You pushed and then he heard screaming.

" Steve! Steve!"

" No, please, don't do this!" Dustin?

The soldiers picked Steve up off the ground and he was in the camp, watching you in the gate of the Upside down.

He couldn't understand, he would never understand.

Your nose was bleeding, your arm out-stretched as you kept El in her place as she screamed and writhed against whatever force stopped her reaching you.

You. You sacrificing yourself again and doing it all alone.

Because you always did things alone.

You always assumed you'd be alone, like-

Like Steve.

He wouldn't find another. You were his lover, his one and only. Steve didn't have a family he had you.

You had him.

" Steve, come back!"

What was he doing? Letting you play the hero, letting you kill all of the dreams you'd made together?

Steve was in love with you. He loved you.

And he'd made a promise when he found you crying in that hut.

You'll never be alone again.

No soldier could keep him down. No words could stop him and make him live a life without you.

" Steve! Stop!"

" Oh god, no, no!"

Steve pushed the soldiers and punched another in the face and then he ran to you.

You were so focused on keeping El back, letting the soldiers hold the rest of them that you didn't notice Steve running at you until it was too late. " What are you doing?" you yelled, blood dripping down to your lips.

Steve wasn't going to let you go down alone.

You die. He dies.

The children cried, the others yelled.

Steve grabbed you and kissed you, the iron of your blood, the salt of his tears and the roar of the wind as the vinyl ended.

You'll never be alone again.

The upside down closed in a ball of fire, taking you and Steve with it.

“I’m not calling her! You do it!” Steve hears Mike whisper heatedly to Dustin.

He can’t help but roll his eyes, he knows they’re trying to be quiet but those two wouldn’t know the meaning of a whisper if it ran in front of them.

He frowns, wondering who they seem to be arguing about contacting.

Everyone is at his house for their weekly movie night.

Eddie and Robin are in comfortable conversation with Nancy and Jonathan as they snack on the food that Steve had left out.

Will, Lucas, El and Max are huddled on one of the couches arguing about what film they’re going to put on.

Current options in the running include Grease, Star Wars, Jaws and The Exorcist.

Steve had attempted to veto The Exorcist but Eleven had turned to him with a pout and a pleading expression that reminded him too much of you for him to say no.

You’re supposed to be on your way over after your shift but it’s been a little while and Steve’s refused to start before you get there.

“Steve!” Dustin whines, pulling Steve out of his thoughts.

He shakes his head and looks towards the two of them who seem to be huddled behind the couch, leering ominously over his phone with dual pleading expressions.

“Yes?” He sighs, if he didn’t know the two of them he’d almost call their matching expressions cute but he knows well enough that they’re just buttering him up for a favour.

“Call your girlfriend,” Mike complains, taking the phone off of its stand and holding it up to Steve for it to look enticing.

Steve raises a brow in suspicion and Mike’s brows furrow as if he’s surprised that Steve isn’t immediately lurching to grab the phone from him.

He’s not that clingy, is he?

“Please,” Mike tacks on belatedly, like that’s just crossed his mind to sweeten the deal.

Steve scoffs a laugh, “I’m not calling her just because she’s a couple of minutes late, she’s probably on her way here.”

Mike and Dustin both let out loud groans of complaint at his statement and Steve hears Eddie snort a laugh from behind him.

Without looking he grabs one of his mother’s decorative pillows and lobs it behind him, smiling it satisfaction when it meets its target and Eddie lets out a yelp of shock.

“And anyways, if you’re both so bothered that she’s late, why don’t either of you pick up the phone and call her?” Steve probes.

Mike and Dustin answer simultaneously.

“We don’t know her number—“

“Cause your girlfriends scary dude—“

Mike yelps when Dustin slaps his chest.

“Dude! You don’t tell someone their girlfriend is scary, what’s your problem?” Dustin hisses.

Steve watches the two of them bicker like a ping pong match, before Mike’s statement renders to him.

“What?” He laughs. “You think she’s scary?”

He’s delighted, sure he thinks you can be a bit intimidating at times but never scary.

He’s seen you go toe to toe with men twice your size and never once falter, but in the same breath he’s seen you take care of his kids with soft words and affection that’s not unlike his own paternal instincts.

So he doesn’t really get the whole “scary” sentiment.

Is that what they all think?

“Hey guys,” Steve calls out, curiosity painting his face as The Party turns to look at him.

“Do you think my girls scary?”

It’s like a record scratch echoes through the room as everyone freezes in place, staring at Steve with wide eyes.

Robin is undoubtedly the first one to break, a nervous laugh breaking past her lips as she shakes her head.

“No! Of course not, only that she can be a bit—off putting? Not in a bad way!” Robin reassures, looking more panicked by the moment as she slumps in her chair and chugs her Dr Pepper without further comment.

Steve is stumped, there’s no way that he’s missed this entire thing this whole time.

“You all think that?—that she’s scary?” He’s sure he must look as adequately perplexed as he feels based on Lucas’ small wince in apology.

“I don’t think that,” Max announces, nonchalant as no other.

All their heads snap towards her as she places her hands up in surrender.

“I’m just saying you guys thought I was scary, I just don’t get what’s so scary about her.” She admits, smirking softly as she looks at both Dustin and Mike who roll their eyes.

“We didn’t find you scary!” Mike defensively argues.

They all start to argue and Steve tunes them out, instead making eye contact with Jonathan who offers him a comforting smile.

Over the sound of heightened voices, Steve hears a meek knock echo off the front door.

So with little attention paid to the group, he makes his way to door to find you on the other side.

Your eyes a wide and welling with tears and Steve is instantly on guard.

“Hey hey,” he rushes out, voice soft as he gathers you in his arms, “You okay? What’s wrong?”

You let out a distressed whine but don’t say much else.

Steve huddles you into the foyer with little fanfare before he notices that you’re cupping your hands close to your chest.

Steve frowns, pulling away to your complaint as he takes note of the small wriggling furry figure in your cupped palms.

“Uh, what is that?” He asks, laughing nervously as it snuggles further into your sweater.

Your lips wobble as you peer down at the small creature and when you turn your eyes back up to him he coos in adoration.

“He followed me home,” you cry softly, your face crumpling leaving you looking far too cute for Steve to even start to take you seriously.

He muffles a laugh behind a cough but by your shrewd look through teary eyes, he hasn’t done a very good job of that.

It’s then that he’s been made aware of the silence that seems to encompass the house.

No longer is it filled with the sounds of arguing voices but instead, it’s as if there’s nobody here at all.

