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rustedhearts · 17 hours

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everytime (steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: despite your break up two months ago, you can't seem to stay away from each other. when you need him, he's there. but how long can this really last?

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♡ the steve collection ♡

tags: steve + reader are college age (early-mid 20s), alcohol consumption, angst, hurt/comfort-ish, reader may have a bit of a substance abuse issue (it's heavily implied), accidental casual dominance? (steve really just takes care of her)

"every time i try to fly i fall without my wings, i feel so small. i guess i need you, baby. and every time i see you in my dreams, i see your face, it's haunting me. i guess i need you, baby."

—everytime, britney spears (ethel cain cover)

hawkins, indiana 1999

For your first date, Steve took you to Harvey's: a little retro milkshake diner off the interstate with the soggiest salted French fries and the smoothest strawberry shake you'd ever had in your life. He kissed you against the tin wall, right beneath the neon crimson exit sign. He held your hand on the drive home and kissed your knuckles at stop signs. You're so fuckin' beautiful, he told you on your porch.

That was senior year, three years ago.

For your last date, Steve took you to Enzo's: the fanciest Italian restaurant in town with bitter sauce and crunchy breadsticks. He didn't kiss you on the way there, nor the way back. You barely looked each other in the eye during the entire meal. When the check came, Steve slid it into his lap and turned to your hand, limp and empty on the tabletop. This isn't working anymore...is it? he asked you.

That was two months ago.

Your relationship had been on the outs for a while. All you did was fight, and not the fun, witty banter you used to have. The arguments turned explosive: doors slamming, engines revving, broken picture frames. Steve accused you of flirting with every man you came in contact with. You accused him of insecurity and projection. The pair of you made a scene no matter where you went, and soon it became exhausting just to be in your presence. You were bitter and bitchy, no longer the sweet girl he loved to make giggle. You became resentful and mean, and he became passive and silent.

It wasn't working, and it hadn't been working for a while.

You moved out of the apartment and in with a friend from college, taking the tiny spare bedroom she'd been using for storage. Most of it lived in the closet now, but the space was yours. The move was difficult—you'd lived with Steve since the day after high school graduation. You were gonna get married. You were gonna move west to California when you were done with school and abandon Indiana together. The pair of you had dreams bigger than this town, and now that you had gone your separate ways, they felt out of reach.

But you hadn't really gone your separate ways, had you?

You spoke on the phone a few nights a week, murmuring in the darkness about your days. Though it always went unspoken, I miss you bled through every phone call. When he inevitably sighed, and the receiver crackled with his shuffling, you had to bite way tears. I should get to bed, he'd say, and he'd say it like an apology. You soaked your pillow, wishing you'd told him you loved him a little more than you did when you had the chance.

Because you always loved Steve, and you were certain you always would. Nobody had ever been so kind to you, so sweet and understanding. Steve saw you for who you were, and never wanted you to change. But you pulled away from him, pushed him out when he tried to get in. Nobody bothered to stick around as long as Steve did. And that scared you.

Now here you were, crying yourself to sleep.

♡ ♡

One thing you didn't lose in the breakup were your friends. They refused to pick sides, insisting that there was no need to choose one or the other when they could easily split their time. More often than not, you found yourself waving to Steve through Eddie Munson's apartment window as he got into his car and drove off—like switching shifts, alternating between your visits and Steve's. He'd wave back, a stiff palm in the air directed your way in the windshield, paired with a tight-lipped, solemn smile.

Tonight, Eddie was hosting a party with his girlfriend, Gwen, and you knew the crowd would be absent of Steve. The only reason Steve ever attended parties was because you wanted to. He much preferred staying in and reading, or going to dinner just the two of you. He hated crowds and loud music, the 'sloppy drunks and fuzzy potheads' as he called them. He hated Eddie's other friends, and he hated you around them. You were always a little too eager to guzzle alcohol and puff a joint—it was the topic of many of your arguments.

He wasn't wrong, and that's what pissed you off the most.

Because here you were, on your third rum and coke of the night, sipping from a tiny red straw and chewing on the plastic. Eyes hazy and rimmed pink, cheeks flushed with warmth, sweating down your spine. The apartment was crammed with people like sardines in a tin can, and you stumbled through them on your way to the kitchen for some sort of snack. There, you found Robin and Gwen leaning against the sink, eyeing you pitifully as you fell between them with a sigh.

