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sheisjoeschateau · 1 year

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“You’re there. You were always there.”

A MULTI-PART FANFICTION SERIES, INSPIRED BY STRANGER THINGS, WRITTEN BY MISHA ST. JAMES.

Steve Harrington x fem!character. Childhood friends to lovers.

Slow burn. Angst. Romance. Smut with plot. Spin-off of pre-existing character.

A note from the writer:

—

Hello there darlings. What started off as a rough one-shot concept inspired by my rewatching Stranger Things season one for the billionth time evolved into my new favorite fan fiction series that I have written and created. This truly has become my baby. I said it in my original post when leaving a sneak preview of this work of mine…but I’ll say it again. This piece really has become my baby.

I overthink everything. I like to dive deep beneath the surface of things and overthink things into magnificent new realities. A seemingly random (almost forgettable) character in this show ended up making my mind spiral. As a writer, I believe that all characters in books and cinema have purpose. So naturally, my mind wanted to make something of a character that only appears at random yet crucial parts of the show’s story.

Nicole only appeared in season one and she was assumed to be a friend of Steve’s. To us, she was no one. Yet the Duffers introduced us to her as if she was an already established character in the series. Steve seemed almost too comfortable with her, like there was history between them. But we never explored that past the first season. That really started to bug me during this last binge-watch I had. So being the over dramatic writer that I am, I decided to make something of it myself. And damn, did it just…flow. I had no plans of making this such a big series but yeah, here we fucking are.

I gave her my last name because, well, *hair flip* I’m a narcissistic bitch like that when it comes to writing. ;) So in this series of mine, she is written Nicole St. James. I took some inspiration from The Breakfast Club because, ya know, Claire Standish? Molly Ringwald was an iconic redhead in the 80s film world, and that role in particular really seemed to fit how I wrote Nicole while fitting how she was presented in the show. I also did not want to give her a predictable personality either (because, again, as a writer I’m complex like that). So I did not take the typical “mean girl” route with her character because that honestly would just hit a wall. I wanted there to be a reason for her her in this show. I think the actress who played her did a good job with it, given there wasn’t much for her to work with.

I actually researched the actress a bit (Glenellen Anderson) and she’s actually very talented. She said something in one of her interviews about her role being small in ST but serving a crucial part in the first season of the series, given her being the reason that Steve finds out about Jonathan taking the pictures in his yard that night. Idk tbh I lowkey feel like a stalker who’s obsessing over an actor before they make it big so that one day I can be like YEAH I KNEW SHE WAS COOL WHEN SHE WAS STILL UNDERRATED. Lol ok moving on —

So I guess that’s it then. Time for me to shut up and just let the story I’ve created speak for itself. Thank you to some of my favorite writers on here and fellow Steve Harrington fanatics for inspiring me to release my own work into this universe. I’ve been very hesitant but I am glad to finally be doing it. I want to hear your thoughts and honest opinion while also asking kindly that you keep my emo heart in consideration when doing so 👉🏻👈🏻 If I forgot to tag you, I sincerely apologize. Please remind me in comments so that I can remember next time!

*disclaimer: this is based on pre-existing characters. in the show, nicole is portrayed by a redheaded white female actress so I based my writing around that. I do not discriminate against ANY race or preferred gender roles who choose to read and engage with my stories.

Enjoy and please leave feedback :)

x, MISHA

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY PLATFORMS WITHOUT PROPERLY CREDITING ME AS THE WRITER. I DO NOT GRANT PERMISSION FOR YOU TO CLAIM MY WRITING AND WORK AS YOUR OWN. YES, THIS IS A FAN FICTION BASED ON A PRE-EXISTING SHOW. HOWEVER THERE IS BASIC COURTESY TO BE EXPECTED IN THE WRITING COMMUNITY SO PLEASE RESPECT THAT. 🖤

Warnings: This is very much an 18+ written fan fiction series. Please read at your own risk. There is language, eventual mentions of blood and violence, drinking, sex, etc. There is also going to be mention of homophobia because the 80s were full of misogynistic men and women who were so unforgivingly dense (like fucking Tommy H. and Carol Perkins), so I want to address that as we eventually introduce Robin and Will into the series so that we can have our outstanding LGBTQ darlings welcomed and given the representation that they deserve.

—————

VOLUME I

“You’re there. You were always there.”

——————

Steve Harrington is six years old when he meets you: the girl who carries the other half of him with her.

He first spotted her playing outside alone, in the yard right across from his. She has a big treehouse, and no one but herself to share it with. And even though you seem content — he doesn’t know why, but it makes him sad. Watching you alone, in your own great big world, and no one begging to share it with you.

So after a week, he walks across the street to do something about it. He had watched you climb the little red ladder up to the top, making round trips with your backpack and various items.

The door to your treehouse is made of wood, painted pastel yellow with tiny butterfly stickers adorning it in random places. He hears you, talking to yourself the way you would talk if you had company. Maybe it’s to an imaginary friend. Or maybe, you just like to talk to yourself. Regardless, he knocks, and your gibberish ceases. Eventually, he hears your feet padding closer and closer. The door creaked open, revealing your curious grey eyes. Your red hair framed your small, heart shaped face, and the cream knit sweater that you wore looked almost as warm as you were.

“Hi,” Steve said. “I’m Steve. I live in that house over there.”

He pointed to the big house that loomed just across the street from you, and you briefly peeked out to look at it before looking back at him. Your full pink lips pressed into a shy smile.

“I’m Nicole,” you told him. “I’m six.”

“Me, too,” Steve tells you, proudly and with a dashing smile. But then he furrows his brow. “Why are you having a tea party by yourself?”

You look back into your little safe haven, following his gaze that stares at the eclectic assortment of tea cups and teapots set for multiple people when it was just you.

“Oh, well I just like to be ready,” you tell him. “In case I make any friends.”

Suddenly, you beam at him. Your usually shy demeanor dissolves as the gleam in your eye shines through.

“Do you wanna be my friend?” you ask Steve, who raises his eyebrows in response.

“Umm, yeah,” he finally responds, nodding his head. He stuffs one hand into the pockets of his little Levi jeans, fastened with a belt and all, already a charmer with his polo sweater. His other hand goes to push back some of his floppy chestnut hair. “Yeah, let’s be friends.”

You smile brightly. “Okay.”

And so you are, just like that. Friends. As you pour Steve a cup of chocolate milk, which you both confidently call hot tea without remark, you quietly hum to yourself.

Steve watches you, thinking you’re really pretty. Whenever you go to pass him a teacup, he takes it and quickly looks around, pretending he wasn’t just staring at you. He was in awe, really. Fairy lights were strewn about, with potted flowers in the windowsills. There was a table with lots of crayons, markers and gel pens, unfinished drawings scattered underneath them. A few completed drawings were hung up on the walls.

“Doesn’t it get scary up here all by yourself?” he asks you, genuinely curious.

As you set the little teapot back down, you shrugged your shoulders and shook your head. “Mm-mm,” you tell him. “I’m safe up here.”

You raise your teacup to your little pout to sip. You seemed so content all by yourself, as if the word ‘lonely’ was completely foreign to you.

Steve is six years old when he sees the reflection of his better self in you.

_______

Steve is 7 years old when he calls you his best friend.

You’re both playing at recess, roped into a game of duck-duck-goose. A little girl named Carol is sitting next to you, and Steve watches her roll her eyes and huff throughout most of the game. You’ve been smiling and laughing this whole time, except when she gets mad that you don’t pick her when you’re circling the group of kids and selecting someone to chase you.

“Nicoooole,” she whines.

You look at her as if you’re terribly afraid of what you could have done wrong. Carol crosses her arms, pouting.

“You’re supposed to pick me,” she complains.

“Oh,” you said, eyes wide. “I-I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

You shuffled your feet, your loafers twisting in the grass. Your ponytail blew in the breeze, along with the little flyaway baby hairs, and you looked a little embarrassed – almost ashamed – as the kid you had picked goes to sit in the assigned mush pot, since she couldn’t catch you.

“Well I do,” Carol said, matter of fact.

Steve grimaces. He hated seeing you so uncomfortable, and he really hated the way this girl was talking to you.

“Those aren’t the rules,” Steve argued, defending you.

You looked at Steve, a little relief becoming evident in your timid eyes.

“It’s not not in the rules,” Carol snarks back. Alright, now Steve is just plain bothered. This girl is annoying. And shamelessly entitled.

Carol looks back at you, glaring. “Pick me next time.”

You slowly sit back down next to her, sinking into the grass with a frown. You look so timid, sad even. Steve wanted to drag you across the circle to sit next to him, but he didn’t because you were suddenly standing again, stuttering a little “Oh,” realizing it was still your turn.

You cautiously made your way around the kids, placing your hand on top of everyone’s heads while saying “duck.” You started to sweetly grin as you approached Steve, who grinned back. You plopped your hand on top of his head, definitely messing up his hair, but he didn’t mind. It was you, and that was okay. Anyone else, no.

You fearfully dubbed Carol duck as you passed her, and her jaw clenched. She kept her arms tightly folded, watching you like a hawk. Steve narrowed his eyes at the snarky girl, already hating her. You patted his head again, “duck,” and Steve watched you curiously. Surely, you weren’t gonna pick her. Then again, he was afraid of what would happen if you didn’t.

But sure enough, you did pick Carol.

Goose.

Carol smirked so fast before bolting upright to chase you around the playground.

Steve was wildly chanting your name, along with the others.

“Go, Nicole!” he shouted, rooting you on. The others echoed his cheers. Your red hair flipped in the wind, ponytail bouncing behind you as you dashed back towards him in your school dress and loafers.

