imsogonesposts

[imsogonesposts]

finally dawn coming to the us when i started binging all of joe’s movies, oh i love being alive

[imsogonesposts]

please let them be happy😔

Orbit

college!finnick odair x fem!reader content warnings: ANGST, a little bit of fluff summary: you meet your estranged best friend in college after 4 years. wc: 2.8k

previous part | masterlist. | part eight

You hadn’t planned to go home.

In fact, you’d packed nothing. Just shoved your bag over your shoulder, left the necklace on your nightstand, and caught the early 8:30 train without telling anyone but your roommate—and even then did you only tell her that you were just going away for the weekend.

You’d turned your phone off before it even started vibrating.

There was only one place that still felt like yours when everything started to unravel.

Home.

The moment the front door opened, your dad didn’t ask anything. He just looked at you, took one look at your eyes, and opened his arms.

And you folded into them like you were eight years old again.

Now it was Saturday night.

You were curled up on the couch with a blanket you’d had since middle school, wearing a sweatshirt that didn’t belong to you—your brother’s—and staring at the muted glow of the television.

You weren’t watching. Not really.

You hadn’t spoken much. Not to your parents, not to yourself.

You kept trying to go back and replay the moment. The moment everything changed.

Finnick, laughing. Finnick, glowing. Finnick, kissing her.

You could still see the girl’s hands in his hair. The way his lips moved. The way your heart cracked in real time.

You didn’t know if he’d seen you. Didn’t know if he cared. Didn’t know if he meant it.

And the not-knowing? That was what hurt most.

Your phone was still off. You hadn’t touched it since the train ride. Because if there were messages, you didn’t want them. And if there weren’t?

That would destroy you more.

You shifted under the blanket.

The house was quiet. Your parents were asleep.

It felt like a different world here. Like time had folded in on itself. You were safe.

But you weren’t okay.

Because the worst part wasn’t that Finnick kissed someone else.

The worst part was that for a second, before the world broke open—you really believed you were falling in love.

Sunday morning came and you woke up in your childhood bedroom.

The air smelled like old books and laundry detergent. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in soft streaks of light that made dust float like glitter in the quiet.

You hadn’t slept well. Not deeply. Not the kind of sleep that restored anything.

Just enough to survive the hours.

You sat up slowly, blanket still tangled around your legs, your pillow creased where your cheek had been pressed against it.

Your phone was still on the nightstand. Face down. Dead.

You didn’t reach for it.

Instead, you stared at the ceiling. At the little constellation stickers you’d stuck up there when you were thirteen, still convinced the universe had a plan for you.

Still convinced that everything made sense in the end.

But now…

Now you weren’t sure if the stars knew what they were doing.

Your stomach twisted. You couldn’t stop seeing him. Couldn’t stop hearing your own heartbeat shatter as you turned away.

You hadn’t told your parents anything. Not really. Just that you needed the weekend to clear your head.

And maybe that was true.

But the clearing hadn’t come yet.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and breathed slowly, eyes squeezed shut.

You’d spent the last week falling back into someone who made the world feel brighter— and in one second, it all went dark.

Part of you wanted to know what he was doing right now.

Another part didn’t want to know at all.

Your hand hovered over your phone. Just for a moment.

But you didn’t flip it over. You didn’t press the button. You didn’t let the world back in.

Not yet.

Because some silences were easier than what came after them.

You finally came downstairs around 10.

The smell of coffee and something sweet lingered in the air. Sunlight poured through the kitchen window in soft stripes across the tile floor.

Your dad was sitting at the table, reading the paper like he always did on Sundays. Your mom had music playing softly from her phone, it all made you feel like you were back in high school.

“Morning, baby,” your mom said, glancing up from the stovetop. She didn’t ask why your eyes were puffy. She just smiled like she already knew. “Hungry?”

You nodded, even though you weren’t.

She set a plate in front of you a few minutes later. Pancakes with strawberries, just like when you were little.

Your dad reached over without looking up from his crossword and squeezed your wrist gently.

You didn’t say much. Just sat there in the morning stillness, fork moving slowly, head resting on your palm.

Your mom kept humming along to the song, like nothing in the world was wrong. But every now and then, you caught her watching you— eyes soft, lips pursed, like she was trying to will the hurt out of your body with nothing but maternal energy.

“Going back today?” your dad asked casually, finally folding his paper.

You hesitated. “Probably tonight...but I'm not sure yet.”

