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retrodreamgirl · 1 year

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the happy ending we all deserve, thank you so much for reading and your constant kindness <3

seasons of becoming: winter | steve harrington x fem!reader

spring | summer | fall | winter

summary: winter is the way the bare trees whistle in the wind, their spindly leaves weighed heavily with the fresh slate of white, snow people made of makeshift, carrot noses, grandpa's pipe, and grandma knitted scarfs, the lakes glossed over and ready for blades, tricks, and the occasional spill. it's shopping for presents and sneaking a peek, the celebration of holidays long rooted in tradition and the welcome of ones created anew, it's a time for families lost and found to gather at feasted tables and cozied beside the fire. it's the years finality and it's first breath, a time of revelation and reconciliation, feelings lost and found, the continuation of something old in the form of something new. [7.3k]

warnings: angst, fluff, mentions of sex, fem!reader, bad writing, not edited, its 2am and idk what else so if you love me will you let me know?

ojo spotted. me actually posting a fic; i hope it was worth the wait and if not...sorry bout it <3

⤜♡→

With winter comes fruition.

Hawkins is a wonderland filled with snow and streets slick with ice, lakes glossed over waiting for the blades of childrens skates and their sore bums when they can’t manage proper balance.

Shop shelves are overflowing with hot cocoa and marshmallows of varying sizes. Some like the larger ones that float like mushy mountains giving way to the ocean of chocolate sweet and some the smaller like flakes building hills of fluffy snow. Both so they can further scrutinize which mug has more, the basis for many adolescent squabbles just after a warm dinner, usually a cozy soup or steaming stew.

Snow people line the streets, neighborhoods in silent competition with the decoration of festive lights and homemade wreaths versus the store bought ones with fake holly woven through the stiff plastic of artificial evergreen. There are gifts hidden in every nook and cranny and children peeking in the most unsuspecting of places to lift corners of wrapping paper and gently shake packages before their parents return from work or further shopping.

For you it’s the season of fresh cookies and specialized gifts. It’s thoughtful combinations of chocolates and two for one baking classes. It’s the newly arrived snowglobes lining the shelves, shaken with each instance of a new customer walking through the door, flakes floating in the glass world that mimics a small town in tiny.

The tree by the door is dusted in fake snow, ornaments clinging to the thin branches and a string of colored lights freshly strung with new bulbs. There’s popcorn and cranberry garland the kids insisted on stringing along the counters when they helped you decorate a few weeks ago.

Winter is lovely, but something is off and no one can quite put their finger on it.

It was a tail end sort of thing, something that carried on through the holidays riding autumn’s lapels. The surface was untouched, a stillness disturbed only by the drop of water on an unmoving stream in the shape of constant questions with no answer. The spindly arms of bare trees grasping for nowhere leaves in the aching cold.

“Are you coming to my place for Christmas dinner?” Will tightens a pretty red bow atop a box of sweets, a secret message lining the gift tag in his messy scrawl. It was neglectful to ignore his invitation for so long, you’re abashed that he’s bringing it up so suddenly, never used to anyone following up on these things.

“Oh.” You say it like the possibility of attending only just occurred to you, half breathless like you’d run a mile while you thought of it. You pause a moment, holiday radio showering you with snowflake eighths and quarters. “I don’t wanna put your mom out, I’ll probably just stay in, maybe call my parents.”

“You’re not putting her out. She’s excited to meet you, we’ve mentioned you enough that she talks like she’s known you for years.” It’s not Will’s style to be so intentional, but you can tell he’s guilting you just a tad.

How thoughtless of you to think of refusing his mother’s invitation.

The dinner isn’t on Christmas, so realistically you could pretend you’ve got other plans or leave the shop open a little later than usual, but either way you wouldn’t get away with it. Too marked by a teenager’s curious suspicion — how ridiculous.

“You know, I’m not avoiding this dinner.”

“Of course not. Why would you?” Will shrugs, flicking at the tassels dangling on a freshly packaged apple pie.

“Exactly. I’m just letting you know in case that’s what you were thinking.”

“She really does wanna meet you though. Plus, you did say you’d bring dessert.”

You did say you’d bring dessert, but that was before you decided to avoid it altogether.

It’s easier to be annoyed with the sudden string dangling from the slip of your apron than to waste time scolding yourself internally, so you tug at the pitiful length of fabric. “Who’s coming? I mean,” — you mean to ask if there’s any reason you should be avoiding it — “is everyone else gonna be there?”