Carol looked so convinced that she was gonna take you down, but you were faster. She chased you with a devilish smile, which began to quickly dissolve once she saw you getting closer to homebase.

Suddenly, you plopped down beside Steve, out of breath. He and the others hurrayed, and you smiled as you panted.

But Carol scoffed, finally making it over to you all in the circle. She buckled over her knees, trying to catch her breath.

“Ha-ha, Carol,” some boy sneered jokingly.

“Yeah Carol, mush pot time,” Steve chimed in, a little too happily.

She scoffed again, louder this time. “No way, that’s not fair.”

Steve twitched incredulously. “W’you mean it’s not fair? She beat you.”

Carol’s jaw clenched again, and she stared daggers in your direction as she put her hands on her hips with a sour attitude. Steve cringed at the sight of just how nasty she looked, hating that it was being directed towards you. You shrunk back in your seated position on the grass, looking afraid. As Carol stalked over to sit in the middle of everyone, she kept staring at you with a look that could kill. You looked to the ground, and Steve kept his place next to you with a newfound wave of protection washing over him.

“Fine, well,” Carol sneered. “I’m not your friend anymore.”

Carol’s words were nothing but laughable. To any mature adult — hell, any human not in kindergarten — her remark would have meant nothing. But to you? A seven year old with a heart of gold, and the desire to just make everyone feel included? Her words were detrimental. They meant you were a horrible person. You were to blame.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t —“ you stumble, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to, Carol, I-I…”

Carol whipped her head around to not face you. Your eyes were really sad now, and Steve’s heart sank. You brought your knees to your chest, and your grey eyes went a little glassy.

“I can switch w-with you,” you kept trying. “I’ll sit—”

“Shut up,” she barked. “I said you’re not my friend.”

“Yeah, well she’s my best friend.”

Steve’s words landed hard.

Carol whipped her head around again, now facing him. Everyone in the circle stared at the perfect-haired boy, including you. Sweet, innocent you. Your grey eyes peered over at him nervously. But there was a glint of hope in them, too, and if you weren’t so shaken up and close to crying you would have smiled.

Steve shot one last disgusted look in Carol’s direction, then rose to his feet. He reached out a hand, taking one of yours from your knees.

“C’mon,” he told you. “Let’s go play somewhere else.”

You blinked, but didn’t hesitate to follow his lead. You looked at him, giving him a small smile before looking downwards again. Steve wrapped his fingers around your hand so tightly, and your little heart fluttered. He was so warm, and you felt so safe.

Carol huffed, appalled. “Since when are you best friends with ugly redheads, Harrington?!”

Your heart sank even lower as you saw Steve’s eyes go fierce, his jaw clenched. He whipped around to look at Carol.

“The only ugly redhead here is you,” he shot back at her, and her jaw dropped. All the kids reacted, some laughing and some making amused remarks. But Steve didn’t pay them any mind as he stalked off with you, hand in hand.

You kept up with him as best you could with your little legs, feeling his grip on your hand tighten. He looked so mad, and you gulped.

“Steve?” you asked, voice quiet.

“Don’t listen to them,” he mumbled, shaking his head. He was staring straight ahead, mind racing. You could tell he was really upset, and it made you feel bad. “Or her. She’s a bitch.”

You gasped, eyes wide. “Steve!”

“What? She is.”

You were shocked to hear him curse. A few moments passed as you kept walking beside him, completely taken aback. But then, you felt a grin tucking your lips upwards. You stifled a giggle, and Steve turned to look at you in surprise. You glanced up at him shyly, really giggling now. His hard expression turned soft, a smile of his own creeping on his lips. Eventually, he laughed too.

The two of you made it over to the swingset, and Steve let go of your hand. You already missed his touch, the warmth of it. He walked to stand in front of the tire swing, nodding his head at you to join. You walked in front of the tire, reaching up to grip the chains from which it hung. Steve crossed over to stand behind you.

“Here,” he said, placing his hands on your small hips. You felt yourself flush, heart fluttering again. A whole flock of butterflies swarmed your stomach. Steve was happy you couldn’t see his face, because he felt himself flush too. He wasn’t sure why a surge of electricity shot through him as he lifted you up into the tire swing, but as you swung your legs into its open middle he could smell your lavender shampoo. It made him melt, and his hands lingered just a little longer than needed on the hips of your jeans. You were safely seated now – had been for a moment. Maybe two or three moments.

Steve cleared his throat, rounding the wheel to climb onto it and sit across from you. He tossed his feet into the hole, hands wrapped around the chains. You looked at him with that signature warm, slightly shy smile of yours, and he returned it. His smile was definitely more confident, though. Charming, even for a first grader.

Your feet dangled in the air, so Steve used his to touch the ground and help you both begin to swing. For a little while, you both just listened to the breeze. The leaves were beginning to turn brown, a sign that autumn was approaching. Kids laughed in the distance, buzzing with energy. You figured you both only had a little time left, before you would have to return to classes. But spending the last bit of playtime alone together was more fun than with the bratty kids you’d been spending time with earlier.

“Am I ugly?”

Steve had been watching a butterfly swarming nearby when you spoke. He almost hadn’t heard you, with the way you spoke so quietly. You sounded so small, fragile. You were staring at the ground, your loafers criss-crossed as the two of you swayed on the swing, looking so vulnerable. It made his heart split in two, the fire inside him burning again.

“No,” he said, a little too harshly. Your eyes shot up at him, a little surprised at his tone. But he continued with no filter, cause what 7-year-old boy has one of those? “Carol’s a liar. You’re not ugly. At all. You’re beautiful. Way more than her.”

Your eyes shone, and Steve watched your cheeks go rosy pink. A small but real smile found its way onto your little lips, and you looked at him so sweetly before you glanced back down at the ground. You kicked at the air, thinking to yourself. While you weren’t looking, Steve memorized each eyelash concealing your grey eyes and the curve of your eyebrows. He noticed that you only had a small sprinkle of freckles on your nose, but nowhere else on your porcelain skin. He felt his heart skip a beat, losing himself in you. God, you were perfect. How could anyone ever call you ugly?

“Wanna come over for dinner?” Steve asked.

You looked up at him, snapped out of your own thoughts. “Yeah. I’ll have to ask my mom and dad if that’s okay.”

“I think my mom is ordering pizza,” Steve continued, mouth watering. “Do you like pizza?”

“Yeah, but I like mushroom pizza.”

Steve scrunched his nose. “Eww, why?”

You giggled, shrugging. “They’re really good!”

“Bleck.”

“You should try them,” you insisted.

Steve would normally say something along the lines of hell no, but to you? That was impossible. He pursed his lips, nose still scrunched and shivering at the thought of eating fungus on pizza. But he relented, sighing.

“Alright, I guess,” he said, kicking to swing you both again. “But if I don’t like it, you have to help me with the dishes.”

You smirked. “Deal.”

You both swayed, listening to the trees rustle. Steve watched the teacher approaching everyone from her perch, knowing she was about to whistle for everyone to make their way back for school.

“Hey Steve?”

He turned back to look at you. ‘Hmm?”

You paused, contemplating your words. But then you gave him the kindest smile in the world, and it rendered Steve speechless as you spoke with more certainty than you had all day.

“You’re my best friend, too.”

__________

As the next few years went by, you and Steve continued to become a permanent part of them for each other.

Your parents had easily become friends with his parents, making it a regular thing to have each other over for holiday parties and gatherings, or even just casual dinners. Both your parents and his were too wealthy for their own good, too caught up in their own worlds to really pay either of you any mind. Sure, they knew that the two of you were friends. Close even. But they didn’t really know much beyond that. Steve’s parents were just glad to know that their kid had something to do other than bother them every day after school and on weekends, and your parents were so used to you playing by yourself that they didn’t really notice much difference. Your families both lived in a swanky neighborhood, so becoming acquainted with one another hadn’t been something that required much consideration on their part. They ran in the same circles. Timeshare mutuals, and plastic veneer smiles who shared travel itineraries for whatever bougie seminar was happening that month, or the next.

Until you came along, Steve had been a lonely kid destined for a life of abandonment. Once Chet Harrington had been given a son by Paula, he stopped the bloodline there. “Good,” he’d remarked. “Someone to carry on the family name.” As far as he was concerned, that’s all his kid’s purpose served. Take over the family business, get a trophy wife and repeat the cycle. Siblings? Why bother? One kid was enough to handle. They cost money and time, and the Harringtons didn’t just hand those out like charity. If it weren’t so heavily frowned upon, or a threat to their reputation, they wouldn’t have even bothered with hiring a babysitter. It was mainly Paula Harrington who insisted on it. After all, she did love her son. She just wasn’t a nurturing mother, giving her care to her pearls and pristine walk-in closet maintenance far more than her little boy, so her love was never felt by her son. As far as Chet was concerned, once Steve turned 10 years old, a babysitter was no longer a needed expense. Because that’s all it was to him: an expense. So come the double digits, and Steve would just be a kid left to fend for himself, all alone in his great big house with no parents.

But so were you. You, Nicole St. James, were just as doomed as he was. Your parents were more aloof than anything. They weren’t quite as cold as the Harrington’s. But they weren’t all that warm either. Ken had impregnated his wife, Alison, on a spontaneous trip overseas. You’d been the result of a heavy night of gin, blue curacao and dirty talk. Filthy sex and silky sheets in a Five Seasons were the blissful combination the night that you were conceived. It had been a surprise for both of them, when that little strip read positive with a pink stripe. They’d made a fuss of it, planning a frivolous baby shower with tons of guests and a plethora of gifts for their baby girl on the way. They had found out the gender as soon as they could, not wanting any more surprises. Your arrival had been a very anticipated event, so when you had been actually brought into the world the excitement fizzled away. It seemed more exciting to celebrate having you, rather than actually having you. Granted, your parents loved you. You were spoiled with toys, new clothes every week, and social outings. Not that you ever asked for any of those things. The only thing you ever sought out from them were hugs, which they half-heartedly returned with barely a fraction of the love that radiated through your tiny arms.

