idk i’ve been thinking for the last day about modern day corroded coffin, semi-successful in the local music scene, did a self-funded tour through six states last fall where they all lived in the van together and didn’t shower for four weeks, has a standing gig at the dive bar next to the highway and the strip club, they’re established, they have a small but dedicated local following, they —
“can’t play a WEDDING, are you fucking with me?” eddie says, when gareth shows him the text from his cousin who’s getting married in two weeks and who, as of last night, has no wedding band because they accidentally double booked themselves and gareth’s cousin had sent the deposit in late.
“i’ve explained to him so many times,” gareth says, furiously texting his cousin back, “we’re not that kind of band—”
except gareth’s cousin, instead of responding directly to gareth’s text outlining the musical thesis of corroded coffin or watching the youtube link gareth sends to the show last month where eddie got a black eye in the pit from someone in an inflatable garfield costume, just sends back —
“holy shit,” eddie croaks, looking at the string of zeros on the end of the number gareth’s cousin offers me to pay them in exchange for saving his ass and his wedding and his marriage, since his fiancé was demanding a live band. “that’s—”
“three months of rent for each of us,” gareth says, awed. “that’s buy actual fresh vegetables money. that’s go to the dentist money—”
“yeah, okay, give him my number,” eddie says.
so they spend the next two weeks practicing every white people wedding song they can think of. there’s no way they’ll be able to do, like, get low, tragically, but they can pull off the classics, especially after they bring chrissy onboard for vocals and keyboard. there are places where eddie draws the line — no fucking journey or especially insipid top 40 — but they can do some whitney. abba. fucking — mr. brightside. a lot of it is pretty simple, when you get down to it, “and people will be wasted anyway,” jeff reminds them. there’s an open bar at the six figure venue gareth’s cousin booked. hopefully everyone will be too hyped just hearing the opening baseline to i want you back to notice if they fumble anything hard.
rehearsal montage, chrissy takes the boys to the mall to buy suits montage (except for gareth who, like most transmasc dudes, already has a custom fitted and tailored suit ready to go in his closet; instead he makes catty remarks about brian’s tie choices.) chrissy makes eddie put his hair up and eddie makes jeff shave the experimental mustache he’s been growing and eventually the day of the wedding arrives and they load up the van and drive 45 minutes to the six figure waterfront reception venue.
they riff for about ten minutes while the whole wedding party makes their grand entrance into the massive tent set up on the lawn, ending with gareth’s cousin and his new wife dancing in, the whole crowd screaming and clapping. it’s cute, eddie thinks, vamping as long as he can while gareth’s cousin’s best man takes the mic and introduces the new couple and directs everyone to their seats for dinner.
and meanwhile: best man is frankly one of the hottest dudes eddie’s ever seen. he’s got longish brown hair that he keeps pushing out of his eyes, full lips, an insane shoulder to waist ratio, big hands. eddie sneak looks at him while they play a bunch of low key jazzy standards for people to eat their expensive dinner to. he’s sitting with his arm around the shoulders of a girl with shaggy auburn hair, and they keep leaning in to whisper to each other and giggle, so. oh well. but it doesn’t hurt to look, eddie thinks, watching the guy take his suit jacket off and roll up his sleeves and make a toast to gareth’s cousin and his new wife’s long and joyful marriage.
once most people have had their plates cleared away jeff turns to eddie and the rest of the band and nods, once, and while chrissy plays the opening synth chords to i wanna dance with somebody, jeff turns his front man showmanship deal all the way up.
it’s good. people are fucking hyped, so they throw themselves into it, feeding off the crowd’s energy, and almost no one is more hyped than mr. best man. he’s jumping up and down, his arms around gareth’s cousin and his wife. he knows every word to dancing in the dark (hot). when they transition into robyn’s dancing on my own he turns to the girl with auburn hair and points at her and screams. cute, eddie thinks, watching best man pick her up and spin her around while she downs her wine and shouts along. okay, really fucking hot, eddie thinks, when he finally pulls his loosened tie all the way off and unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt and eddie can see a hint of chest hair peeking out.