"What's up, girls?" You were out of breath and slurring your words.

They shared a look over your head, cringing. "How many have you had, babe?" Gwen asked.

You hummed, rubbing at your eye and smearing glitter across your cheek. "Uh...like two? Three. Definitely three."

"Three and?"

You huffed, tipping your head back exasperatedly. "Three and, like, one fucking hit. How many have you had, Robin?"

Your tone was mean. It always got a little sharp and cruel when you had too much to drink. The words always came flying out before you could swallow them, and you always woke the next morning with a massive headache and a ball of regret the size of Canada sitting in your throat. You felt it, a pang of guilt stabbing your gut, when you saw your friends' faces fall. You felt it, wringing your heart like a wet washcloth when Steve would stomp off.

"Hey. We're just looking out for you," Gwen interjected, brows furrowing at your tone.

Your cheeks flamed, teeth digging into the fleshy interior of your cheek to stop the tears of humiliation from springing forth. You turned around shakily and took a warm cheese cube from the platter on the counter.

"I know. But I'm...I'm fine. Okay?"

The girls sighed, and Eddie came shuffling into the kitchen with a beer and a cigarette in hand. He wrapped an inked arm around Gwen's neck, pulling her in by the crook of his elbow to plant a loud kiss on the top of her head. She fit into his side and nuzzled his neck, smiling in greeting. You swallowed, throat coated with thick warning. You were going to cry, and you sure as fuck weren't gonna do it here.

"Hey, what's up, scholar?" Eddie asked you, smacking your arm playfully.

You refused to turn around, knowing if you did the whole kitchen would see your glossy eyes and wobbling lip. But this just made you mean again, and as you plucked more cheese from the counter and poked at limp peppers, you pulled in on yourself. Eddie turned to his girlfriend and Robin, who shook their heads dejectedly.

"You okay, honey?" Robin reached out to rub your arm, and you curled away to wave her off, keeping your face angled toward the floor.

"I'm fine. I just...I'm gonna...go wash my hands."

You hurried off, refusing to meet their eyes as you went. You staggered through a sea of people, dizzy and foggy-headed, struggling to breathe. Gwen and Eddie's bedroom was the last door on the left, and you burst into the room with an urgent gasp of breath. The door slammed after you, and you had half a mind to sink onto the floor and lie there for the rest of the night until you stopped crying—but then you saw the phone.

You didn't even think about it.

You knew the number by heart. You dialed the numbers like second nature, lifting the phone to your ear to cradle the cool plastic with shaky fingers. You sniffled to clear the snot, swiping at the tears dripping down your cheeks. The dial tone droned. Once, twice, three times. You sank onto the floor against the bed, leaning your head back against the soft mattress.

"Hello?"

You squeezed your eyes shut. "Stevie?"

It was quiet a moment, and then another soft sigh. "Honey...why are you callin' me? Is everything okay?"

His voice, so soft and smooth like it always was, felt like a security blanket. It wrapped around you, tendrils curling around your bones to hold them tight like he used to. And you wanted nothing more than to hear that voice murmuring in your ear, with his arms around you to keep you safe. Everything's been so off-kilter since he left. Since you left each other. Every day feels like finding your footing all over again. Naked and bare, you weren't sure which direction to go in unless he was there to guide you.

And as selfish as it sounded, you wanted him to guide you again.

"N-No. I'm so fucked up, Steve—it's so fucked up."

Shuffling crackled through the receiver, and you imagined Steve sitting up in bed and rubbing his tousled hair. He sounded tired when he spoke again. "You been drinkin', baby?"

You nodded, sniffling nosily. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Stevie."

Keys tinkled like wind chimes in the distance of the other line. "Where are you, honey? Hmm? Do you know?"

You sighed, snot rattling in the back of your throat. Your hand fell to the itchy carpet beneath your legs, rubbing your palm to scratch it. You hated how this sounded like a routine. Like he expected you to call, all fucked out and lost. You wished you were better for him.

"M' at Eddie's."