You had your mother’s hair, though hers was more auburn while yours was pure fire. And you had your father’s grey eyes. But what you had that they didn’t, was your spirit. They were boisterous, loud and shallow. You were quiet, shy and soft. You radiated only genuine kindness, oftentimes just observing your surroundings and being in your own little world. Your parents were party animals, constantly busying themselves with events and planning vacations. It’s why they busied you with the same types of things by default, assuming you to be just like them. Constantly wanting company, people to distract you and noise to drown out the silence. But you weren’t like them. You loved the silence, the chirping of the birds and the whoosh of the breeze. You loved books instead of toys, and gardening tools instead of dolls. Not that they paid attention to that, though. Instead, they just bought you whatever the flashiest new item was. Or, if you just so happened to take a liking to something, the St. James’ bought it to appease you quickly and not bat an eye. Screw sentimentality, if it made you happy then by all means you could have it.

The only reason they had a treehouse built for you, was because Ken St. James had discovered his daughter’s makeshift fort outside. It consisted of amateruly constructed cardboard boxes, with random blankets propped up on sticks. He and Alison had just gotten home from a business trip, and your aunt had shrugged her shoulders when they asked how her stay had been. She told them you had spent the whole time outside, playing in your disastrously built utopia. Your parents didn’t give much thought to it, hiring a few carpenters to come and build you a proper treehouse for your sixth birthday. You had beamed, telling them thank you a thousand and one times. They’d thought it was cute, at first. Until one night, as they got ready for a gala, you had gone to hug your mother as she coated her lips with a red rouge. She’d yelped, surprised at your sudden touch.

“I love you, mommy,” you whispered to her.

“Nicole, darling, what are you–” she stammered, one hand holding her lipstick and the other swatting at you.

“For my treehouse,” you continued. “I love it.”

“Oh, psh, honey,” she scoffed wryly, slowly peeling your little arms off of her shoulders. “Enough now, you’ve thanked us too many times to count. It’s a little exhausting.”

She had chuckled humorlessly, resuming her pampering. You had watched her reflection, and if she’d cared to look at yours instead of her own she would have seen the look of longing and saddened wonder that filled your eyes. She would have seen the way your full lips parted, no more words being spoken. And she would have seen you quietly pad your way back out her bedroom door, where you made your way back to your room.

Instead of finding love through your parents, you found it in your treehouse. You found it in the swaying of the trees, and the butterflies that swarmed your front yard. You found it in yellow crayons, and glitter gel pens, and the weeds you insisted were flowers as you pulled them and placed them into little pots. You found love in the changing of seasons, and the twinkle lights that glowed at night in your safe haven. You found love within yourself, and you found love in Steve Harrington.

The bike rides down the neighborhood streets, and down to the convenient store to buy snacks with your little weekly allowances. The swapping of ice cream cones on hot summer days — when Steve noticed the way you eyed his chocolate waffle cone, as he secretly wanted your strawberry sugar cone instead. The afternoons into nights spent in your treehouse together, playing make believe and coloring. The fairy wands and pirate swords, and the battle of neverland that you fought side by side in your tulle dress while Steve wore a green polo and birthday hat with a red feather crudely taped to the side of it. The field trips and summer camps with your classmates, always sitting beside each other on the bus and whenever you all had to eat in between activities. Lord knows, if you two were sat apart, one of you would complain until it was made right. The innocent secrets you told each other, and the way you both laughed at the silliest of things until your sides split. The countless hours that you spent at his house, no parents or nanny in sight, playing hide and seek. One time, it took him so long to find you that he panicked. He was pretty sure you had actually disappeared for good, and his breathing quickened. It took him calling out your name several times, until eventually it sounded like he was blubbering. You had made your way out of his closet, where you’d proudly buried yourself underneath all of his clothes. Steve saw you crawling out with a worried look on your little face, saying his name in such an assuring tone. He had run over to you and hugged you tight, sniffling. But when he pulled back, he’d already roughly rubbed his eyes so that no tears spilled. The two of you resumed playing like nothing had happened.

Most days were spent in your treehouse, except when a thunderstorm was coming. That’s when the two of you would throw a bunch of blankets and pillows together in his or your room, making a fort. A shelter, if you will. The thunder rolled as the lightning streaked across the sky. One night, you had both curled up with a big bowl of popcorn, boxes of cereal, pop tarts, sodas and candy, no trace of actual substance in sight. You had flashlights and cards, playing Go Fish and War. At some point, Steve had asked if you believed in ghosts. You shuddered, nodding your head yes. His eyes had gone wide, clutching the blanket tighter around his shoulders. You pulled the pillow in your arms closer to your chest, your grey eyes just as wide as his.

“Do you think…” Steve had started, his voice soft. He gulped, a thought crossing his mind. “D’you think we’ll ever have to fight monsters? You know, like aliens or something?”

You gulped, too. “I dunno,” you started, voice soft like his. “I think that monsters in books and movies are really scary. I don’t wanna fight them in real life.”

Steve nodded, thinking. “Well, if we ever do… I’ll protect you. Promise.”

You hugged your pillow tighter, your worried eyes shining and a shy smile meeting your lips. “You will?”

“Yeah,” Steve assured you, with absolute certainty. Because he meant it with all of his heart. No monster would ever hurt you. No ghost would haunt you. And nothing would ever take you away. “I always will.”

CRACK. That’s when lightning struck the electricity box, and all the power in Steve’s house went out. You screamed, and Steve gasped. He grabbed one of the flashlights, shuffling his way over to you. He wrapped the blanket around both of you, as the two of you huddled closer together underneath the pillow fort you both built together.

“S’okay, I’m right here,” he soothed you, feeling you shiver against him. Your little arms were wound around his torso, your grip fierce. He clung to him with so much trust, melting into him, even though you were scared. He melted right back into you, holding you close. “I got you.”

The winds howled outside, thunder still rolling and lightning flashing around you both in the quiet, still room outside of the walls of blankets enveloping you both.

“Do you think there’s a monster out there?” you asked him, your frightened voice the cutest whisper in the world.

“Nah,” Steve said, but even he wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t be scared, though. He had to make you feel safe. “But if there is, it won’t get you. I won’t let it.” He rested his chin on top of your head. “Not ever.”

Even at nine years old, Steve knew he would never break a promise that he made you. You did, too.

And right now, as you turned ten years old, you were surrounded by a bunch of faces. Most of them, you didn’t really know. Some were kids from school, and others were their parents. Lots of random adults, buzzed with champagne and spirits. But as you sat in a chair behind your pink birthday cake, all aglow with ten gold candles, there was one face you recognized and loved. Steve’s.

He grinned at you, his smile growing more charming each day. His hair was still iconic, always styled just right. He wore a preppy polo with a collar, and khaki slacks with nice shoes. His brown doe eyes shone in the candlelight – and even though the others spoke loudly over each other, he spoke so that only you could hear him.

“Make a wish, Nic,” he said, seated right next to you.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY GIRL!” your mom squealed, the inebriation evident in her voice.

“Wait, honey, wait,” your father chuckled, gripping his whisky. “We gotta sing first.”

“Damn,” Mr. Harrington remarked, also laughing. “These women just don’t have any patience, do they?”

The two men snickered, and Mrs. Harrington playfully scoffed and swatted at them before wrapping an arm around your mother. She, too, was a bit tipsy.

“Alright,” she purred, a smirk on her lips as she raised her glass. “All together now.”

And so the song began. Happy Birthday rang all throughout the house, echoing off the dining room walls of your childhood home. Kids sang with enthusiasm, while adults sang in a million different pitches. Some voices were happy, others were bored, and a few were drunk. But the only voice you listened to was your best friend’s, who sat by your side with one arm resting on the table and the other perched on the back of your chair. You beamed at him, and he beamed at you.

Steve swore in that very moment, that you were perfect. The way your little baby hairs still escaped your hair that was pulled into a little half-up do. You were wearing the simplest, most feminine pastel yellow dress. The sleeves had tiny ruffles on it, your shoulders peeking out and arms bare. Your face was clean of any makeup, aside from the white face painted butterfly wings around your grey eyes. It was so whimsical, making you look even more like a princess than you already were. Steve watched you look around the room, enchanted by your enchantment. And as your gaze circled back to meet his own, he smiled bigger. Your smile grew, too, and the crowd of people in the room ceased to exist. You’d both forgotten them, until they started to cheer wildly as your birthday song ended.

“Nicky!” your mother squealed.

God, you hated when she called you that. You broke your gaze from Steve, looking at her.

“Come on, baby, make a wish!”

You looked back down at your candles, scrunching your eyes shut and thinking. Steve’s eyes never left you, entranced with the way you looked in the orange glow of the birthday candles. Selfishly, he made a wish too. It wasn't his birthday, but it didn’t have to be. Steve wished for all your wishes and dreams to come true. He wished for this to be the best year yet, for you and for him. He wished for you to never move away, to always be his best friend across the road. He wished for you to never outgrow him, or want to be better friends with somebody else. He wished it would always be like this, that no matter what changes came he would always have you. He wished that he knew what you were wishing for, and he wished for you to be wishing for him.

Little did he know, he was your only wish. It was already true, and as you blew out the candles, you wished for it to always be true.

________________

Steve was twelve when you saw him cry for the first time.

His parents had gotten his report card, appalled at the C and D despite all other A’s. Paula Harrington was disappointed and embarrassed, but Chet Harrington? Well, he was furious.