they slow it down for the first dance. it’s the leon bridges one everyone always does, but it’s perfect in jeff’s range, and there is not a single dry motherfucking eye in the audience. they do a couple more slow ones, throughout the night. best man dances with his girlfriend and then gareth’s grandmother and then with every child under the age of 10, letting them stand on his shoes while he twirls them around. how is this guy fucking real, eddie thinks, which of course is when best man notices eddie looking right at him and their eyes meet. best man looks a little flustered, at first, and then grins at eddie, right at him, before spinning the flower girl around in dizzying circles.
jesus christ, eddie thinks.
they’re closing out the night on the only other request gareth's cousin gave them: the one from the end of dirty dancing. jeff thanks the crowd, offers his congratulations to gareth’s cousin, and then goes right into it. except as jeff sings the first line everyone absolutely loses their shit, turning to best man and jumping around him and one of the bridesmaids. what the fucking hell, eddie thinks, keeping one ear on jeff and chrissy’s duet and one ear on the crowd piling around best man “—you guys HAVE to, dude, you’ve GOT to—“ but whatever it is he has to do is not immediately apparent to eddie. best man dances in a circle with the rest of the wedding party and auburn hair and the bride and groom, shout-singing along, and then during the build up to the second prechorus gareth’s cousin’s wife and her bridesmaids start pushing everyone to the sides of the dance floor, so there’s a long space in the middle, so the bridesmaid with curly dark hair is at one end and best man is at the other end and oh my god is he actually going to —
the bridesmaid runs and then launches herself at best man, who lifts her perfectly, right on cue at the peak of the second chorus, his hands steady on her hips while she floats her arms out in front of her just like jennifer grey. they hold it for a few moments while everyone loses their fucking minds and takes a thousand pictures. eddie actually takes his hand off his guitar for a minute. he thinks his mouth is open. he can see the muscles in best man’s arms flexing under his white button up shirt as he carefully lowers the bridesmaid back to the ground, laughing, his eyes scrunched up in joy.
eddie is maybe a little bit in love.
they close it out. the whole crowd whistles and stomps and applauds for them, which feels pretty good, eddie’s not gonna lie. as they start packing it up and high fiving each other and a couple people come over to ask if they have a card, if they’re still booking for next year or the year after (what?) gareth’s cousin comes over and hugs every single one of them, almost in tears, and then adds another 2k to the check he writes for them. eddie pulls out his cigarettes right then and there.
“steve, come meet the band,” he yells, when steve and auburn hair walk past. “gareth saved my whole ass, oh my god —“
“you guys were fucking incredible,” steve says, grinning, shaking gareth’s hand. “best wedding band i’ve heard in years —“
“they’re not even a wedding band!” gareth’s cousin shouts. “they’re like metal — moshing — thrash, i don’t know, LOUD—“
“whoa,” steve says. he pushes his hair out of his eyes and then turns that blinding smile right on eddie. eddie feels struck by it, wants to stagger back like he’s taken an actual blow. “cool, so you guys — play locally, or —?”
“oh my god,” his girlfriend says, rolling her eyes; steve elbows her in the side.
“i like your guitar,” steve says, gesturing at the warlock eddie’s still holding in his non-cigarettes hand.
“oh, uh, thanks,” eddie says.
“it’s a cool shape,” steve says, stepping closer, flicking his eyes down and then back up to meet eddie’s. there’s sweat gathered along his hairline, dampening the ends of his hair. behind him, his girlfriend coughs something loudly that sounds vaguely like slut.
eddie feels his eyebrows go way up.
“uh, thanks, shapes are. you know. shapes are great,” eddie says, nonsensical. he sees gareth shoot him an incredulous look out of the corner of his eye.
“can i bum one?” steve says, looking down to the cigarettes in eddie’s hand.