He nodded. Didn’t press.

You stayed at the table long after your plate was empty, spinning the fork between your fingers, pretending you didn’t see your phone just barely sticking out of the hoodie pocket you’d thrown on.

“Want to go out?” your mom asked gently. “Get some air? Go to the bookstore or something?”

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

So instead, you sat on the couch again. Flipped through old photo albums your mom kept in a drawer under the coffee table—pictures of field trips and Halloween costumes and birthday parties you could barely remember.

You stopped on one photo.

You and Finnick. At maybe age ten. Covered in frosting from the cupcakes you'd both helped decorate. He had a missing tooth and was beaming. You were laughing and leaning so close to him your heads almost touched.

You closed the album. Set it gently back in the drawer.

The sun moved across the sky. The house stayed quiet.

And still, your phone stayed off.

Because you weren’t ready to hear anything that might undo the version of the story you were still trying to survive.

By early afternoon, you found yourself back in your room.

The house was quiet again, your parents tucked into their own weekend routines, and the silence pressed in like a second skin.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t even feel like crying.

There was just this weight. This ache. A strange sort of stillness where the pain used to be.

You curled up on your side, pulled your knees to your chest beneath the old quilt your grandmother made, and let your eyes drift toward the window.

And there it was.

Your old treehouse.

Tucked in the far corner of the backyard, its paint chipped and wood weathered, but still standing. Still yours.

It looked smaller now, swallowed by the branches of the maple tree you used to think touched the sky.

And somehow, just the sight of it was enough to stir something loose.

A memory.

The kind that arrived like a dream half-remembered—soft around the edges, but warm in the middle.

***

It was summer, and the air smelled like grass and sunscreen and the faint, sugary remnants of popsicles.

You and Finnick were barefoot, darting around the backyard while the sun dipped low and golden behind your neighbor’s fence.

The treehouse had become your fortress, your pirate ship, your castle —whatever the game of the day decided.

You climbed the rope ladder first, cheeks flushed, grinning hard enough your face hurt.

Finnick scrambled up after you, breathless and laughing, nearly slipping as he reached the top.

“Don’t fall, dummy!” you giggled, grabbing his wrist to steady him.

“I wasn’t gonna!” he protested, even though his foot had definitely slipped.

You both collapsed onto the wooden floor of the treehouse, panting and sweaty, arms brushing.

From up there, everything looked far away. Even the things that weren’t.

“You think we’ll still hang out when we’re like... teenagers?” you asked suddenly, your voice small, a little curious.

Finnick blinked at you, then shrugged. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“I dunno. Grown-ups stop being friends all the time.”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “Well, I won’t.”

You looked over.

He was picking at a splinter in the floorboards, but his voice was certain. “Even if you get all weird and boring. I’m still gonna be your best friend.”

You smiled, teeth gap-toothed and crooked. “Even if you get gross and smelly?”

He laughed. “I’m already gross and smelly.”

You laughed, too, and flopped onto your back, staring up at the ceiling with its glow-in-the-dark stars you’d both stuck up last summer.

Finnick lay down beside you.

And for a while, neither of you said anything.

The light in the treehouse had turned soft, golden. The kind of light that made everything feel gentle.

You lay side by side, legs kicked up, faces turned to the ceiling, and the hum of cicadas swelled in the background like music.

Finnick fidgeted with a loose nail sticking up from the floorboard.

“What do you think happens if we stop being best friends?” you ask again, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t look at you. Just flicked the nail once, then again. “We won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” He sat up on his elbows, finally meeting your eyes. “You’re, like…my person.”

You blinked at him. “What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. It just feels like…when something happens, you’re the first one I want to tell. And when stuff sucks, you make it feel not sucky.”

You stared at him.

Then smiled. “You’re my person too.”

His grin stretched wide and crooked. “Good. Then it’s official.”

He reached over and pinky-promised it.

You looped your finger with his without hesitation.

“Even when we’re old?” you asked.

“Even when we’re old,” he promised. “Like… twenty-five.”

You both made a face like that was ancient. Then burst out laughing.

The laughter faded into a quiet that didn’t feel awkward. Just easy. The kind of quiet you only get when someone knows you down to the core.

You watched a spider crawl across one of the ceiling beams. Finnick traced something into the dusty wood beside him—a rough little sun with lines beaming out from it.

You smiled. Then beside it, you drew a moon. Crescent. Soft.

“Perfect,” he said softly.

And it was.