“I think so—” He considers you for a moment then glances at the box on the counter. “Max will definitely be there. I think she misses you.”

“What do you mean? I’m around.”

“Yeah, but you make a lot of excuses now. And not good ones.”

You scoff, but only to cover the pit of guilt that feels bottomless in your stomach.

You’ve thought it a little mean of you to back off so suddenly. As much as you can blame the way the seasons have changed and with it the smell of decadence casting a permanent shadow over your doorstep in the frigid death of winter, it’s mostly personal.

“You’re good.” You relent, unavailable for further comment on the matter at hand. “I’ll be there. Maybe a little late though.”

~*~

A little late meant a lot.

The pathetic mess decorating the floor is only slightly less pathetic than the way you’ve been sitting next to it sobbing for nearly thirty minutes. You aren’t sure if it’s the scalding burn roughening your palm, the scattered pie crust dirtying the tile, or an unsaid third thing that’s brought the worst of the tears. You feel stupid, cheeks puffy and eyes sore around the rims, head pounding as a result of your emotional panic.

It was a careless mistake in your haste to make a decent impression, flustered to no end when you forgot to mitt your hand before shoving it into the oven. Careless but immediately regrettable. Your eyes dart to your apron, a sardonic chuckle spilling forth when you spot the nearly spotless seasonal cloth.

“S’not gonna clean itself.” You push your hands to your closed eyes, pressing until you see spots and then some. It feels nice for a spell, leveling some of the pressure at the base of your skull. Short lived is your reprieve, the sudden jingle and the accompaniment of crisp wind setting the hairs on your arm stock straight.

“Um…sorry but we’re closed!” You manage to speak, though an octave out of character. Your uninjured hand finds purchase on the sharp lip of the counter to lift you just enough to spot Lucas as a blob of winter, fastened in his large coat with his hands shoved to his mouth perhaps recovering from the frigid cold. “What are you doing here?”

He makes a strained sort of sound, something between a laugh and an incoherent utterance. “Making sure you aren’t bailing.”

“I’m not bailing.”

He shrugs, shedding his coat in favor of rounding the counter, probably for the warmth of your momentary assailant. He stops in front of the oven and the pile of pie, brows drawn when he soaks in your pitiful state.

“You’ve been crying…” He’s suddenly in his element, kneeling at your side and gently taking hold of the arm you hadn’t realized was cradled limply against your stomach. “Are you hurt?”

“S’just a burn, I’ll be fine.” You mildly carve his shoulder with your free hand, smiling genuinely when he continues to uncurl the unintentional fist you’d wound so tightly. “I forgot the oven mitt. What a dummy right?”

His lip twitches, but Lucas doesn’t laugh.

“Did you run it under cool water or something?” He’s inspecting the skin, backing off a tad when he grazes the surface and you wince.

“Yeah, Lucas, don’t worry I’m fine. I just need to clean this up and make another pie I guess.” You feel silly having been caught wallowing, especially by Lucas. You’re always the one doling out wisdom and here you sit in bits of pie and the afterburn of your misery. “How did you get here by the way? Please tell me you didn’t walk or ride your bike.”

“No, I asked my mom to drop me here instead of Will’s. Don’t you have any pies left from this morning?”

“Yes, but those are from this morning.” You urge, finally pulling yourself from the ground fetching a broom and a cloth to scoop up the gooey chunks of apple mingling in with the crust. The tile has already begun to glaze over with the sugary filling and your back is sore thinking about scrubbing it up. Lucas follows suit, ambling around for something in your cabinets. “I don’t wanna show up with a pie I was going to sell, that’s rude.”

“I honestly don’t think they’d know the difference. Besides, I definitely watched Steve buy store bought cookies.” He slides the first aid kit free from one of the cabinets, pulling an assortment of bandages and sizing them against his palm. “He didn’t even buy them from the bakery either, he just picked up those seasonal butter cookies that come in the Christmas tin—”

“Well, I’m certainly not Steve. But I get it. I'll bring the ones from this morning. I was probably just gonna donate them anyway.”

Silence ensues, you busying yourself with the gross miscalculation of a missing mitt and Lucas pulling your hand away from the mess when he settles on a satisfactory adhesive. He handles you with the same tenderness as before, his cheeks half hollowing where you can tell his teeth have pierced the flesh in concentration — like he’s done this a million times and needs to get it just right.

It strikes you then, how odd it is.

How you could have been so alone in your being were it not for the implicit demand for simplicity in your small town youth.