With a suspicious hum, he turns slightly to see everyone huddled in the entrance to the lounge and watching the two of you.

He bites back a groan of annoyance at the interruption and instead schools his expression to focus on consoling you.

“Uh huh, and what exactly…is he?” He asks softly, trying not to flinch away when a small face nuzzles through your hands.

It’s a black cat, tinier than he’s ever seen before.

“Oh,” he replies stumped.

You make a wounded noise, “I noticed him when I crossed the street past the grocery store and I-I thought he was just looking for his momma but he followed me all the way here and I couldn’t just leave him, it was getting dark out!” You whisper distressed and Steve can’t help but think you’re worried he’s going to say no and for you to throw the poor kitten back out onto the street.

He softens, smiling softly at you and acquiescing. He opens his own palms with a small gesture and with little hesitance you help the little guy trapeze off your palm and into Steve’s waiting hands.

He tsks when he feels the poor baby shivering in his hands and can’t help himself but lift him to his face to press a tiny kiss on his forehead.

“Will you get him some water from the tap? I’m gonna get him a small blanket from the cupboard upstairs,” Steve says softly, peering at your red eyes in concern.

You’re eager to have something to do and with a small nod, you rub your eyes with your hoodie sleeves before walking to the kitchen with barely a glance to the small group behind you.

Steve turns to stare at them all with a grim expression, “Not a word.” He firmly states.

It’s you.

Not just you—your bare skin glowing in the grainy tint of a Polaroid, the flash catching every curve, every shadow. One knee is drawn up, giving way to the perfect view, and your arm is thrown across your face like you couldn’t bear to be seen. But your mouth—Christ, your mouth is open in silent ecstasy, lips swollen and parted, and your fingers—

Jesus Christ.

Your fingers are buried in your cunt, working deep like you’re trying to feed an insatiable ache, the wet shine unmistakable even in the cheap film. His throat goes dry. His pulse kicks so hard he can feel it in his fucking teeth. Eddie says something then, some smartass remark that has Robin snorting into her drink, but Steve doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t care. All he can think about is how you’re sitting right across from him, legs crossed, sipping your drink and quipping back like it’s the most normal evening in the world. He slaps the photo face down against his thigh, grip so tight the edges crumple.

How the hell did this get in here?

He doesn’t remember you giving it to him. Doesn’t remember touching it, period. But now that he’s seen it, he can’t unsee it—the curve of your hip, the desperate arch of your back, the way your brows were scrunched together like you were right on the edge—

Stop.

He shoves it back into his pocket, but it’s too late. The image is seared into his skull—it’s just a stupid Polaroid, but now it’s all he can think about. His pulse thrums under his skin, restless and too warm. He shouldn’t be this affected. He shouldn’t. But his traitorous mind keeps circling back to it— how easy it would be to move closer, to let his hands settle where they’ve been itching to go, to see if your breath would catch the way he imagines it would. All he can think about is how badly he wants to tiptoe that thin line between friendship and sex, but it’s a dangerous game. One he’s played before and lost spectacularly. He knows the rules—knows how quickly almost turns into too much, how just friends becomes we shouldn’t have done that in the space of a single reckless moment.

But god, the temptation is killing him.

The way your knee brushes against his under the table like it’s an accident, but he knows it’s not. The way you lick salt off the rim of your margarita, eyes locked on his, like you’re waiting for him to break first. The way you shift just slightly, just enough for him to catch the ghost of a smirk—like you know exactly what he’s picturing.

It’s a slippery slope he’s sworn off.

Or at least, he tried to. But then you catch his eye, lips quirking like you can read every filthy thought racing through his head, and—Fuck. He’s too far gone already.

The following four days, Steve lives in a special kind of hell. The photo should’ve been forgettable. Just some stray Polaroid lost in the chaos of his life—another piece of clutter tossed onto the pile of things he doesn’t have the energy to deal with.

But it’s not. It’s you, branded into his brain with the precision of a lit match pressed to skin. No amount of pretending—no amount of jerking off in the shower with his forehead braced against the tile, teeth gritted around your name—dulls the ache. If anything, it makes it worse. Every time he closes his eyes, there you are.

The worst part?  Nothing’s changed. You still sling your legs over his lap like it’s nothing, like you hadn’t ruined him with a single fucking square of film. No sly glances, no secretive smirks. Just normal, like you haven’t been haunting his dreams with your fingers between—

God. He’s losing his goddamn mind.

The next one hits him like a slap to the face. He’s rummaging through the disaster zone of his coffee table—shoving aside empty beer cans, a half-eaten bag of chips, a crumpled pack of cigarettes—when his fingers brush against something that isn’t his keys. Cold dread slithers down his spine even before he pulls it free.

Another fucking picture.

It steals the air from his lungs.

You.

On your back, sheets a mess beneath you, your hair fanned out like some kind of halo. The angle is intimate, almost reverent—the curve of your bare hip, the dip of your waist, the way your fingers dig into your own thighs, holding yourself open.

Wet.

Exposed.

Your head is tipped back, lips parted around a moan he can almost hear, eyes half-lidded, lost in it. The flush on your chest, the way your body arches—like you’re caught in the thick of pleasure, like you’re drowning in it. Steve’s not sure if he’s surprised or jealous or just furious that he wasn’t the one to pull that expression from you.

He knew you were beautiful—that wasn't news. Everyone with working eyes and half a brain could see that. But this? The way golden light caressed the sweat-slick curve of your throat, the way your pleasure wasn't performative but private, intimate, real—

Christ.

It wasn't just erotic. It was sacred.

The Polaroid nearly slips from his trembling fingers before he catches it, the glossy surface warping slightly under his desperate grip. He forces himself to relax, to breathe, but the damage is done—the image already tattooed behind his eyelids.

Are you leaving these on purpose?

The question claws its way up his throat like a living thing.

It can't be.

But God help him, he needs it to be

His thumb traces the edge of the photograph as he drinks in the details: Your lips—swollen, glistening, the faint indentation of teeth where you'd bitten down to silence yourself. Your eyes—black as spilt ink, heavy-lidded yet startlingly aware, staring through the lens like you were seeing him, like you wanted him to witness this unravelling. A voice whispers through the static of his thoughts: You're missing something, and the realisation hits like a sucker punch—he's been here before, trapped in this limbo between wanting and having, between friends and something else. He remembers the exact moment he first knew you held his heart: The air in family video had been thick with the scent of stale popcorn and the hum of the ancient AC unit fighting a losing battle against the summer heat. You'd laughed at something he had said—and the sound had punched through him like a bullet. Your tongue darted out to catch a drop of Cherry Coke from your lower lip, and suddenly his hands were sweating, his collar too tight, his entire body electric with the need to move, to touch, to— "Steve?" You'd caught him staring, your head tilting in that way that made his ribs ache. "You okay?"