At least, in that moment.

The spell broke with a voice echoing from below:

“Dinner’s ready!”

“Coming!” you both yelled back at the same time.

Finnick scrambled toward the ladder, already hungry, already halfway forgetting what he’d just said.

But you stayed still for a second longer. Looked back up at the ceiling. And whispered to yourself, “Even when we’re old.”

Dinner was pizza and orange soda and one too many paper napkins soaked through with grease.

You sat next to Finnick at the table, legs swinging, bare feet knocking gently against each other under the table.

Your mom gave you both a knowing look when you reached for your third slice. Your dad just chuckled and handed Finnick the last piece.

Afterward, you both plopped onto the living room carpet with full stomachs and a stack of DVDs that neither of you could agree on.

“Matilda,” you insisted.

“No way,” Finnick groaned, sprawled out on the rug. “That movie gives me weird dreams.”

You smirked. “You just don’t like that a little girl is cooler than you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Put on Finding Nemo.”

“I’m not watching that again. You cry every time the mom dies.”

“That is not true.”

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

“It’s okay to cry, Finn,” you teased, grinning as you popped in Matilda anyway.

He groaned again but didn’t protest. Just flopped onto his back with a dramatic sigh and let the opening credits roll.

Within ten minutes, you were lying shoulder to shoulder beneath a blanket, your head drifting toward his.

By the end of the movie, both of you had stopped talking.

The TV flickered soft light across the walls. The house had gone quiet, save for the hum of the dishwasher and your mom moving around in the kitchen.

You weren’t even sure when your eyes started to close.

But you felt his pinky brush yours beneath the blanket.

And you didn’t move away.

The lights were off. You were curled into your sleeping bag, Finnick just a few feet away in his.

The stars you’d stuck to your ceiling glowed faint green.

“Hey,” he whispered.

You blinked drowsily. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad we’re best friends.”

You turned your head toward him in the dark. “Me too.”

And then, like a secret: “Don’t ever go away, okay?”

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

And with that, you both fell asleep to the sound of distant crickets and the soft hum of a summer night, breathing in rhythm without even meaning to.

***

You blinked.

The glow-in-the-dark stars were still there. Still faint, still flickering. But you weren’t ten anymore.

You were eighteen. Heart cracked in two. Staring up at a ceiling that hadn’t changed, even though everything else had.

Your eyes burned suddenly, stung like something had finally split wide open. And this time, you didn’t push it down.

You curled in tighter, knees to your chest, fists pressed to your mouth, but it wasn’t enough to hold you together.

So, you finally let it all go.

And for the first time since the party, you cried.

Not the kind of tears you could blink away. Not the quiet kind.

The tears came hot and fast. The sobs messy, ugly, loud.

It came in waves. Sharp and sudden. Like every moment you’d tried not to feel crashing through the walls you’d built since you turned your phone off.

You didn’t even hear the door open.

Didn’t notice your mom until the bed dipped beside you.

And then her arms were around you before you could even ask. Soft. Firm. Familiar.

You folded into her, shoulders shaking, breath caught in your throat.

“I-” you tried, but it broke off.

She just rubbed your back, fingers gentle and steady. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here. You don’t have to explain.”

But you did.

You had to.

Because the ache was too much to carry alone anymore.

With your face buried in her shoulder, you whispered, “He kissed someone else, Mom.”

She stilled for a moment. Then pulled you even closer.

You gasped between tears, voice cracking apart. “I thought- I really thought maybe this time it could be real. Maybe he came back for me. Maybe we were finally in the same place at the same time.”

Your mom said nothing. Just held you like she had when you were small, when heartbreak meant a scraped knee or a broken toy.

You shook your head, still sobbing. “I feel so stupid. I always wait for him. I always do. And he never-”

She rocked you gently, arms never loosening.

“You’re not stupid,” she whispered into your hair. “You’re just someone who loves too much. And that’s never a weakness, baby. Not ever.”

The words gutted you. But they softened something, too.

Because maybe it wasn’t your fault. Maybe you weren’t weak for hoping.

But oh, it still hurt.

You stayed there, in her arms, until the crying dulled to quiet hiccups, and the sky outside turned gold.

Eventually, the storm inside you began to quiet.

Your sobs softened into shivers. Your mom stayed for a while longer, just holding you, until your breathing steadied and your head stopped throbbing.

She didn’t ask you to explain. Didn’t ask for details. She didn’t need to.