“I didn’t raise someone stupid,” he spat at Steve, who leaned against the kitchen counter with his head down, shoulders slumped and arms crossed. They had been arguing over this for at least thirty minutes.

Steve swallowed. “I’m not stupid, dad,” he murmered, voice defeated.

“Sorry, what was that?” his father egged him on, voice bitter. There was zero trace of kindness or understanding, and Steve’s mother could only watch them from the dining table with a pathetic pout.

Chet stepped closer to his son, sneering. “Speak up, son. Couldn’t hear you.”

“...said I’m not stupid,” Steve tried again, hating the way his voice still shook despite talking a little louder.

“Stop being a little bitch and look at me,” his dad spat, the air escaping his lips and onto Steve’s face.

“Chet, please –” his mother tried, pathetically.

Steve felt the hurt inside of him bubbling into anger, unable to control himself.

“I said I’m not stupid!” He shouted back, having taken enough of his father’s bullying for the past thirty minutes. The past month. Several months. Years.

But he was only rewarded with a slap to the face, so sharp it felt like a knife. If it weren’t for the ringing in his ears, he would have heard his mother gasp. The impact had made him turn a full 180 degrees, and he was stunned into silence as tears sprang to his eyes from the harsh blow. Slowly, he turned back towards them. He first made eye contact with his mother, whose hands were clasped over her mouth. Eventually, he made eye contact with his father, who seethed and showed no sign of remorse.

“Your report card says otherwise,” he slithered. He slowly backed up towards the kitchen table, taking his seat again. He took a sip of his brandy, clicking his tongue at the taste. “Raise your voice at me again, and you’ll see stars next time.”

Steve could hear his own breathing, could feel the anguish that spread throughout his mind, body and soul. His heart ached, and he longed for comfort. But the two people who sat in front of him wouldn’t offer him that. Nobody would.

Except you.

So he bolted his stairs, seeking privacy so that the unshed tears threatening to spill over wouldn’t show his weakness any further. He held them at bay, biting his lip so hard he was pretty sure it would bleed soon. He ran into his room, throwing open his drawers as he breathed hard. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his only thoughts consisting of getting a change of clothes and heading over to you. He threw a backpack over his shoulder, locking his bedroom door and sneaking out his window.

He knew the route all too well by now, having done it since he was six. He crawled down the side of the house, walking towards the house next to his and the one after that. Then, he made his way across the street, where he walked behind one house, then two, and then made it to yours. This way, his parents wouldn’t see him heading to your house out their window.

Once he was there, he climbed up the side of your home where your window was dimly lit by the glow of your bedside lamp. Good, he thought. You were home. His heavy heart swelled with relief, and he mounted the side of the house and up onto the roof the way he always did when sneaking into your room at night.

Your window was cracked open, always ready for him. The curtains were drawn, and he saw you sitting on your bed, reading a book. Your brows were closely knitted together, your eyes intensely focused on whatever you were reading. One leg was crossed over the other, glasses perched on your nose and hair tucked back into a messy topknot.

Steve swallowed back the large lump in his throat and tapped the windowpane, just enough for you to hear him. Your head snapped up, pulled out of your bookworm trance. Grey eyes met brown, and you went to smile until you saw the distress in his features. You set your book down and removed your glasses, padding over to him, quietly but quickly. A large t-shirt hung to your thighs, landing just above your knees and accentuating your slim legs. You pulled the window all the way open, looking at him with the most concerned expression.

“Steve?” you asked, voice gentle.

The dam broke. Steve couldn’t hold it in any longer, any plans of trying to do so completely demolished as a choked sob left his lips. His shoulders heaved forward, and you felt your heart break at the sight. This was new. This was very new. You’d never seen him like this.

Without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him tightly. He gripped you back like a lifeline, crying into your shoulder. You stayed there for a moment, before pulling back to bring him inside. He clung to you, not wanting to let go, but when he realized that he was still in the window frame he allowed you to move away from him and followed you inside to stand behind you. You quickly closed the window, turning to face him again.

He was a good several inches taller than you, so you looked up at him. Your expression was so soft, so full of empathy it only made him break down more. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest. He buried his face into your shoulder again, weeping until the sleeve of your shirt was soaked through. He shook in your embrace, the sound of his cries the saddest sound you had ever heard. You stroked the nape of his neck, fingers playing with his hair. His arms around you were so tightly wound, you thought he might never let go. And you didn’t want him to, so neither of you made a move to do so. You just stood there, holding one another, letting Steve cry until he couldn’t any more.

After a while, you slowly pulled back to look up at him. Steve’s brown eyes were bloodshot, his stylish hair ruffled and messy – yet somehow, still perfect. Even when he was sad, he was still so pretty.

He rubbed at his snot sodden nose with his elbow, fruitlessly trying to wipe it away. He sniffed roughly, not used to being the one who needed comforting. But as you reached up to thumb away a few of his tears, he didn’t pull away. Anyone else, he wouldn’t have let seen him like this, let alone touch him. But you were the exception to every rule, and he wouldn’t dare pull away from you. Not when you were so understanding, not casting any judgment towards him. Any walls he had built around himself in front of others, he let come down in front of you. Because when he was with you, he didn’t have to be strong, or brave, or cool. He could just be Steve, a boy with big hair and an even bigger heart.

You smiled at him gently, waiting for him to speak. He sighed.

“My dad said I was stupid,” he started, voice shaky. “He said I – he said…”

Your small smile faded, your eyes boring into his. He looked shown, shuddering a breath. You took his hands in yours, guiding him to the bed. You both sat down, your hands still intertwined. You sat facing him, your legs crossed in Indian-style. He mirrored you, matching your position and staring down at your dainty fingers in his. You wore a few rings, minimal sterling silver bands. Steve always loved how they made your piano fingers look even longer, delicate. He twiddled in thumbs around yours, absentmindedly tracing shapes as he spoke.

“They saw my report card,” he continued, sniffling. “I got a C in math. And a D, i-in science.”

You furrowed your brows, still listening. You wanted to say so much already, but you will yourself to stay quiet and let him finish. He needed to let it out.

“It didn’t matter about the other grades. Dad, h-he just cared about the bad ones. Like no matter what, I’m j-just a failure.”

You shook your head, not having any of it. “Steve,” you started, voice firm but kind. “You’re not stupid. And you’re not a failure. You’re smart, and you study just as hard as anyone else does.”

He sniffled again, eyes still downcast. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. “S’not enough.”

“You’re enough.”

That made him look up at you, his sad glassy eyes meeting your fierce ones. The love that poured from your grey irises shot straight into his brown ones, and he knew you were being as honest as they come.

“He hit me, Nic,” he murmured, tasting bile as he admitted it.

You felt a wave of emotions hit you all at once. Anger. Heartbreak. Anguish. Rage. Pain. And love. So, so much love for this beautiful boy, who you got to call your best friend. The thought of his dad hitting him – anyone hitting him – made you see red. He didn’t deserve this. Any of this. And as you noted a slightly red mark on his cheek, you felt your soul split open. Tears of your own sprang to your eyes, and you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching a hand up to cup his cheek.

“Steve, I’m so sorry,” you whispered.

His face crumpled, and you pulled him in close as he started to cry again. You silently cried too, grateful that he couldn’t see you. He kept one hand in yours still, resting on your laps. The other wound around your waist, the hand you had placed on his cheek now draped around his neck. You lightly swayed, allowing the silence and Steve’s breathy cries to wash over you both.

Eventually, Steve’s tense shoulders sagged and his cries subdued. He relaxed into you, and you could tell that sleep was finding him.

“Hey,” you murmured into his neck. “Let’s get some sleep.”

Steve slowly pulled back, watching you pull the covers down. Normally, it would be weird. A boy, watching his female friend offer to sleep in the same bed without their parents knowing. But you’d both fallen asleep together so many times over the years. In your treehouse, on his bedroom floor, on the couch while watching a movie. Even in the same bed, when studying or doing homework. Now was no different, as far as you both were concerned.

So as you nestled yourself underneath the covers, gesturing for him to follow, Steve didn’t hesitate to crawl in next to you. He pulled the covers over the two of you as you turned out your light, only the moonlight illuminating your face in the dark room. You both laid on your sides, facing each other. You placed a hand on the mattress, in the small space between you both, palm up. He placed his hand on top of yours, wrapping his fingers around yours. He sighed deeply, eyes fluttering shut.

“You can stay here anytime you want,” you whispered beside him, your eyelids drooping but still watching him.

Steve squeezed your hand tightly. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief, his heart swelling with love for you. He peeled his eyes back open, taking in your beautiful face. If there was an angel watching over him, it had to be you. God couldn’t have possibly given him a better one, because you were it.

“I don’t wanna go back,” he whispered back, timid. “Unless you’re there.”

You sighed, nuzzling into your pillow with a little nod. “Okay, then you won’t.”

Both your voices were tired, but the words you shared with one another held so much truth and conviction. Because you meant what you had said. Steve never had to spend a single night alone in his great big house, whether or not his parents were there. You stayed there, or he’d stay with you. It became an unspoken routine, refuge.

No matter what pain life threw his way, or yours, you both knew that so long as you had each other, it would be okay.

____________

But one morning, several months later, Steve’s mom found you in his bed.

The two of you were sound asleep, her son starfished across the mattress and you curled up into a little ball. At first, Mrs. Harrington just froze. How long had this been happening? That’s the question that sprang her into action. Her motherly instincts decided to actually make an appearance, storming over to the bed to jostle you awake.

“Nicole St. James, what in blazes are you doing here?!”

Your eyes shot open, finding Mrs. Harrington’s frantic eyes. She had a firm grip on your arm, and you shrunk deeper into the mattress.