The age old tale of boy meets girl, the way it unfolded just right and led Lucas through the door of your shop for the first time not a week after it opened. He seemed so fresh faced then, light hearted in his banter, unsure which line of the law you toed. Probably waiting for you to kick him out on his ass because he’s a kid and kids are always up to no good.

The way he nervously counted his change and the corners of his lips sloped a bit when it didn’t add up exactly right. Then his further faltering in confidence when you gave him the gift anyway, making him promise to tell you how things went if he wanted to get even.

You never imagined he would keep coming back buying gifts, with actual money, sometimes he would come by just to tell you about Max over a fresh pastry and eventually about people you never dreamed would someday become your friends as well.

Sometimes he'll even bring you little trinkets, action figures that now litter the store counter and neat posters he’d strung in the office in the back.

You’ve both grown and in a strange way you’ve grown together.

Now he seems wiser, more confident in his person and more comfortable with yours.

“You’re a good guy, Lucas.”

“Relax, you’re not dying or anything.” He grins, securing the bandage. “If anything you’re being a bit of a wuss, it’s not that bad.”

“Excuse me, but I told you I was fine! You’re the one who pulled out the first aid kit, need I remind you. Just take the compliment.”

“Why?” You start on the gooey apples already beginning to harden against the floor, face heating under your sudden affection.

“Because you could be with your friends right now and instead you’re here with me.”

“You’re my friend.”

“You know what I mean.” You scoff, appeased when the apple gunk comes up easier than you were expecting. Lucas helps sweep the rest of the crust and you pull the remaining pies from the display case, boxing and tying them up extra nicely with a ribbon if only because you feel bad they aren’t as fresh as you’d hoped.

You’ve finally managed to put yourself together, locking the shop up then settling in your car with a trunk full of presents and a backseat filled with pie. Your sigh of relief meets Lucas’s in tandem when the heating kicks on, the two of you sitting for a moment while your windshield defrosts.

“So…as a good guy, your words not mine, can I ask why you were crying?”

It’s begun to snow. White ash flutters to a stop on your windshield where you scrutinize the crystalline figures until they give way to water, swiped clean by your stiff wipers. You swear if you listen hard enough you can still hear the wind whistling over the low hum of the radio.

If there was room between your chest and your steering wheel you think your legs would’ve crawled upward until your jeans were kissing the puffiness of your sweater. You’ve always been good at avoiding these conversations, the ones that force you to lay yourself bare.

Now it feels like too much effort. It feels unfair when Lucas is sitting here with you, no more fooled by your predisposition to be nonchalant about things that are bigger than the small way you phrase them.

It’s so cold, but you’re too hot. It’s embarrassing to admit you’ve lost your footing, even worse when you haven’t decided if it’s as detrimental as it feels when your heart slams in your chest and it's just a bit more difficult to breathe. You’re so starving but you haven’t had the stomach to eat in days and when you do it takes more effort than you’d like.

Not to mention your certainty in the reaction Lucas will give you if you hint at your momentary role as an outline in Steve Harrington’s bed.

“I dropped my pie.” Not completely false. Who wouldn’t cry over a perfectly good pie gone to waste? It just doesn’t happen to be the most true of the reasons he found you the way he did. Perhaps only the last straw “And I’m just a tad overwhelmed lately with the holidays and all.”

“Uh huh…” He chews on it for a moment allowing you the courtesy of quiet, disturbed only by the sound of your wipers working overtime against the unforgiving snow. “You know, I definitely saw the way you looked at Steve that first time in the store.”

“And how exactly did I look at him, Sinclair?” Your feet slide against the mats on your floor, a slippery squeak permeating in your eardrums. “You know what? I don’t wanna know. We’re late.”

You coast for a few minutes, tires cautiously gliding along ice slick roads.

“It was like a—”

“Lucas.”

“Oh what a hottie!” His voice jumps about three octaves, hands framing his face in a manner quipped as stereotypically feminine.

“Oh it was not!”

“Was too.”

“Whatever — is there actually a point to this?” The drive to the Byers’ is shorter than you were expecting, your tires sliding a tad when your foot suddenly finds the break. Your memory taking the shape of your leg muscles rather than the power of your brain when you spot their porch lights fading into view.

There are a few cars already lining the drive, your headlight’s reflection bouncing off the rusted mailbox with the faint outline of numbers or a name to one side, you aren’t sure in the low lighting and you’ve never been concerned enough to care until now.