When she finally stood up, brushing your hair away from your damp cheeks, she didn’t say “you’ll be okay.” She just said, “I’ll bring you some tea,” and pressed one last kiss to your temple.

You listened to the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall. The soft clink of a mug. The microwave humming to life.

But you stayed curled up. Still.

The stars above you had dimmed even more. You’d forgotten they did that. Fading slowly, bit by bit, when no one was looking.

You rolled onto your back, eyes tracing the familiar lines of your ceiling.

It still didn’t feel real—any of it. How fast it had all happened. How full your heart had gotten. How quickly it had emptied again.

But somewhere beneath the ache, there was a thought that felt solid:

You didn’t have to go back yet.

Not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow.

You needed time. To think. To breathe. To figure out what came next—not for Finnick. For you.

So you reached for your phone. Turned it over.

Still off. Still quiet.

And this time, you left it that way.

Then you pulled your blanket up to your chin. And decided to stay home just a little longer.

[imsogonesposts]

guys i love steve harrrington

[imsogonesposts]

track four: but i wanna go faster

He tosses you your keys just as you’ve opened the front door. “Good luck.” “Thank you.” For everything, goes unsaid, but Steve hears it anyways. His cheeks flush rosie, and seeing the pink that you love so tenderly, just before the door closes you tell him, “And there’s only one rockstar I have my eye on.” Steve doesn’t have time to react. The door closes, leaving the scent of your perfume behind.

Summary: recording an album is hard enough when the person steve has written every song for cant look him in the eye. its even harder when said person is also his roommate. and it definitely doesnt help that the rest of the band thinks its steves fault. now hes stuck on yet another tour bus with you. and everyone else. for six months.

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, alcohol use

Words: 15.3k

Before you swing in: HI !!! so incredibly sorry this took me so long to update. a lot happened in my life ! i saw djo live TWICE !!!! he was fucking amazing my god (and i finally get to use my own pictures for gasoline). i was then swamped with finals and i GRADUATED !!!!!! started work immediately afterwards. currently begging landlords to let me rent their apartments. fighting takeout demons. besides that, im alive !!!! and i missed yall and i missed writing this silly fic, so i frantically wrote all 15k words in a week just for you guys <3 its insane that we only have one more chapter left ,,, whew. anyways, enjoy !

-

The tour ends in deafening silence. 

Twelve hours separate Chicago from New York. Not once does anyone speak. 

Max smokes out the cracked window. No one berates her for the bad habit. Mike stares blankly up at the ceiling, his endless quips now gone. Jonathan doesn’t turn off his walkman the entire drive. The only sound in the bus leaks from his headphones. Robin forcibly separates herself from the others, locking herself in the bathroom. 

The last of the alcohol in Steve’s system ebbs away somewhere in Ohio. The sobriety accompanies the roar of the bus engine and echoes the lonely wail that infiltrates the space and disappointment. He draws the curtains to his bunk closed. The shame of what he’s done finally chokes him.

Even in sleep, the bus has never been so quiet.

You don’t touch your camera the rest of the way home. The bitter taste of Chicago should remain only that: a bitter taste. 

Late into the night the bus pulls into one of Manhattan’s many port authority terminals. Everyone gets ushered off the vehicle. Three months of touring the country together, yet in the end the six of you are left standing on the curb with bags at your feet. 

“Max shouldn’t take the train on her own this late.” The crack of disuse in Jonathan’s voice breaks the veil of silence when he awkwardly grabs his luggage and points towards the nearest uptown subway station. “Mike and I will go with her.”

No energy remains in anyone to say goodbye. 

Robin starts to walk towards a downtown station without bothering to see if you and Steve are following. The thick air between the three of you only grows as the minutes pass by. The red imprint of Robin’s fury that resides on her palm, the purple bruise of Steve’s shame on the crest of his cheek, and your white-hot guilt shadow the sidewalk. 

Tension creeps between the crevices of the walk home. Steve hasn’t apologized for his drunken bender. You haven’t apologized for your cruel doubt. 

Your skin crawls to get away from his. Regret and shame coats the weight of being alive. You can’t get the hurt in Steve’s voice out of your head. Every time you close your eyes, the tears in his stare back at you. 

Every fragment of pride screams at you to run, but your fingers grip the shared keys to the apartment that both you and Steve call home. There isn’t anywhere for you to go. 

The key skims the outside of the lock of your apartment once, twice, before Dustin’s eager youth flings the door open. 