“totally,” eddie says. “let me just—“ he holds the warlock aloft and gestures to the open guitar case.
“sure,” steve says. he waits around while eddie hustles through getting his shit sorted out and then turns away politely while eddie has a silent desperate telepathic conversation with the rest of the boys, who roll their eyes and make their way over to the still open, still free bar.
where auburn hair is standing and talking to chrissy, putting a hand on chrissy’s arm while she laughs at something chrissy says.
hm, eddie thinks.
“so,” eddie says, walking out from under the tent with steve, down towards the water, awash in the moonlight. he holds out his cigarettes. “you like springsteen?”
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Someone Borrowed, Someone Blue.
an engagement party, your childhood best friend, one too many glasses of champagne. what could go wrong?
pairing - childhood bestfriend!steve harrington x female reader
warnings - smut. cursing. cheating. alcohol mention. so much angst… i’d apologise but i’m not sorry.
word count - 3.7k
author’s note - get it? like, something borrowed, something blue… because it’s a wedding… I was half asleep when that popped into my head and I thought it was perfect, personally. I don’t condone cheating irl, but also… it’s your life, do what you want ;)
as always, reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics!! so, if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging. thanks, angels <3
masterlist. inbox.
The moonlight shines down, glinting off the diamond ring settled on your left hand.
Everyone's dancing, singing, laughing, enjoying each other's company in a rare moment of complete happiness. People keep grabbing you, hugging you, reaching for you to offer their congratulations.
Isn't it just so wonderful? Two people completely in love. Ah, to be young again.
The fairy lights twinkle where they're hung across the garden, acres of grass just begging to be decorated. You'd initially protested this venue - a huge country house in the middle of nowhere, with countless rooms and a huge courtyard.
It's just our engagement party, not our wedding. We don't have to be so extravagant.
This isn't extravagant - not for my family, anyway. Just say yes. I'll plan the entire thing, you don't have to worry.
And so you did. Say yes. To his proposal, the venue, anything he suggests. You can't find it in you to say no, to argue, to fight for what you really want. It isn't worth it.
"There you are, my soon to be wife!"
You take a deep breath, pretending the sound of his voice doesn't make you feel sick.
"My soon to be husband."
He can't see the grimace on your face, even though it's there, loud and clear. He can't read you, has never been able to.
"A car has just pulled up. You expecting anyone else?"
You are, but you won't let yourself get your hopes up. So you lie.
"Don't think so."
"Okay, well... you'll save me a dance, won't you? My mom wants to take some pictures."
You nod reluctantly, patting his arm with as much affection as you can muster.
"I think your brother is calling you."
You direct his attention to where his frat boy siblings are, hollering and yelling for him to come over.
"My guys!"
He departs as quickly as he came, leaving a wave of too strong cologne in his wake.
You take a walk from the garden to the front of the house, curiosity peaked. You scan the parking lot, and your heart stops when you spot the car in the corner.
A burgundy 1983 BMW 733i.
He's here.
You spin on your heel, searching almost frantically, when you hear someone clear their throat. You turn around, and there he is.
Leaning against a pillar, stood in a dress shirt and tailored trousers, hair perfectly styled.
Steve Harrington.
You're half convinced you're dreaming. The world moves around you in a daze, crickets chirping and wind blowing gently. You lock eyes with him, and can't fight the grin that spreads across your face.
“Don’t fret, baby. The life of the party has arrived.”
You scoff but almost run towards him, tripping over in your heels. He meets you halfway, arms snaking around your waist to keep you steady as you wrap yourself around him.
He smells the same. Cologne, spearmint, a faint note of diesel from the car. He smells like home.
Past home, you remind yourself. Not anymore. You have a new home now, with a soon to be husband that doesn’t understand you and a soon to be family that is built on morally questionable money and fake niceties. Steve’s a person of your past, a distant memory, a fading dream.
Except he’s stood right in front of you.