Aligning your wheels with shoveled asphalt you glance at your passenger and he’s sending you a look you pretend not to understand. The way Lucas’s eyebrows lower until they’re set in deadpan, his hand half pulling at the lever on the door — in a hurry but not enough that he doesn’t find it unnecessary to impress this upon you. His head is resting on the back of his seat, lolled to the side like it’d taken all of his energy to get there.

“Will you just help me with these pies?” Lucas relents, but he’s not through, beating you where you round to the passenger side for a clearer shot to the front door once you’ve loaded up.

He perches on the backseat, nearly squashing one of the boxes.

“You guys kissed, didn't you?” He’s not coy about the sudden accusation, more put out by the drama of it all if the obscene roll of his eyes is any indication. You have the audacity to sputter, the sound toeing the line between amusement and disbelief. Neither fooling Lucas one bit. “Dustin already got Steve to cough it up and he said it’s not a big deal, people kiss and it doesn’t mean anything.”

You’re about to brush Lucas off, demand he get out of your car, but you pause.

A sudden movement, hand half cuffing his coat puffed wrist and your weight resting on your right foot. Your lip twitches and your stomach does a funny little somersault, the kind you only associate with butterflies though right now it feels more like a swarm of bats.

“Steve said that or Dustin?” You blurt, dropping Lucas’s arm in favor of clutching the freezing corner of your door with more force than necessary.

“Huh?”

“You said that he said it’s not a big deal. Who said that, Steve or Dustin?” A small detail, but perhaps the only thing to drive you back to what you deem a semblance of sanity rather than the crumbling corner you’ve so gracelessly clung to for the past several weeks.

So sure you were that Steve would’ve preferred your easy slip into the silent night to the awkward pleasantries in the morning to follow.

It was only that fateful night as you laid wide awake, a feeling settled heavy over every inch of you, that you shuddered beneath the ghosted feeling of Steve’s hands on your skin. A guilt settled thick and bitter atop your tongue.

Perhaps you’d read him wrong. There were so many signs in either direction, maybe you’d chosen to follow the worst of them and you were subjecting Steve to waking a man broken by your sudden departure.

It was this thought that won out amongst the rest. Especially when you didn’t see or hear from Steve for days until they became weeks and you're sure by now you’ve hit the one month mark.

It’s a horrible thought, but if Lucas is saying what you think he is then you can allow yourself the space to breathe because maybe Steve is just as bad as you thought. It sours a bit in your stomach and a part of you thinks you could puke or cry over it just a bit more, but if it’s true then you’re sure you could learn to be okay with it.

“Uh…I mean that’s what Dustin said Steve said, but for all I know he could’ve been paraphrasing. It is Dustin we’re talking about here.” You can tell Lucas feels like he’s skating on thin ice, unsure which way feels solid enough to glide his way to safety.

“Okay, let’s go inside.”

“Yeah…”

You breathe, shivering against a hefty gust of wind. It nearly blinds you to the path before you. An omen if you had to guess. Though good or bad? You couldn’t even begin to say. “Unless there’s some other place you need to be?”

~*~

Everything is chaos as soon as the Byers’ front door is thrown open, Joyce welcoming you both with open arms.

She’s thrilled with the arsenal of desserts and Lucas shoots you something of a smug side eye. You can hear the kids arguing about something in the living room until someone grunts that they should all be quiet to which someone else, El you deduce, retorts something with a level of sass you’d yet to hear from the sweet teen.

Joyce is ushering you into the kitchen, barely enough time for you to dart your eyes toward everyone else in the living room in a failed attempt at a headcount.

It feels extra homey and you wonder if it has anything to do with the smell of Joyce’s cooking and the various candles and decorations or if it all comes from the woman herself, preparing you and Lucas mugs of cocoa, making sure the lingering cold leaves as quickly as possible.

You decide rather quickly that she’s one of your favorite people. You attribute it to the warmth of her smile and the way she’s already asking you so many questions that would usually overwhelm you but somehow feel incredibly special when she asks them.

“I feel like I know so much about you but also nothing at all!” She laughs, dropping a handful of marshmallows into Lucas’s mug, shooing him from the room like she’s his own. “The kids talk about you all the time.”

“Oh, I’m sure they talk me up quite a bit. I promise I’m not very exciting.”

“If it were the boys who wouldn’t shut up about you I might believe it, but trust me when I say it’s not easy to impress Max Mayfield.” She settles on you pointedly, not like you’d done something wrong but like you’d cracked some secret code.

You shrink beneath her prying eyes, unsure you deserve such praise in the wake of recent events.