“Steven,” she said through gritted teeth. “Wake up.”

Steve stirred, not really waking up. Such a boy. A tornado can’t wake boys when they’re not even thirteen yet.

You, on the other hand, were wide awake. Groggy, but alert. You felt your cheeks flush crimson, knowing this looked bad. Sure, at twelve years old you’re not fully aware of just how bad this actually looked. But a boy and a girl, sharing a bed, behind their parents’ backs? That had trouble written all over it. As far as any adult was concerned, that screamed bad news. And nine times out of ten, it was often a result of youthful scandal.

But for you and Steve? It was simply comfort. Safety. Codependency.

That’s not how his mother saw it, though.

“Steven!”

He bolted awake, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. When he looked over to find you staring at him, your grey eyes terrified and lean arm in his mother’s manicured grip, he began to come to. The reality set in, and Steve felt his chest clench. You both had been caught.

His mother’s eyes held a fire that he had never seen before. Even in all her beauty – loosely curled blonde hair, wispy bangs and silky white blouse to match her high waist trousers – she looked intimidating. Steve realized at that moment, he had never truly felt intimidated by his mother until right now. She looked absolutely furious, appalled even. Her lips were pursed together into a tight, thin line, and by the looks of her clenched jaw he could tell she had gritted her teeth.

Steve swallowed, feeling the panic seep in. “Wait, mom –”

“Not a word,” she cut him off. “I didn’t raise you like this.”

You didn’t raise him at all, you thought to yourself. If it weren’t for the fear you held, you would have had to really fight to stay quiet. But as Mrs. Harrington kept going, you couldn’t have found your own voice if you tried.

“Bringing girls up to your room to sleep with them? What filthy movies have you been watching? Did you… Oh my god, did you find one of your father’s?!”

Steve’s eyes went wide with horror. “What?! No! Mom, please –”

“I don’t know what vile things you’ve had put in your head, Steven. By your friends, your father, porn or whatever the hell you kids are doing these days. But this. Ends. Now.”

Your terror-stricken eyes expression became all the more terrified, and as Steve’s mother wrenched you off the bed you let out the most heartbreaking little yelp. Steve felt his heart jump into his throat.

“MOM, PLEASE, DON’T –”

“And you,” she turned to face you, dragging you beside her out of his bedroom. “You’re a young lady. You should know better.”

You felt absolutely sick to your stomach. Hearing Steve’s mom accuse you of being capable of doing something so grimey – of being a slut – made you feel so small. And Steve’s panicked shouts weren’t helping.

“But I–I,” you stuttered, your voice so shaky and low it was almost inaudible. How could she think you and Steve would do such a thing together? It wasn’t like that. He was your best friend. Your safe haven. Your favorite person in existence.

Mrs. Harrington slammed Steve’s bedroom door shut, trapping his shouts. She was dragging you down the stairs as you heard him fling the door back open and barrel after you. She whipped around, waving a finger up at him.

“You stay right there,” she ordered him, voice fierce and booming. Then, as she kept going, she told you, “I’m taking you straight home to talk to your parents. This friendship is over.”

The way that Steve wailed ‘no,’ had to have been the most excruciatingly painful sound you had ever heard. Tears sprang to your own eyes, and you didn’t even try to conceal the whimpers that fell from your lips. Mrs. Harrington couldn’t have cared less, ripping her car keys off the wall next to the front door.

“Mom, wait, just wait!” Steve’s voice was strained, but desperate.

You tried to look back at him, only catching glimpses as you were being hauled away by his mother. You could see the petrified anguish etching Steve’s features, his tired eyes practically popping out of their sockets. His hair in complete disarray, his sweatpants hung low and his t-shirt all twisted. He was the most beautiful mess, and you were being taken away from him.

“Not another step, Steven Harrington!” his mother barked, voice shrill.

Steve came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk, and even though he was a good distance away now you could see his shoulders shaking and bottom lip trembling. Your heart thudded in your chest, and you felt like throwing up.

Paula Harrington was now standing next to her car, opening the passenger side door. No way in hell was she going to march you over to your house, directly across the street, just so that all of your neighbors could watch and stare from inside their respective homes. She ushered you in quickly, giving you no choice but to obey. You crawled into the front seat, pulling your knees to your chest, crying into them. You felt so ashamed and embarrassed – and for what? Falling asleep next to your best friend? Yeah, that’s exactly what you had done that caused this twisted guilt to stir up inside you.

“I’m taking you straight home,” she told you, cold and fierce. “And you’re not to step foot over here again. Do you understand?”

You bit into your knees, clenching your eyes shut in shame. Mrs. Harrington slammed the door shut, making you jump. The sound, along with her words, rang in your ears.

This friendship is over.

Your mind was reeling, stomach churning. You clutched your legs, tugging them impossibly closer to your chest and you rocked in the front seat of Paula’s car. You looked out the window, watching Steve run towards you. His mom held out a hand, and you could hear their entire conversation through the thin glass window as you sniffled.

“Mom, nothing happened,” Steven insisted, voice broken.

“You expect me to believe that?!” Mrs. Harrington shot back at him with zero sympathy. “How many times has this happened, Steven?”

Steve raked his fingers through his chestnut hair, distressed and breathing hard. “You don’t understand, we just fell asleep –”

“How many?”

“Whenever I can’t sleep!” Steve screamed at her, and his mother visibly pulled back. “Because y-you –” Steve gasped for air. “D-dad, it’s just –” Steve pressed his lips together, words failing him, so painfully frustrated with himself and this entire situation. “God, it’s nothing, Mom. Nic comes over here, and s-sometimes I go there –”

“You sleep at her house?” his mother interrupted, shocked.

“It doesn’t matter!” Steve cries. His mother is now frozen, taken aback by the hysteria in his voice. As her son stares back at her, tears threatening to spill over and lips parted, she finally shakes her head.

“You’re almost thirteen years old, Steven,” she says, voice low and bitter. “You’re too damn old to be having little sleepovers with girls. You know how this looks. I know what you were doing.”

“No, you don’t,” Steve shook his head, violently.

“Yes. I do.”

“NO, YOU DON’T.” Steve wailed, completely falling apart. “You don’t know anything. And I don't care that you don’t, because Nicole knows and that’s all I care about.”

His mother gawked at him, and Nicole could tell that his words stung her a bit. Still, Paula stood her ground.

“Well whatever you two are doing, it’s over,” she said, coolly.

Steve’s face crumpled. “No, please –”

“You’ve got plenty of guys you can hang out with, Steven,” Mrs. Harrington said, tongue sharp. “They can sleep over whenever you want. Go call them.”

Steve flung his arms up in the air, running his hands through his hair again as he whirled around in a full 360 before facing her again.

“I don’t care about them –”

“Start caring,” she said simply, turning to walk towards the car again. She was approaching the driver’s side to open her door.

“Mom, no, NO!” Steve lurched forward, trying to grab her car keys. His mother jumped back, reacting just in time. Her reflexes served her justice as she whipped the keys out of his reach.

“What is the matter with you?!” Paula looked absolutely stunned now.

But Steve wouldn't listen, still trying to wrench the keys from her hands. They rustled, arms and limbs tangled as they both struggled to overpower the other. Paula stuttered verbal protests, while Steve whimpered and grunted. You couldn’t help but feel your heart swell, despite how utterly broken you felt. Because Steve wasn’t letting you slip away that easily – and while you were too timid to speak up for yourself, he wasn’t. He was always the brave one. At school. Whenever you fell off your bike, or slipped on the playground. Nobody could pick on you, so long as Steve was there. Not even his parents could, apparently.

Eventually, Mrs. Harrington got the upper hand. No doubt due to the fact that Steve wouldn’t actually be physically aggressive towards his own mother. She tugged hard, causing Steve to lose his footing and stumble back onto the ground. He collapsed, landing on his side and barely catching himself. Paula gasped, watching him make a harsh impact with the concrete sidewalk.

“Steve, baby –” she breathed, noting the bad scrape on his arm.

Steve began to convulse with ugly sobs, curling in on himself. He gritted his teeth, lips stretched thin. Mrs. Harrington stared in horror for only a moment before kneeling beside him to assess the damage. She might not have been a warm person, but she wasn’t a violent one either. That was all his father. She didn’t believe in putting a hand on her kid. She just didn’t do anything to stop it when Mr. Harrington did.

“Give me your arm,” she said, her voice shaking now.

“Please, mom, please,” Steve bawled, pulling away from her and cowering back. Paula noted the way her son wouldn’t look at her now, and she hated it. It reminded her of the way he was around his father. And she was not his father. She was hardly a mother, but more importantly she was not his father. She swallowed hard, pride overcoming any deeply buried traces of warmth and love within her.

“Listen to me,” she tried again, voice still shaking. “Give me your arm.”

But Steve just unabashedly wailed, now feebly sitting up. Tears streamed down his cheeks, drops of blood forming on his freshly scraped arm. The guttural cries escaping his lips were so agnonized, Paula couldn’t understand it. She had never seen him like this. He just kept murmuring unintelligible things that sounded like don’t, don’t, don’t, and please, no, and pathetically trying to get the keys from her. His efforts were futile, but he wouldn’t back down.

“Steven,” she said, incredulously. “Stop.”

“Mom, she’s the only friend I have.”

Steve’s tortured words landed hard, on both you and Paula. They hit you like a freight train, piercing your heart.

Steve cried and cried, finally looking at his mother again as he admitted this treacherously painful confession in a wrecked voice. Paula couldn’t believe it. There was no way that Steve didn’t have friends. She had seen him. At his games, and social gatherings. He got along with everybody. She didn’t have to be at school with him to know he was popular. All the girls had a crush on him, and all the guys wanted to be around him. No way were you the only friend he had. No way was he as lonely as he was saying that he was. He wasn’t, he just wasn’t… Was he?