He's staring at you with a look in his eyes you can’t quite place. You’ve never seen it before.
"I didn't think you'd come," you whisper, begging yourself to pull away from his embrace. He doesn't let you go far, keeping his arms around your back as if he's worried you'll bolt at any given moment.
"And miss my best friends engagement party? Never."
"Best friends. We're not five anymore, Steve."
You roll your eyes, punching his arm lightly.
"What, I can't call you my best friend anymore?"
He picks you up, spinning you across the gravel of the parking lot. You're dizzy with it, the world passing by you in streaks of shapes and colours.
"Steve!"
"What?" he laughs. "You don't like this, best friend? What's the problem, best friend? Are you dizzy, best friend?"
"Put me down!"
Steve throws you over his shoulder as you both spin, strong hands preventing you from falling.
"Put me down, Steve, please - okay, okay! You're my best friend! Call me best friend all you want, please!"
Steve's crying with laughter, out of breath and rosy cheeked. He places you back on the ground, smoothing your hair down with rough palms.
You inhale carefully, grabbing onto his biceps as an anchor as you gauge your bearings. You look up at him, and lose your breath all over again.
Chest heaving, tongue darting over his bottom lip, hair mussed but still perfectly styled. He looks a picture, an ancient painting, a statue carved from the finest marble.
"I never want you to stop calling me your best friend," you whisper, so quietly that the breeze takes it.
"Then I won't."
Your hand slips down Steve's arm and into his, fingers linking gently.
"I missed you."
"I missed you so much, Birdy. You have no idea."
The childhood nickname shoots a lightning bolt through your heart, shiver running up your back involuntarily.
The two of you would sit and watch cartoons for hours on the floor of Steve's living room, pressing your little heads together to see the TV better. He'd joke that you sounded like Tweety Bird, all sweet and lispy. The nickname was born that day, and stuck ever since.
"How was California?"
"So good. I'll tell you all about it later. How's your engagement party?"
"It's good."
You try to sound convincing but your voice cracks, giving you away instantly. Busted.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. There's a few people you know back there - from school, the neighbourhood, family. They'll all wanna see you."
"I'll socialise later. Wanna talk to you first."
The intensity in his voice makes you nervous. You realise you're still holding his hand, so you drop it, crossing your arms over your chest.
"You didn't RSVP."
"Didn't get your invite. Travelling."
"I called your mom. She said she'd tell you."
"She didn't."
"She told me she did."
The crickets continue to chirp, gentle breeze blowing your hair into your face. You look at Steve pointedly, unwilling to be the first to break.
"What are you doing here, Steve?"
"It's your engagement party."
"So you've said."
"I haven't seen you in months."
"I tried to call, but you stopped answering."
"Birdy-"
"I'm just saying, Steve. We haven't spoken in months, I feel like you've been point blank ignoring me, I've had to come to terms with the fact that you probably wouldn't be at this party or the wedding and then all of a sudden you just show up? Unannounced?"
"I know how this looks."
"Do you?"
You're not entirely sure where all of this anger has come from, but you can't seem to tamp it down. It's bubbling, simmering, threatening to spill over the surface dramatically any second.
"I wasn't sure I could do this. Any of it."
"Do what?"
"Stand by and watch you make a mistake."
You scoff, laughing at him in disbelief. He's never been one to sugarcoat things, and usually, it's one of your favourite things about him. But not today.
"Don't you fucking dare, Steve."
"Birdy, be real. The guy is a prick. And you want to marry him? You're a smart girl, the smartest person I know. You've got to see that none of this makes any sense."
"So you showed up here to yell at me? Criticise my life choices? Thanks, Steve. Thanks a million. Some best friend, huh?"
"I've done nothing but support you."
"You ran away! Across the country! How is that support?"
"Fine, maybe I can't support straight up stupidity!"
"Am I smart or am I stupid? Which one is it?"