Now. Say it now.

But his tongue had turned to lead. Three words lodged in his throat: I want you. Then the bell chimed, Robin bursting in with arms full of candy, grinning as she spoke, “Okay, who wants to bet Eddie eats all the Red Vines before the movie even starts?” and the moment shattered like dropped glass.

Now, staring at this damning photograph, the same fear coils in his gut—what if he's wrong? What if these Polaroids aren’t for him?

What if they’re just—

Lost.

Left behind.

Not meant for his insatiable eyes.

The thought sends acid flooding through his veins. Because the alternative—that you planted these for him to find, that you wanted him to see you like this—that wasn't just hope. It was arson. And he was already burning; the way you look at him sometimes, like you’re waiting for him to figure it out; the way your fingers linger when you pass him a drink; the way you smile when he stumbles over his words, like you like that he’s flustered.

And now—

The Polaroids. Left where only he would find them.

Taunting him.

Testing him.

Tempting him.

The third Polaroid nearly fucking kills him. By the time your group crowds into the diner booth, Steve's almost convinced himself he imagined it all. Almost. But then, after about an hour of comfortable familiarity, his fingers brushing the edge of his milkshake glass, the coaster shifts –

There.

Tucked beneath it, glossy and damning. He chokes so hard Eddie has to thump him on the back. "Jesus, Harrington, are you allergic to strawberries now?" Eddie's voice is all amusement, but Steve barely hears it over the blood roaring in his ears. He doesn't answer. He's too busy slipping the picture under the table, pulse hammering in his throat as he glances at you across the booth. You're stirring your drink absently, the neon diner lights catching in your hair. And then he risks a look at the Polaroid.

Fuck.

This one's... worse. Or better. He doesn't fucking know anymore. It's a close-up. Your face, tilted up toward the camera, tears streaking through smudged mascara, pupils blown wide. And Christ— there's cum dripping off your chin, your lips parted like you're showing off. The flash had caught every detail: the wet shine on your bottom lip, the way your eyelashes stick together, the way you look up with a glint in your eyes like you were looking at him, like you wanted him to see – His jeans grow uncomfortably tight. He shifts in the booth, pressing his thighs together as heat floods his face. It turns his brain to static.

Obscene. Perfect.

No.

Across the table, you tilt your head, voice dripping with sweet concern. "Steve? You okay?"

That's what really drives the stake in. The way you sound normal, like you're not the same person in the photo — wrecked and wanting. Like you haven't been systematically dismantling his self-control. He forces a smile, fingers twitching against the sticky diner table. "Peachy." His voice comes out strangled. Robin kicks him under the table, her eyes sharp with knowing.

He spends the rest of the evening in quiet agony, debating whether to bring it up, tearing himself apart for an answer that won't come. Every time you laugh at something Eddie says, your throat bobbing, he remembers how it looked in the photo – stretched taut as you tilted your head back. Every time you lick ice cream off your spoon, he thinks about your lips, shiny and parted. His mind drifts back to the first time he met you — Robin's bright smile as she introduced you, her "You two will get along so well!" ringing in his ears like a prophecy. Then, the first flicker of something more – that slow, dawning realisation as you sat there, a giggling mess from the joint he'd rolled, clumsily teaching him pat-a-cake like it was the most crucial lesson in the world. Your fingers had brushed against his palms, warm and sure, and something in his chest had clenched tight. Every moment since has been hidden torment. Every glance across the Family Video counter when you'd come to visit Robin, your eyes lingering just a second too long. Every laugh you'd smothered behind your hand when he'd fumbled his words. Every time he'd caught himself staring at the curve of your neck, wondering how you'd sound if he pressed his mouth there. Every time he caught himself wondering if you felt that same invisible pull.

And now?

Now he's stuck with this.

What the hell is he even supposed to say? "Hey, so, funny story—I found a Polaroid of you fucking yourself the other day. Any reason that might be lying around?"

Yeah. That’d go over real fucking well.

But who else would be leaving these? He knows it has to be you. Because no one else looks at him like that. No one else smirks like that when he stumbles over his words. And God help him—he loves it. But he's Steve Harrington, and Steve Harrington doesn't ruin good things. Doesn't risk friendships for fleeting moments of pleasure, no matter how badly his hands itch to touch. So he tucks the Polaroid into his pocket, lets Eddie tease him about spacing out, lets Robin shoot him looks that promise future interrogation, and pretends his heart isn't pounding loud enough for the whole diner to hear. And when you brush your foot against his under the table, he doesn't pull away; he wonders.—

How much longer can he keep pretending before he snaps and does something stupid? Like pin you against the nearest flat surface and find out if you taste as good as you look in those photos. The thought sends another wave of heat through him. He takes a too-big gulp of his milkshake to hide the way his breath hitches. You smile at him over the rim of your glass, all innocence and sharp edges, and Steve realises with dawning horror that he’s already in too deep to climb back out.

The fourth photo is the last straw. He finds it in his glove compartment that same night, the edge jutting out like a taunt as he sits there, engine off, the silence of the parking lot pressing in around him. For a second, he just stares.

Jesus.

A mirror shot—the kind that feels private.

Except now it’s in his hands.

And fuck, it’s— You’re on your knees, but you’re not facing the glass. No. Your face is tilted up, lips stretched obscenely around your own fingers, glistening with spit, your tongue pressing against the pads like you’re imagining them as something else—someone else. Your lashes flutter, heavy with the kind of pleasure that borders on pain, like the strain is its own sweet torment. And shit, your ass—arched high, round and perfect, the curve of it taunting him, the dimples at the base of your spine begging for his thumbs to press into them. The way your hips tilt just slightly, like you’re already waiting, already needing the sharp bite of a handprint blooming across your skin. He can almost hear the sound it would make—the sharp crack of his palm meeting your flesh and the punched-out whimper you’d choke on right after. Your other hand claws at your own tits, fingers digging in, squeezing hard enough to make your breath hitch. The fabric of your shirt is rucked up, your bra shoved aside, and the sight of your nipple pebbled tight under your own touch—

Christ.