But then Paula realized it wasn’t a matter of him not having friends. It was only a matter of you. You, his other limb since he was the age of six. You, who spent every birthday and holiday with him. You, who sat with him on the bus, and at lunch, and any party you both went to together or with your families. You, who somehow seemed to be everywhere, in every memory. She’d never really thought much of it, assuming it was just some childhood crush or next door neighbor that you would both eventually outgrow. And when she had found you in his bed, naturally, she assumed the worst. You and Steve were both in middle school. This was prime time for puberty, and exploring sexuality. It was the pre-high school danger zone. No way around it. But come to think of it, she’d never seen you act as anything other than friends. Not that that mattered. Friends liked each other, too. It all had to start somewhere.

Paula glanced up at the passenger window of her car, spotting you. You still had your knees to your chest, fresh tears of your own spilling down your cheeks. She would never admit it, but the sight of you looking so hurt – thanks to her – made her heart ache. She knew you were a good girl. If anything, you were obnoxiously good. Sometimes she wondered if you had a single mean bone in your body. It was infuriating, really.

She turned back to her son, who was still weeping uncontrollably and waiting for her to respond. That really drove the knife deeper into her heart, and she could feel herself cracking. The brutal truth of it all was landing, the realization dawning on her.

You were Steve’s home.

Mr. and Mrs. Harrington would never be that for their son. Nor would their great big house. No social status, or money, or upper class school would give him refuge. But you? You did that. Have been doing that for the past six years.

Steve didn’t lack friends. He lacked family. And you were far closer to family than his actual family was.

Mrs. Harrington took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose, keeping her emotions at bay. She pushed her bangs out of her face, slowly rising to stand. She closed her eyes briefly, mustering up whatever strength was left in her. Then, she made her way towards you with a collected yet somber expression etching her feminine features.

All you could do was watch her, unable to breathe as you anxiously waited to see what she was about to do. To your surprise, she reached for the handle…and opened your door. You sat there, frozen in place. Mrs. Harrington didn’t hurry you back out of her car, seeing how visibly afraid you were. Instead, she just tilted her head slightly, and you knew that was your cue. Newfound relief surged through you, and you felt the ice pick that was lodged in your chest finally melt. Cautiously, you made your way out of the passenger’s seat, your bare feet touching the grass. You looked up at her timidly, finding her expression to be blank.

Then you turned to Steve. Beautiful, sweet Steve. He was still on the ground, his cries steadying. When he saw you step out of the car, he stumbled to his feet, hiccuping. You kept your head low, shoulders slumped as you made your way towards him. You crashed into his chest, feeling the weight of the world lifted off your shoulders as Steve’s arms wrapped around you.

Steve’s entire world had ended just a few minutes ago, and now it had begun again. The second you were back in his arms, everything was alright. He still hiccupped and whimpered, but you did too. You just held each other, crying softly.

All Paula could do was watch. Something about the way her son held you – so protectively and so full of love – made something inside her stir. A sour taste filled her mouth, wanting to feel touched by it but too bitter at her own miserable reality to let it do so. Because her son resonated more love than her husband ever could. The way that Steve clung to you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he swayed you both side to side, was the truest form of love that Paula had ever seen. Her friends had never held her like that, when she was a little girl. Even all grown up, Chet had never held her like that. Not even close. Not even at their happiest, years ago. Maybe she had assumed that their son would naturally be the same way.

God, was she wrong. Because as you fiddled your fingers in the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck, whispering how sorry you were, causing Steve to just shake his head against your shoulder and tell you not to be, Paula Harrington saw the epitome of true love shine through her son. And, by extension, you.

She hung her head, unable to look any more. It upset her too much. So she quietly made her way back inside, refusing to speak of this ever again. Not with Steve, or with you. Your parents would never know, and Chet Harrington would never know either.

As Steve held you close to him, refusing to let you go, somehow you both knew that you would never have to worry about this again. You weren’t going to be pulled apart, or stop being there for each other. Because even if you had been driven away from him today, Steve would have persisted. You would have done the same. Tethered souls cannot be untethered.

Steve was twelve years old when he found that out.

___________

It was Steve’s fifteenth birthday when he kissed you for the very first time.

His parents were out at some party that night, having brought yours along too. So the house was his for the night, until they drunkenly stumbled home. All of his friends were elated. Big house, no parents. That’s the way Carol Perkins always puts it. Steve Harrington’s house was the coolest on the block. Huge pool with a deck. Two stories, plus a man cave basement with a fully stocked mini bar that felt like an underground speakeasy. And best of all, no parental supervision.

Steve had become quite the hit, come freshman year. He was captain on the swim team, and his body showed it. His charm was as enticing as ever, winning every heart of every girl at school. His boyishly handsome features blossomed day by day, growing cuter by the second. His hair had become his statement piece, coining his nickname, Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington. He had it goin’ on, and everyone knew it. Including you.

You, too, were a catch. Your hair was longer, and you’d trimmed layers into your long red locks so that you had little side swept curtain bangs that all the girls wanted. You were a cheerleader, but you really loved photography. So you took that up, too. You also had a great house for parties, which your mom was always too willing to host for you and your cheer squad girlfriends. You never really planned those, so much as she did. And sure, you shared the same circle of friends as Steve. But you still had that introverted loner streak in you, liking to do your own thing. Steve was the social butterfly, his posse of admirers increasing more and more. You were popular, given that you were the freshman heartthrob’s best friend. ‘Steve’s girl.’

Except you weren’t his girl, though. Not really. Yeah, you two were inseparable as ever. That hasn’t changed. But you weren’t technically his. At least, not romantically…

“C’mon, big boy! Chug the rest’a that beer so we can play some spin the bottle!”

Tommy H. Somehow, that rowdy kid had gotten into your circle. You weren’t really sure how. He played basketball, but he was mostly on the bench. His daddy was rich, too, but he was a drunk and a slob. His step-mom was somewhere in her twenties, probably leaning more towards the younger end. No one really knew much about his actual mom, but the mommy issues definitely showed. Not that this had stopped Carol from being all over him. Those two had their tongues down each other’s throats all the time, ever since she hit on him at one of the games. They had snuck behind the bleachers to make out. Probably more. They bickered, sometimes being downright cruel to each other. But it seemed to be their thing.

Oh yeah, and about Carol. She was pretty much the same as she was in kindergarten. Bratty. Obnoxious. Loud. But when she had noticed you and Steve were still friends, and Tommy H. had made it clear to her that that wasn’t changing anytime soon, she’d retired her days of picking on you. She pretty much had since that day at recess, but especially after seeing you were this untouchable princess in Steve’s world. She didn’t get it, but she didn’t care to try. She merely accepted it, and so you let it be. You were stronger than you had been back then, having more of a voice. But you were still a good girl at heart, soft spoken and a little too forgiving.

“Oh Jesus,” Steve muttered, chuckling as he swiped at his perfect hair.

Tommy H. has an arm slung around him, getting everyone to cheer him on. You sat on the couch next to Stacy and Liz, your Paps Blue Ribbon in hand, grinning. Chug, chug, chug, everyone chanted. Soon enough, Steve’s bottle was empty and a circle was forming on the floor. You settled on the ground across from him, shooting him a cute smirk. He winked — and it didn’t matter how long you’d known him, it always made you blush.

“This seat taken?”

You looked up to find Christopher Cazaway standing above you, a soft smile on his lips. You returned it, patting the empty space beside you.

“Be my guest.”

He obliged, not hesitating to take you up on the offer. Christopher was a sophomore. Blonde, handsome, 6’5” and a basketball superstar. He was bound to get a scholarship somewhere great, no doubt in anyone's mind. He was every coach’s dream, along with every girl at the school. But as far as his personality goes, he wasn’t the jock type. He was sort of a gentle giant, with a heartwarming smile and hearty laugh. He could dribble and shoot hoops like no other, and he was drop dead handsome, but there wasn’t a vain bone in his body. Christopher was surprisingly soft spoken, almost shy. He was mature, sometimes seeming a little wise beyond his years. He seemed to talk better with adults than teens in ways. Still, everyone adored him. He got invited to every party, hosting a few of his own but rarely.

Secretly introverted kids like you noticed other like minded souls when you spotted them. But little did you know, it was Christopher who had noticed you first. Sure, he liked your vibrant red hair and ocean grey eyes. Yeah, he noticed the lean build of your legs and slim curve of your neck and jawline. Absolutely, he thought you were beautiful. He liked the thin little rings you wore on your fingers, and he thought your laugh was adorable. More than anything though, Christopher liked the way you carried and presented yourself. He liked that you were so aware, observant. You weren’t aloof, or like all the other girls that flung themselves at him. You were real. And he liked that. A lot. He kept liking more things about you, the more you both sat together in chemistry class or saw each other at basketball practice, since that’s where you had cheer meets.

“Man,” he said, crossing his legs. “Haven’t played spin the bottle since middle school.”

You hummed a light chuckle, setting down your drink. “Well if it makes you feel any better, I’ve never played period.”

He cocked an eyebrow, grinning at you. “Is that right?”

You smiled sheepishly. “I don’t get out much.”

He had to chuckle at that, knowing you were half kidding. But he didn’t doubt that you’d never played before. Not because you seemed awkward or uncomfortable, but because you weren’t like the other girls. Or anyone here, for that matter. You weren’t the typical snobby rich girl, from her snobby rich family. You were different.

From across the room, Steve watched you two talk. He found it interesting that Christopher and you talked with such ease, never having realized you two might be friends. But Stacy and Liz chimed into your conversation eventually, and Tommy H. was back to hollering again.