Steve sighs, running his fingers through his hair as he watches you pace the gravel in front of him. You're vibrating with fury now. It's something he's seen before. Something he knows how to navigate better than anyone. He knows you. He knows you need an outlet here.
He also knows that you're never more hyperaware than when you're mad. So, he takes his opportunity.
"I came here to tell you not to marry him."
You stop dead in your tracks, shaking your head in denial.
"...Why, Steve? Why would you say that?"
"You know why."
"No."
You take a deep breath and will yourself not to cry. In the garden, you can hear people laughing, singing along to some 70s pop song you've never liked. You pray silently that no one comes looking for you.
You take a step closer to Steve, standing up straight.
"Say it."
He looks at you incredulously, shocked by your sudden defiance.
"Say it, Steve. If you came all this way to say it, then fucking say it."
Steve steps into you, closing down the space. You don't move, determined not to back down.
"You're going to hate me if I say it, Birdy."
"I don't give a fuck anymore. Say. It."
Steve runs his tongue over his bottom lip, never once breaking eye contact with you. The silence seems to stretch on infinitely, thick and blanketing like fresh snow falling.
"I'm in love with you."
You feel like you've been punched in the gut. You take a deep breath and try to stay on two feet, wobbling where you stand. Finally, you find your voice.
"Fuck you, Steve Harrington. Fuck. You."
He laughs, but there's no humour in it.
"Yeah."
"How dare you? How dare you come to my engagement party and start confessing your feelings? You could have told me anytime, but you chose today?"
He goes to interrupt but you hold a finger up, effectively shutting him up.
"How long, huh? How long have you been in love with me?"
Steve's trembling, chest stuttering with the force of his confession.
"For as long as I can remember."
You haven't looked away from him once. You're frozen in place, suspended in the moment.
"No you haven't."
"You're gonna tell me how I feel now, Birdy?"
"Yeah, Steve, I am. Because I don't believe you. You're King Steve, ladies man, notorious player. You were never seen with the same girl twice in high school. Don't you remember? Sneaking into my room at night, whispering under my blankets about your latest hookup, telling me all the dirty details?"
"I remember," he whispers, voice laced with something like sadness. "Of course I remember."
"You don't get to tell me this now. It's not fair, Steve."
"Why not, huh?"
"Because I've always been in love with you! Always."
Steve stumbles backwards, dizzy and disorientated.
"No you haven't."
"You're gonna tell me how I feel now?" you laugh in disbelief. "I've always been in love with you. Everyone knows it. My parents, your parents, all of our friends... I think the goddamn mailman knew, Steve!"
"I didn't."
"Blissful ignorance," you chuckle humourlessly.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I knew it wouldn't change anything."
Steve's eyes go wide as he keels over, as if the wind has been knocked out of him.
"Wouldn't change anything? Birdy, it... I-I can assure you it... It would have changed everything."
You both look at each other, breathless and riddled with confusion. There's something flowing through your veins, something unintelligible, something unrecognisable.
"Why would you do this today?" you choke out, sobs threatening to break free. "Of all the days, Steve."
"Because I'm going insane!" he yells, voice raising. "I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't function knowing that you're going to marry a man you don't love. It's ruining my life, Birdy!"
"You don't think it's ruining mine? Huh?"
You take a breath, very aware that if you shout anymore, multiple people are going to come running from the garden.
"This is selfish, Steve. And you're not selfish."
He looks down at you, bottom lip wobbling.
"I am when it comes to you. Always have been."
"You're breaking my fucking heart, baby."
You choke out the words before bursting into tears, sobs wracking your frame. Steve grabs your hand and guides you to the stone steps, sitting you down next to him. Against better judgment, he slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.
He smells so familiar, so comforting, that it only makes you cry harder. You bury your face in his chest, fingers tangled into his dress shirt, holding on for dear life.
"I'm sorry," he's mumbling. "I'm so fucking sorry. I had to. I really had to."