“Honestly she’d made more of an impression on me than anything. All of them really, they’re good kids.”

“Yeah…they are.” She looks far away and you feel like you’re intruding on something, startled when heavy footsteps clunk into the kitchen effectively tearing your gaze from Joyce and hers from wherever it had settled moments before.

You immediately recognize Sheriff Hopper. He’s looking much lighter than usual in a thick maroon sweater and blue jeans rather than the casual professionalism of his coat and badge. But he leaves you no more fooled when you catch the furrow in his eyebrows like he’s especially pissed off about something.

They even a bit when he catches your eye, the corners of his lips curling enough that you could tell he was trying to smile without straining himself too much. He extends his hand and you meet him halfway, unsure what to expect from him.

You’d only met a few times, one of those times due to the unfortunate circumstance of an attempted break in.

Then you weren’t sure what to make of the grumpy sheriff, tales passed around the shops lining the street painting him in various shades ranging from “loveable grump” to “irredeemable asshole”. But standing in the middle of the Byers’ kitchen he seems nice, especially when you accept his outstretched hand and he pulls you in for a short, somewhat awkward, hug.

“Nice to see you again, Y/n.” He releases you, a heavy hand hunkering down on your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance. You’d somehow missed the beer settled in his free hand, his carefree mannerisms making a bit more sense, but you’re still no more swayed on your uncertainty of character.

Joyce is lighthearted when she catches your gaze and her eyes roll playfully.

“You too, sir.” You watch him stalk around the counter, eyes focused plainly on a dish centering the rest near the stove. His hand is nearly there before Joyce smacks it away.

“If you’re hungry go drag the kids away from their bickering.”

~*~

It was difficult for you to think of dinner as an awkward instance. The table was small, your elbows knocking with Max and Mike on either side, but the company was so full of big personalities it gave you little time to ponder the unkempt boy settled at the opposite end.

You were juggling three conversations at any given moment, Joyce attempting to get to know you while Dustin explained the party’s latest campaign — you’d missed it despite previously promising to sit in — and Max assuring him you couldn’t care less before getting on about her own tales big and small.

Still you allowed yourself the grace of a few glances in Steve’s direction throughout the meal. He was never looking at you and you couldn’t tell if it was intentional or he was sincerely occupied with whatever Hopper was prattling on about. Perhaps you secretly hoped he'd slipped his own glimpses in the space between yours, that he’s been wondering just as much as you.

Either way it afforded you the luxury of taking him in completely. Your eyes initially zeroed in on the way his hair traced the tips of his eyebrows, cascading to kiss the apples of his cheeks on either side. His face is lined with rose, like he’s been silently suffocating in the warmth of the cableknit sweater hugging his arms and torso, his hand awkwardly clutching his fork while the other traces a pattern into the pleated tablecloth.

“Can we open presents now?” It’s Dustin, his mouth midway through chewing a piece of candied yam. His insistence was all it took for the rest of the table to nod along enthusiastically, forks quickly scraping along glass plates to scoop the last of their dinner.

Joyce has not a moment to argue before the legs of wooden chairs — varying in shapes and sizes; the one you're currently sitting in has a baby blue cushion and wobbles on one of its legs — are grating against the hardwood. You think it a miracle how they’ve all moved in tandem, gathering around the tree, richly decorated with ornaments both store bought and homemade.

You can just make out one with a photo of Will and Jonathan, whose memory spans no further than polite nods in the hall, nestled cutely in the center of a pipe cleaner Christmas tree and you make a mental note to gently tease Will about his frighteningly consistent fashion sense.

Your empty handedness strikes you suddenly, presents long forgotten in the trunk of your car. You glance around for your coat and Joyce jumps a bit in your peripheral.

“Are you okay?” She strides over to you, her hands full with sticky plates. You feel bad that she probably thought you were leaving, taking a moment to consider what sort of reputation you have for these sorts of things.

“Yeah, dinner was lovely I—”

“Don’t tell me you’re already going?” This catches the attention of a few stragglers, Steve and Dustin who’d been having their own hushed conversation in the far corner.

“No! I just forgot everyone’s gifts in my car.” Joyce eases the tension in her shoulders glancing at the steadily falling snow out the nearest window. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Give me just a sec to put these down and I can help, I don’t want you falling over.” She’s already halfway to the kitchen when Dustin pipes up, his hand fisting the lower half of Steve’s sweater, exposing a bit of his torso in the process.

“Steve will help, he'd be thrilled to help actually!”

You look away before it's obvious you looked at all, prepared to decline Dustin’s insistence.