“Everybody, shut up!” he shouted, silencing people for the most part. He clapped his hands together, grinning like an idiot. “Let’s fuck some lips.”

Girls made faces and sounds of disgust, while most of the dudes snickered in agreement. You kept a straight face, not really phased by his antics. Christopher found the kid gross, but knew he was just an ignorant freshman who thought he was hot shit. So he didn’t really let it irk him much.

“Wait,” Carol interjected, cracking open a peach schnapp. “What if, like, a guy lands on a guy?”

Tommy H. snorted. “Then you roll again. No one’s gay up in here. This isn’t a faggot party.”

Steve’s nose scrunched at that. “Tommy, c’mon, man. Don’t say that.”

You squirmed, adding softly, “that’s really not nice.”

“What?! It’s true.” Tommy H. took a swig of his beer, shrugging.

“Okay, then what about girls?” Carol pressed. Her boyfriend smiled devilishly.

“Nah, that shit’s hot,” he sneered.

“Ugh, that’s not fair!” Carol whined, but her grin contradicted her complaint. You internally rolled your eyes. Oh sweet misogyny, you thought to yourself. The selective homophobia of an insecure male asshole was enough to make you wanna puke.

“Okay, can we just — play?” Someone interjected.

“Alright, alright,” Steve said, waving his hands. He placed his empty beer bottle in the middle of the circle, looking up to wriggle his eyebrows at everyone. “Who’s first?”

“You are, big guy,” Tommy H. said, clapping him in the back. “Birthday boy always kicks us off.”

Some of the teens oooh’d and giggled, dramatically. All the girls were just itching for it to be them that the bottle landed on, so that they could smooch the hot new heartthrob of Hawkins High. Their very own small town Prince Charming.

Steve shrugged, reaching to give the bottle a spin.

As you watched the bottle turn and turn, you couldn’t help but feel the anxious butterflies dance in your stomach. You weren’t sure why you hoped it landed on you. Then again, you were. In fact, you totally were. You’d loved Steve for as long as you could remember. It was inevitable, given your history. You knew he loved you, too. It just probably wasn’t like that. Still, you wondered if maybe he wanted the bottle to land on you too.

But it didn’t land on you. It landed on Becky, who couldn’t help but gasp. She looked absolutely ecstatic, giggling like a school girl. Steve look at her with a grin and raised an eyebrow, somehow looking both shy and confident.

Oh shit. Were you about to watch him kiss another girl? You hadn’t had to see that before. Sure, you knew he’d kissed another girl before. A few, actually. Steve’s first kiss had been Elsie Fitzgerald. 8th grade, behind the P.E. building. You knew that, because Steve had told you first thing. He’d nudged you in line at the cafeteria, telling you in a low voice as he plopped a milk carton on his tray. And you’d listened, pretending that it didn’t make your heart break. He was pretty happy about it, more so for himself than he was actually lit up about having kissed Elsie specifically. She had passed him a note in class, asking to be his Valentine. Your heart really sank after hearing that, wishing it had been you. After that, Steve had a few kisses with girls under his belt — none of which were with you.

You were still waiting on your first kiss.

And as that reminder floated around in your head, you watched Becky crawl across the floor to lean in and kiss your best friend on the lips. He sat still, kissing her with ease. You wondered what it felt like. The touch of his lips, which you always thought looked so soft. Becky lingered a little while, and eventually Steve pulled away with a charming smile. She squealed, flitting back to her seat and flipping her hair. The butterflies in your stomach felt blue, but you kept a light smile on your face to mask it.

Now, Tommy spun the bottle. One by one, teens kissed. Some girls even kissed, making you flush. You watched Steve kiss a couple other girls, all of them doing a horrible job at concealing their giggling fits. At some point, it was your turn to spin — and it landed right between Steve and Tommy H.

Now you really felt butterflies in your stomach. Their dance was a little angry this time, though. Your anxiety spiked, dreading the thought of kissing Tommy but nerves wrecked as you thought about getting to kiss Steve.

Your eyes glanced up at your best friend by default, finding that he was already looking back at you shyly. Tommy barked a laugh, clapping his hands.

“Look, I don’t wanna make any calls here,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender. “But uhhh, I’ll let the birthday boy take this one. As much as I’d love to rock your world, princess.”

Your eyes narrowed at him. “That’s one way to put it.”

“C’mon, birthday boy,” Carol snickered. “Kiss your best friend.”

Steve felt himself blush, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. God, he had wondered what it felt like to kiss you for so long without even realizing that he had until this very moment. The way you were looking at him right now, looking so calm and content, he never would have known that you were so completely in love with him. He was pretty sure that he was a party of one, in that department.

Tommy kept making gross kissy noises. Steve cleared his throat, feigning lighthearted cockiness as he looked wryly at Tommy.

“Knock it off, man,” he mumbled, turning back to face you.

You watched him eye you with curiosity, as if he was silently asking you if this was okay. But you just smiled warmly, welcoming the contact. So Steve got on his knees and crawled over to you, meeting you halfway. As he got closer to you, he could see those tiny sun kissed freckles that lightly dusted your nose, and the smooth surface of your porcelain cheek. He could see the light whisk of mascara on your eyelashes, and the very neutral shade of lipstick on your full lips. He felt himself swallow, his usual bravado failing him. You looked so gentle, sweet as ever. He wondered if your tongue tasted as sweet as you were…

You sat back on your knees and heels, hands placed in your lap as you looked at him, patient and a little sheepish. Steve was so close to you now, basking in the scent of your soft perfume. It smelled like the ocean, with faint traces of coconut and vanilla. He wanted to kiss you. He really did.

“Oh my god, kiss already!” Carol screeched.

But neither of you flinched, even as the others echoed their sentiments. You breathed a tiny laugh, making Steve grin. Without thinking, he found himself placing a hand to the curve of your jaw. Oh. He hasn’t done that with the other girls. His breath lightly hitched at the contact, realizing he’d never actually been this close to you. Which made no sense, given you’d fallen asleep in the same bed for how many years now? But this was different. This type of intimacy wasn’t the same.

You subtly leaned into his touch, eyes never leaving his. His thumb stroked your cheek, the corner of his lip tugging upwards. Your noses touched, the sharp tip of his against the little perky end of yours. His breath was warm against your skin, feeling like a blanket wrapping itself around your face. You both kept leaning in, slowly. Ever so slowly.

Finally, his bottom lip grazed yours. And those butterflies in your stomach were doing a full blown ballet now. Steve felt his heart skip a beat. Maybe several beats.

Damn, he thought. Since when did kissing feel like this?

It was the way your lips moved against his, so graceful and supple. The way your fair skin felt like satin beneath his finger tips. Steve felt a rush of euphoria overcome him, reveling in the feeling of your mouth against his. Becky didn’t kiss like that. Elsie didn’t, or any of the other girls. People always said that kissing is an art. Steve did have a reputation for being a good kisser, even at just fifteen years old. He just didn’t really think much of it until he was enchanted by your kiss.

Part of him thought that there was no way you hadn’t kissed somebody before. Not with how incredible you felt brushing your lips with his. Then again — maybe it was because you had never been kissed before that it was so magical. That innocent bliss of being ‘untouched,’ not yet tainted by anyone or anything.

Meanwhile, you reveled in the rhapsody of Steve’s kiss. It was everything you ever could have dreamed it would be, and more. His lips were soft, cloud-like to the touch. He was gentle in the ways you thought he might be rough, and tame in the ways you thought might be wild. He didn’t rush anything, taking his time with even the most microscopic of movements. The light yet firm grasp of his hand on your jaw was slightly edging down towards your neck, and it was all you could do not to hum with lovesick satisfaction.

Yeah, no, everyone thought. He definitely hadn’t been this tender when kissing the other girls here.

It made those other girls watch you with envy, guys cocking an eyebrow and making immature, snide remarks under their breath. It was so obvious, the magnetic pull between the two of you. Anyone could see it. Even the two of you did, but neither of you would ever admit that. At least not anytime soon.

And as the kiss ended all too soon — well, too soon for you guys, not necessarily the others — Steve’s pillow soft lips parted from yours as he ever so slightly pulled back to look at you. Your angelic face was still just an inch or so away from his, your eyelashes fluttering open to reveal your grey irises, exposing a new tint of lovesick blue. They sparkled, dancing as you looked into his brown eyes that now looked more like the color honey. You bit your lip, a timid smile finding your freshly kissed pout.

God, Steve thought. He would've kissed you again, right then and there.

But as Tommy H. hooted and hollered, snapping your two out of your gaze, reality sunk in again. This was a party, and it was just a game. It wasn’t a real kiss. It was prompted by a bottle and reckless youth. Nothing more.

Right?

“Well alrighty then, lovebirds,” some guy chided with a dark laugh.

You blushed, casting your eyes downwards. You composed yourself, watching Steve do the same. Yep, it was just a dream.

“Yeah, since when did this become a love making session?” Tommy H. jested.

Steve shot Tommy a scowl, before watching you scooch back to where you’d been sitting. You gave him a shy smile, twiddling your thumbs in your lap. Steve quickly scooted back to his place too, across from you in the circle. He smiled back at you softly, before Tommy gave him a macho shove. Steve shoved him back, but with half the strength. He was still snapping out of it. Soon, he cleared his throat, forcing his mental fantasies to the back of his brain again.

“Alright, next up,” Steve said, straightening his hair. Fuck, did anyone else see how nervous he felt? Apparently not, because everyone seemed to resume the game like nothing had ever happened.

Christopher clicked his tongue and slapped his hands on his knees. “Welp,” he said, leaning forward. “Guess it’s me.”

He gave the bottle a good spin.

Lo and behold, it landed on you.