"I know," you're muttering back. "I know you did. I know."
You lift your head to look at him only to find he's crying too, years of emotion dripping down his face. You wipe his tears with your thumbs, your heart shattering at the sight in front of you.
Steve's only made you cry once before. In ninth grade, you'd stupidly assumed that the two of you would go to the prom together. Steve had made a joking comment about always being your date, and you hadn't questioned it. Then, one Friday night, he'd snuck into your room to tell you excitedly that he'd asked Lizzy Buchanan to the dance, and she'd said yes. You'd burst into tears immediately, much to your teenage embarrassment, willing yourself to play your cards closer to your chest. Steve had crumbled instantly, crying because you were.
That's how it's always been. He cries, you cry. You cry, he cries. He's just not usually the cause of the tears.
"I'm sorry, Birdy," he chokes. "This was the only way."
"I know," you soothe, rubbing circles into his wet cheeks with your fingers. "I know. You're not the villain here, Steve. You never were."
His eyes are trained to yours, silent communication passing back and forth. The two of you have always had the ability to practically read each other's minds.
You're not sure who moves first - perhaps it's the universe, pulling you together by the strings woven into your chests - but suddenly your lips are melded together, moving as if it's the easiest thing in the world. Steve's clinging to you as if you're his life source, a man in the desert without water.
You tangle your fingers into his hair to tug him impossibly closer, eyes fluttering when he groans, deep and visceral. He spreads his legs and pulls you between them, both of you slotting together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Your tears are dancing onto each other's cheeks, mixing like rain water and gasoline.
Suddenly, you yank yourself from his grip, standing up and smoothing down your silky dress. Steve prepares himself for the yelling, the screaming, a slap that he most definitely deserves.
Instead, he's met with you, chest heaving, skin warm, eyes heavy. You're looking at him expectantly.
"Come with me," you croak, voice hoarse and untrustworthy.
You grab his hand and slink through the front door, up the grand staircase and into a room with a heavy oak door. He follows you obediently, confused but completely trusting.
It's your hotel room. A marriage suite. A spacious, windowed room, with makeup scattered across the vanity and suitcases half unpacked on the floor. The bed is still made, which makes Steve breathe a sigh of relief. He hasn't had you here. The room isn't marred.
The minute you shut the door you're back on Steve, shoving him up against the hard wood. He grabs handfuls of your ass and spins you around, backing you into the cold surface behind you for stability. He lifts you easily, wrapping your legs around his waist as he kisses you again.
Steve trails his lips down your neck as you rock your hips, desperate to find some friction. You whine gently, fingers tugging at his hair a little rougher than intended to get your message across.
"What do you need, honey?" he murmurs, afraid to disrupt the atmosphere.
"You."
Steve throws his head back as he groans, exposing his throat to you. You waste no time in nipping up the expanse of it, sinking your teeth in with no regard for the consequences. You're too far gone now, not worried about looking back.
Walking backwards, Steve tosses you onto the bed, chuckling when you almost bounce off of it. He unbuttons and strips his shirt, pulling his belt from the loops as he goes. You can only lie there and watch, wondering when your best friend became less of a boy and more of a man. He's all corded muscle and tanned skin, freckled and perfect.
Steve crawls between your legs, kissing you tenderly.
"Wanna take my time with you," he murmurs between kisses. "Can't right now. Will, though. Promise."
You feel as if there's electricity crackling across your skin, pulsing and alive. It's never felt like this with anyone. It never will again.
"Promise?"
You can't help the slight insecurity that colours your voice, young and unsure.
"I promise, Birdy. Cross my heart."
He takes your hand in his and places it over his chest, as if to solidify his point.
You nod and kiss him again, desperate to have every inch of his skin on yours.
Steve shimmies your underwear down your legs, tossing them behind him somewhere. Shucking his trousers off, he pushes your dress up and around your waist, groaning when he gets a good look at you.
"Prettiest girl in the world. He doesn't deserve you. Never did."