Steve is straddling the few steps between the kitchen and the living room, like he might make a run when you aren’t looking. It almost makes you laugh because it’s the most interaction you’ve had since you arrived and he hasn’t said a word.

He doesn’t need to. You can see the uncertainty in his eyes tinted the darkest shade of hazel, just a slight glimmer of the lights Joyce has strung up catching in his pupils.

“It’s fine, I can do it on my own.” You sling your coat over your shoulders, fishing in the pockets on either side until you feel the cool metal of your car key. You whirl in the direction of the front door, startling half a step back when Steve brushes past you like he’s taken your rejection as an act of defiance that simply won’t do.

You glance at Dustin, but he’s already sauntered off in the other direction, his hands dusting against each other like he’d just cleaned himself of something particularly irritating.

Steve is holding the door expectantly when you make toward him, something akin to agitation tracing the space between his brows.

“Thanks for the help.” You step into the cold hoping the words don’t sound as foreign to Steve’s ears as they do to yours, all funny and faraway. His hands shove into his slacks and he’s hunched his shoulders so the collar of his sweater is inching up a bit around the bare skin of his neck because he’s foregone his coat.

“Yeah, sure.” You think he might say more and shrink back toward your car when he doesn’t. You feel embarrassed fiddling with your keys, like there aren’t actually presents in your trunk and you’ve lured Steve into the cold looking for some revelation. “Is the lock frozen?”

You startle, nearly dropping your keychain with the ceramic snowman dangling from the end wearing a billowing scarf and a coal bent smile. You struggle a bit more, heating substantially where you feel your fingers struggling to place the shape of the key into the opening of the lock. “Sorry—”

It’s a toe over the line of embarrassment when you nearly drop your keys into the accumulation of snow beneath your feet. You're about to apologize again when a strong hand clasps over your hesitant ones, Steve’s breath ghosting over your neck.

“Let me.” He grunts, pulling you from your momentary panic, an uncertainty birthed in the way he felt pressed against you. You relinquish expecting him to back away and allow you to give him space, but he simply guides your hand, easily maneuvering until you hear the tiny pop of your back end. “Fuck, Y/n, did you buy the whole store?”

You can’t help the way you laugh, more like a snort when you consider the way your sinuses are a mixture of frost and liquid cold. There’s no room to deny you went overboard, but you weren’t sure what to get and so you got a bit of everything. You took careful consideration to get at least one gift that made you think of them and the other was more of a Hail Mary in the event they found the first to be odd or in poor taste.

“No…there was a sale.” You lie, tutting when you grab a bag from Steve’s hand, prohibiting his prying eyes from breaching the delicate edges of the wrapping on one of the boxes. “No peeking!”

“Fine. Can I have a word then?” It’s testing the way he says it, like a parent mocking a child, asking for permission to scold them. You don’t think he means it that way, but Steve has become such a mystery to you. Or maybe you never really knew him at all. “I’m sure we’ve both got some things to say.”

“Now?” More a question of the cold than the actual conversation. You’re positive Steve won’t be able to feel a single one of his limbs when you step back inside. “I mean…should we start the car? You must be freezing.”

He considers you a moment, his hand tracing the underside of his jaw with the stiff angle of his thumb and pointer. You don’t wait, shoving the trunk closed. You round to the front seat assuming the dull crunch of Steve’s boots would soon follow. You take a few moments to yourself to breathe deep, fumbling with the ignition then the heat when Steve shuts the passenger door.

It was easy to forget how quickly Steve can consume you completely. You can still feel his breath on your neck and his cologne is already eating away at the flimsy tree freshener hanging from your mirror. Your nerves haven’t stopped itching since you first laid eyes on him sitting wide-legged on Joyce’s sofa, grumpy and put out at first glance but filled with an underlying current of joy beneath the surface.

“I haven’t seen you around in a while.” He cuts through the silence and you wonder if it was awkward for him, too caught in your own head to notice.

“Well I haven’t seen you either.” A childish observation, but one that isn’t untrue. “What are we doing here, Steve?”

“Honestly? I’m a little confused.” He props his legs on the dash, kicking snow onto the beaten plastic, it looks uncomfortable but you don’t mention it. He looks comfortable, nonchalant, it pisses you off.“We— I kinda thought…”

“Do you like me at all?” Steve’s eyes widen a fraction then shrink into the most accusing glare you’ve ever seen directed at you personally. Sure you’ve had pissed customers, but this was nothing like that. An attack on his character that he was unwilling to take lying down.