His hands shake. The photo nearly slips from his grip, and he has to white-knuckle the steering wheel just to steady himself. His throat is too tight. His jeans are too fucking tight; he shifts, grinding his hips down against the seat just to relieve the pressure, but it’s worse—so much worse—because now he can feel the rough drag of fabric, the heat of his own desperation, and God, he’s dripping, already slick with the image of you burnt into his skull. This isn’t—

This isn’t fair. He’s imagined it a hundred times. Fantasised about the way your mouth would look wrapped around him, the sounds you’d make when he finally got his hands on you. But never like this. Never with the cruel twist of being nothing more than a spectator to his own undoing.

Fuck.

His head thuds back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut like he can erase the image burnt into the backs of his eyelids. But it doesn’t help. The photo is branded into his soul.

He should stop looking.

He should.

But he can’t.

Because this isn’t just some fantasy anymore. This is proof. Proof that you think about this. Proof that you want this. Proof that you might—

Might—

Want him.

And that’s what terrifies him. Because if he’s wrong— If he misreads this—He’ll ruin everything.

But God, the way your back curves in the photo. The way your lips glisten. The way your fingers dig into your own skin like you’re aching for someone else’s touch. His fingers twitch against his thigh. He could—

He could find you.

Right now. Pull you into the backseat. Make that look in the photo a reality. But what if he’s just—

Projecting. Hopeful. Pathetic. His jaw clenches. He can’t risk it. He won’t. The photo goes back into the glove compartment. His keys twist in the ignition. The engine roars to life. But he doesn’t drive away. Not yet. Because one thought won’t leave him alone—

What if she wants you to come find her?

So he plans to ask you about the Polaroids—if he can ever figure out how the hell to bring it up without sounding like a complete creep.

His apartment is spotless, scrubbed down in a frenzy of nervous energy. Just a regular movie night, he tells himself. You’d had dozens. Nothing to panic about. And for a while, it is normal. You steal his fries, mock his shitty taste in films, and press your ice-cold hands against his thigh just to hear him yelp. It’s easy. It’s you.

But then—

Halfway through, as he gathers empty food containers, something flutters to the floor. Upside down. He knows what it is before he even turns it over. His heart stops. You’re still on the couch, laughing at something on screen—but he can’t help himself. He picks it up. And—

Fuck.

It’s you—sinking down onto a toy like you need it, like you’d die without it. Your eyes are closed, lips parted in relief. One hand braces against the bed, the other at your throat, fingers pressing in like you’re chasing more, like you want to feel it everywhere. The angle is obscene, the slick shine of your arousal glistening where you’re spread open for the camera. Steve swears he can feel it—the phantom roll of your hips, the way you’d clench around him if it was his cock instead— "Something wrong?"

Your voice is too soft, too normal, and it guts him. The photo sticks to his sweat-damp palm as his brain short-circuits between this you—wanting, wrecked, fucking yourself like it’s your only salvation—and the you standing in front of him now, all wide-eyed concern and bitten-pink lips. Ask her. The thought burns through him. Just fucking ask her. But what comes out is, "Nah, just—uh—dropped a napkin." God fucking damnit. You tilt your head, and for one heart-stopping second, he thinks you know. That you’ll smirk, step closer, and whisper, "Like what you see, Harrington?" But you don’t. You just hum, "You’ve been weird all night."

Weird. Yeah. That’s one word for it.

He shoves the Polaroid into his back pocket like it’s evidence of a crime. His crime. Because, Christ, he shouldn’t have looked. Shouldn’t be hard right now, straining against his sweatpants as you blink up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to him. He forces himself to step around you, putting the couch between you like it’ll save him. "Just tired," he mumbles, grabbing his half-finished beer. The bottle is slick with condensation, and he clings to that—the cold—instead of the sliver of skin exposed when you stretch, the curve of your waist he knows by heart. Intimately. He’s catalogued every dip and slope of you—the way your hip fits perfectly under his palm when he guides you through a crowded room, the way your waist nips in just enough for his fingers to span it. He’s thought about it. Too much.

You don’t push. Just flop back onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. "Well, hurry up. This movie’s shit, but I want to see how it ends." Steve exhales through his nose. Right. The movie. Except all he can focus on is the weight of the photo in his pocket. The way you’d looked—fuck—like you were made to take cock, like you’d beg for it, like you’d whimper his name if he just—

That’s the problem, isn’t it? He knows you. Knows the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. Knows how you cling to your coffee mug in the morning, both hands wrapped around it like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Knows the way you’d held his hand that one time he got too high and swore the ceiling was breathing, your thumb brushing over his knuckles like you were anchoring him. But this?

This is a version of you he isn't allowed to have, isn’t allowed to need.

One he is desperate for.

The movie drones on, some cheap horror flick with terrible effects, but Steve’s pulse hasn’t slowed since he found the damn photo. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, fingers idly tracing the rim of your soda can. Innocent. Bored.

Too innocent.

Because he’s seen the way your gaze lingers on him when you think he’s not looking. The way you bite your lip when he rolls his sleeves up. The way you lean in just a little too close when you laugh. Steve exhales, rough, dragging a hand down his face.

Fuck.

He should say something. Should’ve done something. But the truth is, he’s fucking scared. Terrified of being wrong. Terrified of ruining this—whatever this is—with his stupid, greedy hands. Because what if the Polaroids aren’t for him? What if the way you look at him, all slow smiles and heavy-lidded glances, is just him, reading into things? What if he reaches for you, and you pull away?  Every time you shift, his gaze flicks to your thighs. Every time you laugh, he imagines the way your breath would hitch if he dragged his teeth over your pulse. Every time you look at him, he wonders—

Is this a game to you?

Are you waiting for me to break?

Because he’s close. So fucking close.

When you leave, you linger in the doorway—just a second too long. Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, the fabric slipping between them like a secret. It’s innocent. It’s not. The way your knuckles brush against his hip, featherlight, makes his breath catch.

You’re tempting fate.

You’re torturing him.

"Night, Steve," you murmur, lips quirking in that way that drives him insane—like you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And for a wild, reckless moment, he considers it: Pinning you against the door. Trapping you with his body. Letting his mouth finally, finally ask the question that’s been clawing at his ribs for weeks—

Are you doing this on purpose?

But then you’re gone. The door clicks shut. And all he’s left with is the ghost of your perfume—something sweet and sharp, clinging to his clothes like a promise—and the Polaroid in his pocket, burning a hole straight through to his skin.

The get-together on Friday is a grand fucking disaster from minute one. Steve's apartment swims in a haze of cigarette smoke and the stale tang of spilt beer, the kind of party atmosphere that usually feels like second nature but tonight just makes his skin itch. The laughter rings too loud in his ears—Eddie's wheezing cackle from the couch, Robin's snort-giggle as she loses at poker again. Normally, he'd be right there with them, tossing out stupid jokes and soaking up the chaos. But tonight, every word sticks in his throat like gum, and every forced smile makes his jaw ache. And you.