"And you do?"
"I'll spend every day for the rest of time proving that I do."
With that he's pushing into you, sliding home with one smooth thrust. Both of you gasp, grabbing onto the other person to use them as an anchor.
"Please, Steve," you're whispering. "Give me everything. I want it all."
"You've got no idea how long I've been waiting for this."
"I do," you laugh, "I do. Because I've been waiting just as long."
Steve chuckles and leans down to kiss you, slipping his tongue into your mouth to memorise the way you taste. There's remnants of champagne on your lips, along with the minty lip gloss you've loved for as long as he can remember.
He wastes no time setting a steady rhythm, thrusts deep and measured. You rake your nails down his back, clawing at this skin, praying silently that you leave your mark. Little do you know, you staked your claim on him a long, long time ago.
"S'good, Stevie," you whine. "Fuck, so good."
"Does he make you come? Does he even try?"
You shake your head frantically, closing your eyes when Steve laughs dryly.
"Didn't think so. He can't make you feel the way I can, baby. He'll never be able to."
His words are only pushing you closer and closer to the edge, red hot heat building at the pit of your stomach. Steve places one hand at the base of your throat, the heavy weight of it causing your eyes to roll back.
Your sweat slicked skin is plastered to his, every inch of you pressed together. Steve leans down to rest his forehead against yours, panting into each other's mouths.
"I love you," he breathes, hips getting quicker. "I love you. Fuck, I love you."
"I love you," you sob, back arching as you find your release. Stars dance across your vision as you tighten around Steve, nails leaving crescent moons on the skin of his shoulders.
Steve's right there with you, back flexing and fingers leaving their prints on your hips as he groans. It's the prettiest sound you've ever heard. Your mind loops it for you, playing it on repeat as he collapses his weight on top of your body.
"I meant it," he mutters against your damp chest. "I do love you. Always have."
You kiss his forehead gently, smoothing the hair away from his face.
"I meant it too. I love you. You taught me what love was in the first place, Steve."
He leans up to press his lips to yours, tender and honey sweet.
You realise the gravity of the situation all of a sudden, your heart rate increasing in Steve's ear.
"Hey, hey. Birdy. Don't panic, okay? We'll figure this out."
You think for a moment, weighing up your options in your head. Unexpectedly, you're jumping out of bed, fixing your dress and slipping on your underwear and heels.
"What are you doing, babe?"
You adjust your hair and swipe your fingers under your eyes to salvage your makeup in the mirror, turning to face the man who's now dressing himself frantically.
"Have you had a drink tonight?"
"No, I drove here."
"Perfect."
You grab your purse and stand by the door, waiting for him to follow. When he looks at you in pure confusion, you chuckle.
"Let's run away."
"Birdy... what?"
"Steve. You heard me. Let's. Run. Away."
He scans your face for any sign of hesitation, but all he finds is love. Adoration. Assuredness. That's all the confirmation he needs.
He runs at you, picking you up and spinning you around. Grabbing his hand, the two of you sneak down the stairs, slipping out of the front door as quietly as possible.
You throw yourself into the front seat of his BMW, vibrating with adrenaline as Steve starts up the engine. It roars to life, and you're very aware that people are going to come looking for you.
But you don't care.
Steve links your fingers, resting your intertwined hands in his lap as he reverses. You go to look back towards the garden, but you stop yourself.
"Can't move forward if you're always looking back, right?"
Steve laughs, leaning over to kiss your warm cheek.
"Truer words have never been spoken, Birdy."
He brings the car to a stop before you begin down the winding driveway, looking at you carefully.
"You ready?"
You take a deep breath, grinning at him.
"I've been ready since we were five years old."
He smiles at you, bright and blinding, and there's no doubt in your mind that you've made the right choice.
Can't move forward if you keep looking back, after all.
@enigmaticloki @joekeerysslut @s-trawberryv-eins @wintressoldier36 @mangomastani
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