“You’re back!” He cheers, grabbing everyone’s hands to pull you inside. He stayed up all night to finally welcome his friends back home. “Jesus, I thought I was going to die without you guys.”

Robin’s tight skin forms a smile and you cough, uncomfortable, standing as far away as possible from Steve, who picks at a tag on his suitcase. 

“I mean,” Dustin doesn’t notice the plague of betrayal yet. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Lucas, but the amount of times he accidentally ordered takeout to his place instead of ours was just criminally stupid. Yesterday we literally had to sprint all the way to 23rd to get our damn burritos before someone stole them off his doorstep.”

“Sounds stressful,” you say half-heartedly. You love the kid dearly and missed his curls and assortment of hats, but your body aches to finally close itself off from Steve’s. A pinch stings your skin each time his shoulder accidentally brushes against yours.

“Totally stressful.” Robin’s small frame draws into itself with every passing second. Her meek response only makes her appear smaller.

Only Steve remains silent.

“It was!” Dustin nods, enthusiastic. “Luckily the food wasn’t cold by the time we got there, but anyways,” he smiles wide. “I missed you guys! Still can’t believe you guys became rockstars overnight while I was stuck poking at wires all day. Complete bullshit.”

Stepping closer to Steve, the younger teen holds his hand out. “All will be forgiven, however, so long as you still remember our handshake.”

Dustin smiles expectantly at the man he’s grown up with his entire life, and it’s then, staring up at him with a refusal to accept the childhood tradition, that Dustin realizes the dark cloud that lingers. 

Dropping his hand, he sighs. “I’ll just go ask Mike what the hell happened.”

He grumbles something about it always being Steve’s fault and walks towards the front door. The moment it closes behind him, you release the breath you’d been holding and run straight to your room. 

The lock clicks behind you. Deafening finality of something that almost was. 

You don’t leave the safe haven of your room the entire night. While it provides solace, it borders on its own purgatory with Steve’s boyish smile on every wall, every desk, every inch of space that has become your home. 

He’s everywhere. A few months ago the thought comforted you. Now, it only leaves your mouth bitter with regret. 

You force your head to remain down as you unpack. Better not to look at the images of the boy who moaned your name and drew sighs from your lips only days before. The same boy who fled. The boy who said that rosie reminded him of anger. 

Yet the images surround you. Steve winks into the camera in a photo in your film canister that you pull from a bag. Lipstick stains his cheek in another image, your lipstick, and his alabaster skin shines purple in the lighting. His silver rings glisten in a particularly tender photo of him laying in bed, brown eyes looking at you softly, a hint of a smile on his face.

In documenting the Februarys, all you see is Steve. 

What a sickening twist of irony. 

A door slams, faint laughter of a girl you don’t know leaks through the wall that separates Steve from you, before a kiss silences the laughter and she’s dragged to his room. 

Guilt can only gnaw at someone’s intestines before they become numb to the sensation. 

There will be no sleep for you tonight. Instead, you sort through the photos and bite the blood in your mouth with every thud of a headboard. 

–  

Robin sits hunched over a bowl of cereal in the kitchen the next morning. Her presence startles you. She’s almost never awake so early in the morning unless she has to be. Normally only Steve accompanies you during slow mornings, but his door remains closed and unfamiliar high heels lay kicked to the front door. 

Dread sits in your stomach, How foreign it is to feel nervous around Robin. Inhaling, you take the risk, grab a mug, and give Robin a cautious smile. “Early start to the day?”

She slurps milk from a spoon. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” the smell of coffee slowly drifts through the small space. You’re not sure what else to say. You’ve never had to second guess yourself around the girl. “Can I ask what for?”

“Album.”

“Already?” The Februarys have only been home for less than fifteen hours. They need to rest. Burnout festers at the seams. 

Robin stands up, goes to place her now empty bowl in the sink. “The album won’t record itself, my delicate little thing.” 

Your nose scrunches at the nickname, but at the very least she’s still your friend. “I don’t remember you guys deciding on a recording schedule. When do you leave? I’ll make sure my camera has film in it.”

If you leave now, your favorite art store should have enough rolls of film to last the month. They always sell out early in the day due to their cheap price and high quality. When the Februarys recorded their EP, you used up nearly ten rolls during those short three days. You can’t imagine how many you’ll go through in a month. 