Fucking hell, you.

You're everywhere. Perched on the arm of Eddie's chair, your knee brushing his. Leaning over Robin's shoulder to peek at her cards, your hair falling in a curtain that smells like vanilla when it grazes Steve's arm. Laughing at some stupid story Nancy's telling, your head thrown back, the column of your throat working as you swallow your drink. Every glimpse is a fresh punch to the gut. He's two beers deep and still wound tighter than a spring when it happens. You turn just as he steps forward, and his drink sloshes over the rim, drenching the front of your shirt in cold amber liquid. "Shit—fuck, I'm sorry—" Steve stammers, already grabbing for napkins he knows won’t help.

You look down at the mess, then back up at him with an expression he can't quite read. "Real smooth, Harrington," you deadpan, but there's no real heat in it. Just that same unreadable something that's been in your eyes all night. The fabric clings to your skin as you peel it away, and Steve's mouth goes dry. He forces his gaze up to your face, but it's too late—he's already seen the way the wet cotton moulds to the curve of your breast, the shadow of your nipple through the thin material. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" you ask, and your voice is so normal, so casual, like you didn’t just notice him staring. Like you're not standing there half-drenched because of him.

Steve swallows hard. "Yeah, no, I mean—go ahead." He gestures vaguely down the hall, his face burning. "Towels are under the sink if you... you know." You nod, sliding past him so close the heat of your body sears through his shirt, your arm brushing his in a way that sends sparks skittering down his spine. The party's dying embers surround you—empty cups littering sticky tables as the four of you remain in the hollowed-out quiet of the now-empty apartment, and when you disappear into the bathroom, Steve exhales like he's been holding his breath for hours.

Robin materialises at his elbow like the world's smuggest ghost. Her grin vibrates with barely contained glee, fingers digging into his bicep hard enough to leave crescent moons in his skin. "Dude," she stage-whispers, her breath scalding his ear, "you're a walking fucking disaster." Steve doesn't deny it. He's been digging his own grave for weeks – every aborted reach across the Beemer's console, every confession drowned in stale beer, every time he's nearly had you pinned against the Family Video horror section only to choke at the last second. "Christ, Buckley," he hisses through gritted teeth, "not now—" The bathroom door creaks open. You. Polaroid pinched between your fingers like an executioner's blade, edges worn soft from how often he's traced them. Steve's stomach plummets through the scuffed floor.

Oh, fuck.

Oh fuck, oh fuck—

The drawer. He'd forgotten about the goddamn bathroom drawer he left the Polaroids in.

Your approach is lethal. Purposeful. The sharp staccato of your boots on hardwood echoes like a firing squad cocking their rifles. The air between you curdles – thick with tension and something darker, something that makes Steve's pulse stutter in his throat. When you speak, your voice drops to that register—the one that turns his bones to liquid, something that makes the fine hairs on the back of Steve's neck stand at attention.

"Where did you get these?" Not a question. A goddamn death sentence.

Robin's nails bite deeper. "Holy shit," she breathes, eyes darting between you like she's watching the best tennis match of her life. "This is better than my parents' divorce." Steve's heartbeat riots against his ribs as you stop just beyond reach—close enough that your perfume coils around him. The Polaroid dangles from your fingers, the image facing him like an indictment: your lips swollen, lashes fluttering against tear-stained cheeks, fingers twisted in sheets that should be his. The lights hum overhead as you tilt your head, catching the sharp challenge in your gaze. "Where did you get these?" you repeat, each word dripping with deliberate intent. Steve's throat seals shut. Every lie he'd prepared withers under your burning stare, under Robin's vibrating presence at his side, and under the way his body betrays him with every inch you close between you.

"I—" His voice cracks like dry kindling. "My jacket. And—fuck."

You step closer. The brush of your knee against his sends electric currents through the denim. "And?"

"My glove compartment." The admission tears from him like flesh from a wound.

Robin makes a sound between a wheeze and a dying air horn. Your smirk could strip paint from walls. "Interesting."  Another step forward, and now your chest nearly grazes his with each breath. He can't tell if you're moving in for a kiss or a kill shot.

"And what were you planning to do with them, Steve?" His mouth floods. A dozen filthy images flash through his mind—his teeth marking your thigh, your back arching against the employee break room wall, that broken moan you'd make when—

You lean in. Your lips ghost over the shell of his ear as you whisper, hot and deliberate: Steve's vision tunnels to pinpricks. "You—you've been—" Your grin cuts deep. "Leaving them for you?  Yeah." The world tilts on its axis. Steve stares at you, caught between outrage and a hunger so deep it terrifies him. "You've been messing with me this whole time—"

A careless shrug as you step closer—so close your thighs slot between his, your skirt riding up just enough to make his hands twitch with the need to touch. "Maybe I wanted to see if you'd crack."

"Why?" It's barely more than a breath. Your expression turns sweet, soft. "Because I like how you look at me when you think I'm not watching." A heartbeat of silence stretches between you, thick and charged.

"Did you like them?"

The question hangs suspended, heavier than the humid air between your bodies. Steve's control shatters. “I hated those photos,” he grits out, voice shredded.  “Not because—fuck, not because I didn’t want you. But because every time I looked at them—”  His jaw clenches so tight it aches. “All I could think was it should’ve been me making you look like that.”

Your lips part, just slightly, and you step closer. Just one more step. But it’s enough to make his pulse riot. “Prove it,” you murmur, your lips brushing his with provocation.

His hands find your waist.

Your breath hitches.

The space between you collapses. And when he kisses you, it’s not sweet. It’s desperate. It’s what I’ve wanted forever. It’s why the hell did we wait so long? You gasp against his mouth, fingers twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, every desperate inch of his body imprinting itself on yours like he’s trying to melt into your skin. Then his mouth crashes down—hot, demanding, lips moving with a possessive hunger that rewrites your pulse into something wild. You whimper into the kiss, fingers scrambling at his shoulders as Steve licks into your mouth like a man starved. There's nothing gentle about it – he kisses like he's determined to rewrite your DNA with teeth and tongue and the relentless press of his hips until every cell in your body sings his name. It's everything he's fantasised about and so much more – the heat of you pressed flush against him, the crescent moons your nails carve into his shoulders, and the broken little whimper you make when he nips at your bottom lip. When he finally tears away, you're both panting, foreheads pressed together, his ragged breaths scalding your swollen mouth.