“Me? Are you serious right now?” You don’t take it back and he laughs, dragging his hand across his face, pushing his feet forward a little more so that dirt smudges your windshield. “I’m not the one who left.”

“I only left because I thought that's what you wanted.” It sounds lame, especially when the boy who hears them is blinking owlishly then scoffing perturbed. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Do I look confused? Because I’m really fucking confused.” You ache to reach for the radio, dialing it to a random station in hopes something silly plays to make you both laugh. It always works when you have a spat with Eddie.

But Steve is nothing like Eddie and you don’t think he’d find it as humorous, he’d probably think you’re making fun of him. Not to mention you don’t have those kinds of feelings for Eddie and he’d probably think it was stupid you’re arguing in the first place.

“Why would I want you to leave? I kinda thought we were on the same page.” You don’t agree or disagree because you don’t know what page Steve is on and you think it might be worse to ask for clarification. You feel petulant just sitting and staring out of the windshield, like it's fair to be mad at Steve because he’s right. You’re the one that walked out and now you’re both confused.

It’s like falling into old habits. Placing yourself below this invisible line, the one that convinced you no one like Steve Harrington could ever be interested. Not a tactic of self-doubt, more an improper balance in your perception of reality.

It’s allowed you to obfuscate feelings everyone around you knows to be true so you could create a caricature of Steve and assuage your own guilt and self destruction.

“When I woke up and you weren’t there…look we’re not in high school anymore. If you don’t—” He pauses, tosses the words around and drops his feet from the dash. He seems unsure, like he might just open the door and walk right back inside. His neck cranes, lolls on the seat rest until he’s looking at you pointedly. “I bought you a star.”

“Um…huh?”

“A star, I bought you one. I don’t have the certificate because I thought it might be stupid and clearly things between us are iffy at best, but I got it after we went stargazing.” You duck, the muscles edging your lips unwilling to fight the bashful way you smile into your coat.

“Wow. Steve, I don’t really know what to say.” You do know what to say —You’re a sentimental idiot and I’m in love with you— but you can’t find a voice with enough conviction to say it.

“I know it’s cheesy and dumb, but that’s kinda the point right? Because it’s cheesy and sometimes it makes me feel dumb the way I love you and— there it is.”

“There it is.” You nod, trying your damnedest not to look away from the saucers gaping back at you; glistening with his sudden burst of vulnerability. “I’m sorry.”

Steve deflates, hand resting on the door handle for the perfect escape. You can imagine him walking inside like none of this happened, playing the part of the babysitter, unshakable in his role as the reluctant feigned role model.

“I’m sorry that I left that day.” You remedy, reaching for his free hand, the one hanging limp near the center console. Your eyes fall there as well, tracing the half frozen skin and hoping he can feel the warmth crawling through your veins from your blood pumping organ. “I guess I just thought it was a one off for you. I didn’t think you were into me and I equated that to getting out while I was ahead.”

Steve’s hand tightens around yours, you hope in understanding but you’re too afraid to check.

“Then you avoided me so I avoided you because I thought that’s what you wanted and Lucas said that Dustin said that you said it didn’t matter. So, I thought everything would be fine, awkward but fine and I could get over the fact that I’m stupidly in love with you.”

You finish, finally peeking up from your intertwined hands. You’re not sure if he caught any of that, it was half mumbled and the words strung together at odd angles.

Steve’s grin is lopsided, the realization that if anything you’re both idiots but it’s fine because you’re idiots in love.

“I’m sorry, but I was so obvious.” He laughs pitifully, wondering which of you is worse. “And I said those things to Dustin because I was trying to get over you and he was being a pain in my ass.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“But I’m—”

“I forgive you.” He hushes, tracing just beneath your lower lip. He glances at the flesh there like he isn’t sure and you give him a moment, breaking the tension when you reach toward the glove compartment. “What are you doing?”

“I got you a gift too.” It never seems like there’s much in the tiny space until you’re looking for one specific thing, then your whole life is compact and every bit of it is shoved inside.

“You mean mine isn’t one of those fancy ones wrapped in the back?” Steve teases, shifting under your glare to give you more leverage.

“Shut up, this isn’t a Christmas gift.” Your lip is jutting out and you can feel Steve staring holes into your profile. “It’s in here, I swear.”

He doesn’t argue, waiting for the sudden moment when you find purchase on the tiny decorative box and straighten with a breathless Ah ha!