But a quick breath snatches from Robin’s chest, and it’s subtle enough to go unnoticed by anyone else, yet you know her. She’s become your best friend. Despite the anger and confusion, you love her endlessly.

Your arms cross defensively. “What?”

Robin bites her lip. “Please don’t be mad?”

“Depends on the context.”

“How about a little pinky promise? Seal the deal with a kiss?”

“Robin.”

A puff of air escapes her lips and she hangs her head low, averting your expectant stare. “Look… You know I love that pretty face of yours.”

Your frown only depends. “Where is this going?”

“You can’t come with us to record this album, Y/N.” Guilt and distrust taint Robin’s watery eyes. “After Chicago and what happened between you and Steve… You’re a catalyst that we frankly can’t afford right now.” 

“Oh.” The words hurt more than you’d care to admit.

Robin catches the slip in your facade and quickly tries to salvage the wreckage. “We love you, alright? You’re a goddamn film-obsessed saint who somehow finds Mike funny. We adore everything you do for us, but… Jonathan has a camera, too. Why don’t you let him have the spotlight for this album?”

She’s right. You know she’s right. 

Yet the sting of Robin’s words forces all the air out your lungs. 

“I’ll miss you guys.” What more can you say?

Robin tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Her melancholy smile rivals yours. “You’ll still see us, beautiful. Just in between our fist fights and comatose droughts.”

You want to point out that the Februarys went completely off the grid recording their EP. You want to tell her that you don’t want to do anything besides capture their beauty and talent through a lens that’s yours and yours alone. You want to plead with her not to erase you from a history that you’ve become intertwined with.

But then Steve stumbles into the kitchen. Robin’s smile drops. She looks between you and him, senses that there’s still more to be said, and decides that she no longer gives a shit and flashes a quick thumbs up before retreating into her room to pack.

Alone in the kitchen, Steve stands less than a foot away, yet the distance ices into miles of unspoken regret and remorse. 

“Good morning,” he whispers. The soft tone contradicts the indifference on his face.

“Good morning,” you respond, not quite weak, not quite forlorn. 

Within the two word exchange lies a multitude. Though Steve’s multitudes can’t fit yours, and yours can’t fit his, and in the end you think that this must be where you went wrong. It wasn’t your stubbornness or his loneliness, but the impossibility of holding together the excess of the in betweens. 

Something softens in Steve’s eyes. Warm brown melts to honey and in the softness you forget all the hurt that you’ve cut into each other. In the morning sunlight drenched in gold everything pure and lovely remains.

Until a girl who looks nothing like you walks out of Steve’s room and wraps her arms around him in a way that you’d never do. She holds on too tightly, too high up his chest, and you know that you’ve overstayed your welcome. You leave, the sensation of Steve’s gaze following burns your skin. 

Within the hour he and Robin are gone. They leave a note for you and Dustin saying that they won’t be home for dinner.

“And then there were two,” Dustin huffs, flinging the note in the trash. “Hope you know you’re in for a lonely month.”

In the end Steve and Robin don’t make it home for dinner. Despite the lingering tension and unsaid apologies, the Februarys throw themselves into recording their album. They go into a manic frenzy, never home, never calling, never stepping foot outside of Major Tom’s unless forced to by Nancy. 

While a large part of you misses Robin’s squeaky laughter and Steve’s warmth, a smaller, more shameful part of you feels relief over their absence. It gives you breathing room, an escape from everything left to rot in your relationship with Steve. 

In the rotting comes the grief of missing him. No longer needed by the Februarys, you’re left with an overwhelming amount of freetime. Time you haven’t had to yourself since the band came into your life. Once craving space, the distance leaves you wandering in the empty silhouettes they once inhabited. 

Nancy works during the day and Dustin and the teens have just started their sophomore year of college. Dinners are quiet. The living room remains empty. Music no longer floats through the apartment. 

It only takes less than a week of silence before your mind threatens to spiral. 

“Have you even left the couch since I left this morning?” Dustin throws his backpack on the kitchen table and spills assignments everywhere. He ignores the scattered papers to stare at you in disgust instead. “Please, for my own respect for you, say yes.”

“No,” you lift your head from the wool blanket you’re under. “I left to get takeout earlier.”

“That’s pathetic, even by my standards–” His eyes squint at the TV. “Is that ALF?”

The fuzzy alien on the screen screeches, chasing the Tanner family’s cat through their cliche suburban house. The home reminds you of your childhood home in California and the show makes you miss your mother. 