"Took you long enough," you murmur, voice wrecked. Steve huffs a laugh, thumb swiping across your kiss-slick lips with a reverence that belittles the hunger in his eyes. "Yeah, well. You could've just told me."

You grin, all teeth. "Where's the fun in—" "Hell no," Eddie's voice cuts in, strangled. "I am not witnessing Harrington's sexual awakening live and in colour—" Robin's already dragging him backwards by his collar. "We're leaving! Enjoy your— Jesus Christ, Steve, just— use protection—!"

The door slams. Steve's on you before the latch clicks – no hesitation, no space between. He pins you against the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, his body a furnace against yours. One hand fists in your hair while the other slides up your thigh with deliberate roughness, calloused fingers branding your skin through the fabric. "Should've done this years ago," he growls against your throat, thumb circling your nipple with just enough pressure to make you arch into him. "Why the hell didn't we?"

His forehead drops to yours. The warmth of his breath ghosts across your lips as he confesses, "Because you're Robin's best friend. Because Eddie would've never shut up about it." His hips grind forward, the hard line of his erection leaving no room for doubt. "Mostly because I was fucking terrified of losing you."

"You?"

"Thought you'd get bored of me," you admit, the wall biting into your shoulder blades as he presses closer. "Worried I'd just be... another conquest." Steve goes utterly still. When he meets your eyes, the raw intensity in his gaze makes your stomach flip. "You were never just anything." His whisper is rough, like the words were clawed from his chest. "I've been in love with you since you beat me at Mario Kart drunk off your ass in '86." A surprised laugh punches out of you. "That was like our fifth hangout."

"Yeah." His grin is all boyish charm, obscenely at odds with the filthy drag of his fingers on your inner thigh. "Fucking devastating." Then his mouth is at your ear, teeth scraping that sensitive spot that makes your knees weak. "Gonna spend the rest of the night proving it to you," he promises, voice dark with want. Something feral flashes in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he hauls you up — arm hooked under your thighs — and carries you toward the bedroom, your laughter dissolving into a moan as his mouth finds yours again. The last coherent thought you have before he drops you onto the mattress is that you should've let him find those Polaroids much, much sooner.

Sometimes people don't even know how much the other one is struggling. Or maybe they just simply don't care. Probably the truth is the latter. Because there's no way that you notice when others are struggling but no one ever notices that you're struggling too. But maybe, they just think you've everything under control because you're so selfless that you're willing to push your own feelings aside to help others. That's what always happens. You help others, even if you're falling apart too, but no one ever helps you.

For you, it was always like that. You've been struggling silently, alone. Having dark thoughts, having mental breakdowns every single night, thinking about ending everything because the pain is so unbearable. Yet, you still didn’t do it. You couldn’t. You wanted to. So many times. But a little feeling inside you always held you back. You thought about it every day. Writing goodbye letters. Then just disappear forever. Get rid of the never ending pain.

But you're still here. Waking up, putting on the perfect fake smile. You perfected it so well that even you would believe that's a real smile. But that’s the point. That the others don't find out that you're struggling. They couldn’t have though. If they would pay more attention to the little details, they would have known that you're not okay. That you need serious help but don't know how to ask for it. If they would just look at you a little longer, they would have notice how many times you zone out. How the spark in your eyes is gone now. But they never noticed.

You have no idea how to ask for help. But you also didn’t wanna ask for help. You didn't wanna burden others with your problems. So, you just pushed your feelings aside, trying to control it, which became harder and harder every day. But a part of you felt like you had to. You had to push aside your own feelings to help others. To be their anchor in the storm. Because that's what you were to everyone. The safety net. The safe place. Because you never judged. You always listened. No matter when they reached out, no matter about what. Nothing ever mattered. Your feelings never mattered. Only theirs. Because if your friends and family are fine, then who cares about your feelings. You'll deal with it somehow.

It was always like that. For years. And you have been struggling for years too. But others needed you. So, you were there. You were there to listen and help.

You always listened when Nancy or Jonathan called you if they had relationship problems. You listened and helped them solve their problems. Jonathan started getting closer to you when you helped him, trying to find Will. He really thought that apart from a few people everyone gave up that Will's still alive. But not you. You offered to go with him, searching for Will so many times. Meanwhile you let him talk about anything. About how he loves taking pictures, you even helped him in the little room sometimes. He told you that he likes Nancy. You even helped them get together. And Nancy started liking you when you helped her, trying to find Barb. You two get closer during that time.

You were also there for Robin. When she had no idea who to turn to. She told you that she likes girls because for some reason, she trusted you more than anyone else. You never judged her. Which already made her feel better. You were there for Eddie too when the whole town turned against him. For some reason he came to you when he was chased, and you let him stay. You hid him at your place and that day, Eddie found out why Dustin talked about you so much. That why he called you everyone's anchor. You didn't even ask

Eddie about what happened. You knew already. Yet, he expected that you’d give him up or shut the door in his face. Instead, you opened your door and welcomed him, let him stay till the whole thing was over.

Then the kids. It all started, you found them late at night, searching for Will. You picked them up when you were with your car and helped them. Then you lied to the parents for them. Saying that they were with you the whole time and they were safe. After that, they started turning to you with every problem. You helped them hiding El too, that night. Then later, El started seeing you as a big sister. Since outside everything was new to her, you helped her a lot with things, the boys didn’t understand. Then came Max to their friend group. Who also started seeing you as a sister after you protected her from Billy.

And lastly Steve. You were friends since childhood, until freshman year when he meet Tommy and Carol. Because after that he pushed you away. But after the fight with Jonathan and the breakup with Nancy, he came back to you. He thought you hate him after what he did. After he just started ignoring you one day. But you didn't. You welcomed him back with open arms. Helped him clean up his wounds and comforted him after the breakup.

You didn't even realize what you're doing at first. It came to you naturally. But when you started having your own problems. Or more likely when your family issues become worse and when you become depressed. You never had a good relationship with your parents, or at least not with your father. Your father was awful. Always ready to remind you that how much of a failure you are. Your mother wasn’t that bad. She was just too busy with work all the time. Maybe how this all built up over the years, pushed you into the depression. Or maybe it was something deeper you didn't know about. You started feeling the things you do, the never ending pain. The things you once did without any effort became hard.

Listening to others problems, helping them, smiling became extremely hard after you became depressed. But you still pushed through it. You ignored how much a small conversation started draining you. Because they needed you. You couldn’t just let them down now. So, you forced yourself to push your own feelings aside to prioritize everyone else. You smiled, even when you wanted to cry. You forced yourself to be happy, so no one question anything. You thought that it’ll pass. That with time, it's gonna be over. That it's just a phase. But that didn’t happen. The opposite happened. Every day became worse, harder. Sometimes even getting up was hard, especially when all you wanted to do was be gone.