“Oh shit!” Tommy H. exclaimed, rolling over into a ridiculously unnecessary fit of laughter.

Carol made obnoxiously loud remarks, too, along with lots of people in the circle.

Yeah. Oh shit, indeed.

“Aww, little princess is getting all the kisses tonight,” she cooed condescendingly, her high pitched voice so fake and sugary sweet.

You felt your cheeks flush again, allowing yourself to tinker a laugh. You turned to face Christopher, finding him rubbing his neck with a bashful smile on his face. He looked at you with slightly timid eyes, chuckling nervously. He was nervous? Why would he be nervous, you wondered?

Oddly, you felt very at ease about the situation. It was just Christopher. He was always kind to you, and a good friend since you started high school. If you’d had to kiss anybody else in the circle, you would prefer it be him than some guy you hardly knew. And you certainly hoped it wouldn’t land on Tommy.

You shrugged your shoulders, giving him a little grin. He grinned back, brightly. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and it was adorable really.

Given that he was seated right next to you, no awkward crawling towards each other had to take place. You just pivoted to face him, comfortably. This kiss didn’t make you nervous. You’d just gotten your first one out of the way, with the one guy you had been in love with your whole life. So a second one with someone who was just a friend? It seemed pretty easy.

Christopher had his eyes intently on you, which dropped down to look at your lips then back up to your eyes. He leaned back on one hand, which he placed slightly behind you firmly into the carpet. It gently brushed against your hip, his tone arm ghosting over the fabric of your dress. He leaned in closer, slow and calculated, so that he was slightly looking up at you. You still weren’t nervous, though, even as you looked into his dark blue eyes. You just smiled, waiting. His loods became hooded as he tilted his head just right, so that yours could tilt the opposite way whenever your lips made contact. Sure enough, his lips found yours, and it was the most grounding kiss. It was sweet, a little firmer than Steve’s. He was soft, just a little more assertive. Suddenly you felt his other hand cup the back of your neck, his touch tender and caring but secure. It surprised you, but you didn’t pull away. In fact, you instinctively placed a hand on his knee.

If you hadn’t been busy locking lips with Christopher, you would have seen the melancholy expression on Steve’s face. But you didn’t.

Steve hopelessly watched you kiss the handsome sophomore, overcome with a sense of dread. He hadn’t taken this into account when playing the game. You know, that he’d actually have to watch you kiss another guy. Maybe that wasn’t really the problem, though. No, the problem was the way that Christopher kissed you. Was still kissing you. Steve could have sworn that he saw the blonde athlete move his lips against yours a second time, and envy creeped up his spine. Christopher definitely hadn’t kissed Linda or Molly like that earlier in the game, when the bottle had landed on him during their turn. Nah, this was just with you. Why the hell was he kissing you like that?

…why the hell was he still kissing you like that?

Steve squirmed. He felt as though he might laugh, or shout, or blurt something without being able to control himself, and he probably would have had it not been for you finally breaking contact with Christopher. Oh thank Christ, Steve thought, as he let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding this whole time.

You simply gave Christopher a warm smile, but your eyes looked slightly dazed and confused. Because you were. It had caught you a little off guard, the way that he’d just kissed you. It definitely lasted a little longer than needed. Not that you minded it. You didn’t really know what to think of it, actually. One thing was for sure, his gaze on you was not one he’d given any of the other girls that night. You knew that much. You might’ve been uncharacteristically oblivious to Steve’s feelings for you, but you weren’t blind to someone else’s. Before now, though, you never really thought that Christopher felt anything for you aside from friendship. But now, it seemed that he did. It seemed he very much did.

Huh, you thought. Interesting.

You still hadn’t looked over to see Steve’s disheartened expression in the midst of all the immature teenagers in a circle, making a series of noises and comments following the kiss. He hoped that no one was watching him. Then again, would he even care if they did? That didn’t matter, not when he cared way more about the fact that some other guy was looking at you like that. It didn’t sit right. It really didn’t sit right.

But what was he gonna do about it? Say, “Hey Christopher, it’s my birthday, so maybe back off my girl?” No, because you weren’t technically his. You were your own.

…but your heart was his.

…and his heart was yours.

Steve doesn’t really remember much after that. He knew they hadn’t been playing for much longer, and that eventually everyone wanted to shotgun some more beers. He knew that Linda and Becky had been saying something to him in the lavish living room, as they twirled their hair and batted their lashes. He knew that Tommy H. had been daring everyone to jump in the pool, dragging Carol in with him. Teens screeched and hollered, splashing and laughing while the Eagles blasted in the background from the Harrington’s flashy stereo inside the house.

Steve does remember when “Sweet Emotion” by Aerosmith had started to play. He was leaning against his kitchen island, making small talk with some of the guys. You were out by the pool, red solo cup in hand, and you had started to sway to yourself. The skirt of your dress flicked at the corners, your toned legs sashaying you from side to side. You turned a little, so that he could see your profile. You were grinning ear to ear, in your own little world. He loved when you did that. You were so damn adorable when you did that. You lifted a hand into the air – the one not holding your cup of booze – closing your eyes, and singing the words.

Sweet emotion…

You talk about things that nobody cares

Wearing out things that nobody wears

You turn so that you’re now facing the open sliding glass door, opening your eyes as you fix your gaze on Steve. Your eyes are a little hazy, but still glow. You point your finger at Steve, serenading him in your buzzed stupor. Your grin deepens as you sing the next words along with Steven Tyler.

You’re calling my name, but I gotta make clear

I can’t say, baby, where I’ll be in a year

Steve can feel himself smiling like an idiot, shaking his head as he lets out a throaty chuckle that’s drowned out by the music. He bites his lip absentmindedly, watching you just exist. You throw your head back, smiling at the sky, hips still swaying.

Stacy makes her way over to you from the other side of the pool, definitely more drunk than you were. She sings loudly, catching your attention. You look down from the black night sky to look at her, and you laugh when you see her wanting to join you. She grabs your hand, twirling you around and singing everything off key.

Some sweat hog mama with a face like a gent

Said my get up and go, must've got up and went

Well I got good news, she's a real good liar

'Cause the backstage boogie sets your pants on fire

As the guitar solo rips through the stereo speakers, your dancing intensifies. Everyone in the pool seem to be getting rowdier, also singing Aerosmith at the top of their lungs.

Stacy’s footing betrays her and she stumbles, laughing drunkenly. You catch her, making sure that she’s okay and stifling a laugh. But once you see that she’s clearly fine, you laugh too. Liz makes her way out of the pool to check on her, squatting down and clutching her hands and still singing while Stacy just keeps laughing.

Steve takes the opportunity to approach you as you stand alone again, sneaking up quickly to grab you and spin you around. You squeal, feeling his chest pressed to your back as your legs dangle off the ground. You hold onto his toned arms tightly, giggling uncontrollably. When he sets you back down, you turn so that you’re looking directly at him.

Sweet emotion…

Your stomach does flip-flops, seeing his signature Steve Harrington smiled directed only at you. His brown eyes hold a certain mischief in them, and you can’t help but feel a rush of love for this boy you’d known since you were just barely in kindergarten. He lifts your hand to twirl you, and suddenly you’re six years old again, dancing in your treehouse with Steve. The real world ceases to exist, and it’s just the two of you in your own fantasy world. No matter what ups and downs, highs and lows, good days and bad days, heartache and joy, that reality throws both of your way – the one constant you both have had is each other. Somehow, that’s never changed.

You both sing to each other, hand in hand and hips in time with the music.

I pulled into town in a police car

Your daddy said I took it just a little too far

You're telling her things but your girlfriend lied

You can't catch me 'cause the rabbit done died

Yes it did

Now everyone around you is losing their mind, screaming the words and partying like animals as the song continues to blare. It’s an 80’s rock-n-roll kind of vibe, full of teen angst, booze and sexual tension. Guys shotgun more beer by the pool, couples make out in the deep end. Girls hold each other with limp limbs and sloppy smiles, slurring the words and proclaiming their girl power love for each other. They won’t remember it tomorrow, but for tonight it’s the glorious eternal truth.

As for you – Nicole St. James, the freshman mystery girl and princess in the making – you’ve only got eyes and moves for your best friend in the world. Steve Harrington, Hawkins High’s soon-to-be very own King Steve. Two best friends and lovers in denial, hopelessly devoted to one another, just without the title. You both dance around the truth together on his posh pool deck. The confident shake of his hips and thrusts of yours fool you blind from seeing that you are just as equally afraid as he is to make the wrong move.

Stand in the front just a shakin' your ass

I'll take you backstage, you can drink from my glass

I'll talk about something you can sure understand

'Cause a month on the road and I'll be eating from your hand

Steve knows that something’s gotta give. He knows that it can’t go on like this forever. But for him, this is safe. This is forever. What you two have guarantees that you’ll both make it. That you’ll never go away. You won’t abandon him, or lose interest in him. If he keeps his distance, even tangled up in your arms when dancing in his backyard or falling asleep next to you, then he’ll always keep you close. All the money in the world, but he could never afford to lose that. Not ever.

And you don’t say anything to make him change his mind. To make him ask you to be his. To make a move beyond a kiss shared in a public game of spin-the-bottle. To tell you that he doesn’t just love you – but that he is in love with you. You don’t confess it either, no matter how fiercely you want to do exactly that. Because as selfish as it was, you were content too. You never minded being on your own, but a world without Steve stopped being fathomable in 1972 on that brisk afternoon in your treehouse. The second he had knocked on your pastel yellow door, in his little sage green sweater, jeans and converse, your solitude had made room for a second person. He was your other half, so it really wasn’t even surrendering solitude. It was simply completing it. Steve completed it. Completed you.

_________________

To be continued…

VOLUME II next month 🖤

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