"Oh, okay," Steve sounded a little relieved. "Stay where you are, alright?" He was coming to you.

"Steve...you don't have t' come, m' sorry. M' sorry, just...I'm all over the place."

"I'll be right there."

The line clicked, and you carefully placed the phone back in the cradle. The tears started up again, full force and breathless. You gasped for air and hiccuped like an infant as you clawed your way onto the bed, sprawling out on your back. You were grateful the room was dark. You didn't want to see yourself like this.

You listened the songs change while you waited to calm your cries. The room hadn't stopped spinning, and your throat felt so tight. Your chest hurt with a hollow ache that hadn't gone away since your last night at Steve's. You slept in the same bed, facing opposite walls. In the morning, you slid your key across the table and kissed his cheek. He carried your boxes to the car and stroked your cheek with his thumb against the passenger door. He smelled like hazelnut coffee and sleep.

Four songs passed before you heard familiar voices murmuring outside the door.

"Jesus, Steve, you can't keep coming to rescue her," Robin huffed.

You wiped your cheeks, lips downturning. Tough love really hurt when it came from your closest friends.

"Mind your business."

"This is my business. I care about both of you, and this is just...this is unhealthy!"

"Get out of my fucking way, Buckley."

The door handle jiggled, and you turned your head to watch it open. A streak of yellow light sliced through the blue darkness of the room.

"You don't know shit," Steve muttered, and then he was standing in the room.

The thump of music became muffled by the door once more, light clamped off to return the pair of you to darkness. A strip of moonlight beaconed over his face as he stepped closer, hands in the pockets of his jeans. You could hear his keys jingling as he fidgeted. He tipped his head at the sight of you lying there.

"Hi," you whispered. It was the sweetest you’d sounded in months.

Steve swallowed, trying not to rush over and kiss you. He had to fight the urge each time he saw you, even in passing. It felt wrong to part ways without a kiss goodbye. Even when you fought, you always stopped to kiss each other before going to work or heading to bed. It became one of Steve's favorite habits. He felt empty without it.

"Hi," he murmured back.

You sniffled, carefully turning your head away to look toward the ceiling. You were disappointed to see it was still swirling. You suddenly wished you were sober. Maybe he'd see you differently.

"You didn't have to come."

Steve shrugged in your periphery. He was wearing one of those collared polos that you loved. Three buttons always left undone, tight white t-shirt underneath. You wanted him closer. You wanted to smell his cologne again.

"But I'm here."

You shuffled to your elbows, groaning softly. Something lurched in your stomach, coiled tight in your belly. You were gonna be sick, but you didn't want to be in front of Steve. Pushing off weakly on your palms, you sat upright and wiped your cheek, smearing more makeup in the process.

Steve inched closer, waiting for his cue to step in. It came when you stood and wavered on the carpet, reaching for a steady surface.

"Alright, easy, honey." He swooped in, arm wrapped around your waist to guide you toward the bathroom door.

He pushed it open and flicked on the light, propping you against the sink like a Barbie doll. With an open palm on your stomach, he kept you upright as he rummaged through the drawers for a rag. You played with the brown leather band of his watch as he ran the rag under warm water, a pout embedded on your mouth.

"Wanna hop up there f' me?"

You braced the cold counter with the heel of your palms, lifting on wobbly arms to sit on top. "Atta girl," Steve mumbled under his breath, and even in your bleary state you flushed with warmth.

Resting against the mirror, you watched Steve lather powder white soap onto the wet cloth until it bubbled, bringing two fingers under the pink cotton to wipe against your cheek. His eyes were steady on his own ministrations, watching his hand clean away the smeared mascara and tears.

Your eyes, however, could only focus on him. His big sad eyes, swampy green and brown flanked by long, curled lashes. The mocha-colored freckles grazing his cheeks and collarbone, sprinkled along his neck. The pout on his plump pink lips, taken between his teeth in concentration.

When he switched the cloth to the other cheek, you exhaled shakily and caught his wrist. His eyes flicked to yours, finally catching your gaze. He blinked, another one of those toothless, tight-lipped smiles breezing over his lips. It was painted with pity.