But even if someone asked if you're okay, you brushed it off, saying you're just tired. Which was the half truth. You were tired. But not physically, not because you barely slept. You were mentally tired. The spark in your eyes were gone. Replaced by emptiness. Whenever you looked into the mirror, it seemed like a dead person was looking at you back. It felt like it's not even you anymore. But you still ignored it. Ignored all the signs your body sent you. You slept less, you barely eat, because you didn't have an appetite, the constant headaches.

You still pushed through everything. Especially before the big fight with Vecna. But deep down, a part of you wished that Vecna’ll get you. Or a Demogorgon. Or you didn't even care at this point. Once you even thought that it was over. You felt when Vecna get into your head. But he didn't show you anything. He couldn’t show you anything worse. Maybe, you were already too hurt that nothing affects you anymore. So, as soon as you felt Vecna entered your mind, just as quickly he left too. Which for some reason made you feel even worse. You didn't know why though.

And after the big fight, everyone was happy. Just not you. But you didn't let others know that. They didn't have to know that. Besides, everyone was busy with their own thing. Finally, everyone can get the future they wanted. Expect you. You didn't have a dream anymore. And you knew that now that Vecna is gone. Everyone's gonna leave. And you had no idea what you gonna do with your life now.

Maybe everything would have been different if that one day when everything got bad, someone would be there to hold you tight and tell you everything's gonna be okay. But no one was there. No one hold you. No one told you that you're gonna be okay. That they're there for you. Maybe that's why everything got bad. Maybe you expected too much from people. Maybe, you thought you meant more to them than you actually mean to them. Maybe, they would never miss you.

These things. These thoughts sent you spiraling. And the moment you stepped into your bathroom after you got home from the big fight, you broke down. You couldn’t hold it in anymore and you started crying. You hated crying. Usually, you were able to hold it back. But now everything was just too much. You wanted to call someone so badly. But everyone was happy around you. You didn't wanna bring down with you. So, you just sat on your bathroom floor, sobbing and hugging yourself.

You had no idea how long you have been sitting there. The time blurred together. You didn't even hear your phone ringing multiple times because of your sobs. This wasn’t the first time something like this happened. You had multiple breakdowns. And you always picked up the pieces and put them together somehow. But this time was different. It was worse. You were crying so hard, you started feeling like you couldn’t breathe. So, you tried to take deep breaths to calm yourself down for a little. Which only worked for a few seconds.

What happened in the next minutes blurred together. You didn't even realize how you reached for a blade you had in the bathroom in case you need it. But you never used it before. You couldn’t. You didn't hear as someone walked through the front door. You didn't hear as the person search through the house. You didn't even notice the person breaking into the bathroom. Your focus was on the blade in your hand. You vision blurry and your hands were shaking.

You only get out of this trance when that someone, Steve, took the blade out of your hands. He tossed it into the trash and checked your arms for any injuries. When he found nothing, he felt a little relieved. He was glad he got here in time. Because when you didn't pick up the phone to him, he knew something's seriously wrong. He had a feeling that something's not okay with you. But he always thought that you'll tell him when you want to. But you never talked about what's bothering you. So, when you didn't pick up the phone, he panicked. He panicked and immediately rushed here. To you. Praying that you won't do anything stupid.

"It's not a solution" you heard his voice and felt him sitting down next to you. You couldn’t even look at him, you were still staring at your hand. So, he just pulled you into his arms. And hugged you tightly. Which broke you even more and started crying harder, clinging to him as he gave you a little comfort.

"It's okay. I'm here now" he whispered and let you cry into his chest, your tears wetting his shirt. He never saw you like this before. This broken. And it broke his heart to see you like this.

"I can't..." you said between sobs.

"You can’t what?" he asked softly.

"I can't do this anymore" you cried but he still didn’t understand what you meant. Which made him panic more. You never cried. You were always so strong. Be there for others.

"Can't do what?" he asked when you didn't say anything else for minutes.

"Can't keep living like this. I can't. This pain. I can't handle it anymore. It's too much. I don't wanna be here" you cried and tears welled up in his eyes.

"Don't say that. Please don't say that" he said and his voice cracked. He had no idea you feel like this. And he had no idea how long you are feeling like this. Keeping it to yourself. He couldn’t help but blame himself. He should have been here before. He should have noticed that you're struggling.

"No one would miss me anyway. Everyone's life would be so much better if I were gone"

"That's not true. Everyone's life would be a lot worse if you wouldn’t be here. You helped us so many times. Everyone would miss you like crazy. Everyone would blame themselves for not being there for you. Especially me. I would miss you the most and... God, I would never forgive myself. I would follow you. Go after you" he said but you couldn't really believe him.

"Maybe at first. But you would all be okay. With time. But I can’t keep carrying this pain anymore" you whispered, your voice sounding exhausted. And Steve just shook his head as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

"You don't have to. You don't have to carry it alone anymore. I'm sorry I wasn’t here before. I'm so sorry I didn't notice sooner how much you're hurting. I'm sorry. I should have been there for you. I should have noticed. But I didn't. I failed you. Everyone had you. But you had no one. This wasn’t suppose to happen. I'm so sorry. Please, let me be here for you now. Please don't give up yet. We need you. Not because we could rant to you. But because we love you. Please, please don’t give up. Let me be here. I'm listening. Just talk to me" he pleaded and held you even tighter. He refused to let you go now.

Then for minutes he didn't say anything else, he just held you tightly and stroked your hair to calm you down. He didn't wanna force you to talk. He didn't wanna ask questions. He wanted you to open up to him on your own if you want. And he just wanted you to know that he's here now and he's not leaving. You can even ask him to leave because he's not gonna do that.

A part of him hoped that you'll start talking eventually. But as you didn't and your arms loosened around him, he looked down at you, only to see that you're asleep. He sighed then he got up from the floor with you in his arms and carried you to your bedroom. He gently placed you on the bed and covered you with the blanket. Then he kicked off his shoes and got in behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you back against him.

Considering it, Eddie hadn’t thought Steve would be a sad drunk. Especially if you consider the sheer amount of parties he threw as a teenager.

It just doesn’t quite fit into his ever changing picture of Steve Harrington. Like a puzzle piece the wrong shape that doesn’t fit with the rest. Happy drunk? Horny drunk? Those made better sense than this.

But then again, Eddie stopped trying to make sense of Steve a couple months after the Vecna-episode of their lives.