“What is it?” His curiosity molds well with the suspicion lacing his tone and you have half a mind to be offended. Instead, you hand it over, no explanation needed until he takes the geometric packaging and delicately pulls the ribbon dressed in the center so it cascades down the sides of his palm.

He eyes you wearily and you nod toward the box, leaning toward him ever so slightly in your own unbridled anticipation. You’ve shoved your hands beneath you so as not to suddenly jolt forward and do the deed on his behalf.

“Steve, please.”

“It’s nothing big, right? You’re not gonna propose or something? Because I’m not ready for that kind of commitment, I’m only just starting to hope we’re on the same page with dating.”

“Steven!” You swat his arm, his smile charming enough that you smile in return when he catches your wrist, his lips grazing your pulse.

“Alright, alright! We are on the same page with dating though, right?”

“Not if you don’t open the box.” You’ve missed the ability to feel so light with him and you think you’ve cheated somehow, getting back here so quickly.

You watch him slowly release the lid, discarding it against his slacks. He fishes the fresh band of leather with frightened fingers, tracing the clasp and the initials S.H. that meet like pieces of a puzzle. You try not to be too expectant, you don’t want him to pretend to like it out of some sense of duty.

“What’s it for?” He coughs, voice scratchy and thick where it crawls up his throat. “You said it’s not a Christmas gift.”

“No, it’s not.” You agree, angling your body toward him a bit more. You nudge the hand holding the leather braided bracelet, a silent command which he follows flawlessly dropping it into your own. His fingers trace the edges as if afraid he’d only ever hold it for those few moments.

You wrap it around his wrist, clasping it tight enough to kiss his skin but loose enough that it feels like a part of him, not like it’s suffocating him. You can feel him looking back at you when you trace the engraved clasp, slowly trailing the curve of the S.

“It’s more of a going away gift I guess,” You shrug.

“Am I going somewhere?”

“Maybe someday, maybe not. But it’s like a promise that no matter what you have yourself and the belief that you can do good things.” Your finger travels to the H, taking your time with each line, going over it a second and third time. “The H could also stand for Hawkins, your first home, the place you found family, the place that will always be here for you for better or worse.”

“The place I met you.” He adds, hand finding the underside of your chin so suddenly you don’t think much of it when your faces are only inches apart. “You’re amazing, you know that? I think this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me.”

“I don’t know, Dustin’s birthday gift last year sounded pretty awesome.”

“I can’t believe all I got you was a star—”

“Hey, I love my star! Don’t you say a word about my star.” You scold, a sudden thought cropping up. “You do know where it is, right? Like you can show it to me?”

Steve looks through the dash uneasily, like he is in this moment attempting to find said star in the snow clouded sky. “I’m sure it says so on the certificate. Right?”

“What am I gonna do with you?”

“You could let me kiss you?” You do him one better, surging forward with a rush of immediacy to kiss him.

It’s different this time around, not the precise movements of discarded clothes and the awkward discovery of how you fit. This time when you kiss it’s gentle but firm, chilly but warm. It’s every feeling neither of you could confidently express in words just yet.

It’s you and Steve framed by the perfect winter, one that’ll probably leave you both with sniffles and a slight fever in the coming days.

There’s a fishbowl-like tap on the passenger window and you jump apart to a chorus of hooded faces cramped and smushed against the glass. You don’t know whether to laugh or feel mortified they’d caught you.

“Are you two done kissing? We’re kinda waiting to open presents and you’ve been out here for like a half hour.” Dustin deadpans, clearly not amused in the slightest.

You decide he’s probably too busy reveling in his genius when you see him and Lucas not-so-sneakily fist bump behind Will’s head. You find Max next and she rolls her eyes but smiles nonetheless, jerking Steve’s door open so the guys can all but drag him out of the car. She takes his place, eying you for a second, ignoring the way El and Robin have both poked their heads so they’re peeking over each shoulder.

“What a year, huh?” She huffs, her tone giving you no real indication on how she feels about the whole thing.

“What a year.” You agree, yanking your key from the engine. As if on cue Lucas appears at your door to retrieve it so they can actually gather presents this time. You can hear the boy’s triumph when they make Steve’s earlier discovery and start debating which gifts they think are theirs.

“Sorry I’ve been so MIA lately.” It’s a poor apology, but you know Max understands for the moment when she hums and glances in the rearview, to Max and Robin, then back at you.

“We hope you know Steve is still not invited to girls night.”

“Of course not! But I hope you know you’ll be the ones breaking the news to him.”

#im glad i finally finished it #i hope it was worth the wait

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