Wrapping both hands around the warmth of his forearm, you tipped your cheek into his palm and the soapy, damp cloth encompassed around it. Steve sighed, chest deflating beneath that handsome polo. In the fluorescents of the bathroom, he looked prettier than ever. You were smaller than he'd ever seen you, crumpled and disheveled.

"You drank too much again." He said it the way he orders a cheeseburger in the drive-thru: casual, predictable, cool. He expected this.

That's what always hurt you most.

Your mouth opened to utter a reply, but all that came was a shuttered breath. Your lip downturned, jutting out in a petulant pout that made him ache. He swiped two fingers, cool from the cloth and scented of clean soap, across your temple and into your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

"Just felt sad," you admitted lowly, rubbing your hand along his arm.

Steve placed his hand against your other cheek, suddenly cradling your face. His thumb made circles in your sticky skin—firm, tender, just the way you used to like it. Your eyes fluttered closed, head falling deeper into his hold.

"About what?" His voice was so soft, so small. The rest of the world fell away outside of his tiny, outdated bathroom.

You scoffed humorlessly, head shaking. You opened your eyes again as you fiddled with his watch. "You know what."

Steve's gaze rolled over your face, swollen and pink, stuck in a defeated frown. He wondered if you'd remember this in the morning, or if it'd be another night you fell fuzzy on.

"Yeah...yeah, I know, baby."

You huffed, breath hot and laced with liquor across his arm. "M' sorry. M' sorry I made you come out here, and...m' just...m' just sorry—"

"—hey, come on—"

"—no, Steve...m' a mess. Everyone's right about me."

The pads of Steve's fingers scratched at your scalp, and you hated how easily you purred like a kitten at his touch. Your neck craned, and if it weren't for his hand holding your head up, you might've lied down right there on the sink. Inebriation had its claws in you deep.

"Hey," he cooed, urging your head up with his wash-clothed hand. "Don't talk like that."

When you did nothing but continue to frown and sniffle, Steve sighed and steadied you upright. "C'mon, lemme finish cleanin' you up."

Your shoulders slumped, head bobbing gently. "Okay."

Steve chuckled, rubbing your other cheek with the soapy cloth. "Okay."

You were pliant to his pulling and prodding, allowing him to clean you without complaint. He tucked your hair behind your ears when your face was washed, and filled a Dixie cup with cool water for you to drink. He rested his hands on your bare knees as he watched you gulp it down, patting them when you were done.

"All done?"

You nodded, handing him the paper cup. He tossed it in the trash bin, nudging your chin up with two fingers. "Hey. You with me?"

You nodded again. "Mhm."

"I'm gonna take you home, okay?"

You grasped his hand, pushing your fingers through his. "Okay."

He helped you off the counter, but he didn't drop your hand. He held it as he guided you through the dark bedroom and into the hall, using it to pull you into his side to fit through the crowd. When you made it to the kitchen, you were stopped by your friends, and you pressed your head to Steve's firm back as their voices melded into a yell.

"Oh, fuck off, Munson, seriously, this is none of your business. Last I checked, our relationship only involved the two of us."

"What relationship? You broke up—weeks ago, by the way, in case you forgot—"

"—I didn't forget," Steve hissed, side-stepping and pulling you with him to avoid Eddie. "And for the last time, it’s none of your business.”

You peered back at the group of your friends huddled near the sink as Steve steered you toward the back door. You knew they were disappointed—you could see it in their empty eyes and pursed lips. You could see it in the way Gwen had to rub Eddie’s arm to calm him down. Because the two of you were making a mistake, and you’d never move on if you kept crawling back to each other every chance you got.

But maybe you didn’t want to move on, and maybe Steve didn’t either.

Steve took you home that night, and sat you on the end of the bed. He pulled your dress down your legs and replaced it with a big t-shirt: sunshine yellow, drenched in Steve. He tucked you under the blankets and kissed your head. And then he crawled in beside you, and held you the whole night.

He took you home, where you belonged: with him. And he didn’t know if you’d wake the next morning wondering where you were, or happy to see him nuzzled in your neck, but Steve was willing to roll the dice. For now, he could pretend this was how it always was, and that you never left.

#really thinking about a pt 2 these days #i had such a good idea the other day

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