(It’s sort of something he really likes about Steve, that he can’t ever really pin him down — that he’s always surprising Eddie.)

Either way, the fact remains that Steve is drunk and Steve is sad.

Eddie just doesn’t know about what.

“C’mon,” Eddie nudges the glass in Steve’s hand gently, the second time tonight. “Gotta drink up, Stevie, lest you risk the wrath of tomorrow’s hangover.”

Steve’s slumped sideways on the couch, not too drunk to be out of it, but evidently rather physically beat. He’s leaning his head up against the ratty leather of the couch, his eyes closed.

Eddie sits opposite him, enough distance to keep it friendly, but close enough to catch the glass if Steve suddenly decides he doesn’t feel like holding it anymore.

He wants to sit closer, wants to maybe even hold Steve’s hand. Cup his face and murmur sweet nothings until sad drunk Steve is replaced by someone happier.

Eddie swallows the desire down, away.

By all accounts, there’s nothing Steve’s said or done to give away his sadness. Eddie only knows he’s sad from that slight downturn of his mouth — the slight jut of his lip. The world’s most adorable pout if it wasn’t being caused for bad reasons, Eddie thinks.

He knows what it looks like because it’s what Steve looks like when he wakes from a nightmare. When he’s properly distressed, thrust to the verge of tears. Eddie knows the sight well. (And Steve knows his.)

On the couch beside him, Steve makes a little noise in response to the nudge. His eyes crease open.

He looks tired. It’s not the exhaustion that comes with terror, with having sleep chased from you, but… bone-deep tiredness.

Eddie’s lip part, unsure if it’s to urge Steve to drink some water again or just to ask what’s wrong when—

“No one wants it.” Steve says, in the smallest voice. It’s barely a whisper.

Eddie’s brows draw together. The sadness in Steve’s words travel out, pushing an ache into his chest.

“Wants what?”

Steve is silent. He’s not looking at Eddie — he wasn’t before, but now his gaze is downcast, studying the glass in his hands. His finger traces the rim.

“Wants what, Steve?” Eddie tries again.

This time, Steve sighs and it looks like it takes the wind out of him completely. “My…”

There’s a crack in his voice. Steve clears his throat and closes his eyes again, this time scrunched up as if he’s resisting the emotion that tries to take over.

“My stupid love. Keep… keep tryna give it, but no one wants to take it.” He inhales jaggedly, turning an inch and pressing further into the couch, like he’s hiding. His voice is muffled and wrecked. “No one wants it.”

Something splinters in Eddie’s chest, slivers of agony burying beneath his skin. He’s speechless.

How can Steve think that? How can he believe that?

“I do,” Eddie says, before realising what’s he’s saying.

Steve stiffens on the couch, tentatively digging his face out from hiding. His downturned eyes still have that warbling sadness and Eddie just needs to make it better — even if it means throwing his pathetic crush under the bus.

“Eddie-” Steve says, wary and tired all at once, as if he’s saying don’t do this, don’t lie to me.

“I do. It sounds lovely,” Eddie insists, completely truthful. “If you want someone to give it to, I’ll take it. I want it.”

Steve eyes him. Some of that melancholy in him has turned to apprehension. He sniffles a bit and sighs again.

“Not- not like that.” Steve murmurs, eyes falling back to the glass in his hands. He speaks with a lilt of embarrassment, as though he thinks it’s shameful to care this much. “Not as a friend, Eddie.”

A stone grows in Eddie’s throat. It’ll hurt like hell to swallow it, to speak, but Steve has always been worth it.

“I know,” Eddie breathes. He can’t quite keep all his nerves out of the words and they jam up in his mouth for a moment. “Not like that, Steve.”

He desperately wants to grab his own hair, to fiddle with it, release some tension, but he also doesn’t want to break the quiet softness between them.

The fridge hums in the silence. The clock on the microwave blinks back midnight.

Wishing hour? Maybe in some myths and stories. Eddie clings it anyway.

Steve’s hazel eyes are a little wider now. A little more awake. He’s picked his head up, no longer leaning against the couch cushions.

“You…”

Freak. Fag. Eddie’s brain helpfully supplies every awful way this could roll, entirely too late. He tenses up, shoulders curling in, a minuscule motion.

But Steve doesn’t look disgusted, he looks a little in disbelief.

“You… want it?” He asks, that same quiet whisper.

And that does a number of Eddie’s heart—the enormity of Steve’s disbelief that someone would want his love, that the rest of it—the semantics, the fact that boys can’t kiss boys—doesn’t even matter to him.

“Yeah,” Eddie croaks. He nods jerkily, the nerves still there, even with Steve’s easy acceptance. “I do. I’d love to have it.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He’s laid his head back down, his hair scrunched up against the leather, but his eyes are still on Eddie. Not scrutinising, just studying. There’s still that hazy look to them, no doubt the alcohol still in his veins.

“I never… didn’t think…” He’s murmuring more to himself. From the concentration of his gaze, he’s thinking hard. He sniffles again, nose twitching and then frowns, eyes cast to the side, before,

“Okay,” Steve says finally, voice quiet. “If you… if you mean it.”

Then he unfurls his hand, the one that had been tracing the glass, and puts it forward. Between them on the couch.

Eddie eyes it, stomach swooping, pulse thudding, and then does what he does best; throws caution to the wind. Steve might hate him tomorrow but tonight, Eddie won’t hide.

Their fingers slot together easily, two perfect puzzle pieces.

Eddie wonders if him in Steve’s life, him like this with Steve, is one of those things that would work—would make sense. If he wants to make sense with Steve or instead be another surprising thing about him.

(That Steve Harrington might like boys. Might like Eddie.)

Steve is gazing at their joined hands. For the first time since he got to Eddie’s trailer, his lips turn upward, a very small yet happy smile. He gives a very light squeeze with his hand, the lack of strength evidence of his sleepiness. Eddie squeezes back nonetheless.

Then Steve’s eyes are closed and in a few deep breathes, he’s out like a light.

It’s a careful process to extract the glass of water from Steve’s clenched hand, but Eddie manages it. It sits on the edge of the coffee table and when Steve wakes up, mouth dry and in need of water, it will be there.

And so will Eddie.

The burning possibilities of what happens come tomorrow—when Steve’s sober and actually thinking straight (ha)—filter through Eddie’s mind, but he can’t find it in himself.

There’s no regret of he’s done. What he’s said, what’s been revealed.

It’s tomorrow’s problem (or tomorrow’s fantasy come true…?), but til then, Eddie burrows into the couch and readies for a sore neck tomorrow morning.