“It’s a good show,” you weakly defend. “Quality writing.”

“I know you’re all mopey and weird now that you’ve been banned from Steve, but we seriously need to get you employed again.”

“I technically wasn’t fired–”

Dustin throws himself onto the couch, squishing beside you. “Weren’t you a freelancer or some shit before becoming indoctrinated into the Februarys? Can’t you just go back to doing that instead of laying around all day waiting for a nineteen year old to come home and make you dinner?”

“It’s your turn to cook–”

“I’m begging you to get a job.”

Finding a pillow, you slam it against Dustin’s face. “You think I enjoy having nothing to do all day?”

He cowers, arms raised to hide his face from your attack. “Hit me again and I’ll–”

You wack him again. “Besides, I’d rather die than return to freelancing. I’ve unfortunately grown to like loud clubs and drunk performers. I can’t go back to taking snotty broadway actor portraits after touring with literal rockstars.”

Dustin rubs his tender head and frowns. “What, so you’re just going to spend the entire month raising our cable bill?”

“Might as well put my rent to use.”

The sigh that serves as Dustin’s response only confirms what you dread: it’s going to be a lonely month. 

– 

The following day an unexpected knock on the door almost makes you drop the dish you’d been holding. In the absence of Steve and Robin, you’ve become fond of mindless house chores to pass time. 

Opening the door, you narrow your eyes. “How do you know where I live?” 

Gregory laughs at your prodding greeting. “Your band works for my boss, remember?”

“It shouldn’t surprise me that Lenny leaves his client’s personal information out for you to find.”

“If we’re being honest,” he sidesteps you, letting himself inside. “If I wasn’t his assistant, I think he would’ve sold Patti Smith’s address by now.”

Gregory shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and smiles wide. Boyish and gentle as ever, your heart flutters an echo of attraction seeing him so at ease in your presence. The history between you doesn’t weigh down on him. You admire his professionalism, his genuine kindness to simply treat you as a human being rather than a lost prize. 

“That sounds more like Lenny.” Laughing as well, you close the door and guide Gregory to the living room. You watch his pleasant smile drop at the sight of the floor to ceiling windows that greet him.

“That’s quite fucking insane.” 

Tugging his hand, you force him to sit next to you on the couch. “Very few things in my life are sane, Clarke.” 

He releases a breath and throws his head back against a pillow. “My apologies. You did specify that very early on.”

You laugh again and the company of having someone human and whole warms the dull cold that infiltrates your loneliness. Though it’s only been a week since you’ve seen Gregory and the mania of Chicago, you find yourself relieved of missing him now that he’s next to you, smiling as bashful as ever.

He can never be someone you love, but at the very least you’re grateful to have found a friend like him. 

Accepting the warmth, your head falls to his shoulder. “So,” you sigh dramatically. “How many hitmen does Lenny have after me?”

“None,” Gregory pokes your side. “He’s actually really fond of you. Says you remind him of his favorite mistress from the 50s.”

“That’s… nice?”

“Don’t look too much into it. That’s how I’ve survived working for him.” You snort and the sound causes Gregory to chuckle. “Anyways, aren’t you wondering why I’m here?”

Sitting up, you stretch your exhausted bones and groan at the question. “Honestly I was enjoying the human company.”

Gregory winces. “I heard that the Februarys asked you not to join them on this album.”

“I mean, I understand why,” you say, avoiding the boy’s eyes out of guilt that shouldn’t exist. “I fucked up and almost cost them their career. I just… I miss them. I guess. They’re never home anymore.”

Robin’s soft footsteps through the halls, a late night craving for ice cream keeping her awake. Steve’s timbre voice singing through the walls early in the morning as he makes you toast just the way you like it. Max’s quick wit brightening your room. Mike’s sarcasm and how gentle he can be when no one’s looking. Jonathan and how tender his eyes are when he talks about photography and the art you’ve created together.

You miss them like a limb that’s fallen off. Raw, aching, suddenly mourning the loss.

Gregory hums in sympathy. “I take it that having nothing to do all day doesn’t help.”

“God,” you cover your face. “I’m so fucking bored that I’ve actually started to consider freelancing again. This is a cry for help, Gregory.”

“I can see that,” he says, gesturing to the mess of cleaning supplies that scatter the floor and the white noise of the TV. “My mom would appreciate your taste in bleach.”

“I know we agreed to be friends and all, but I really thought I could still reap the benefits of your attraction to me by having you pity me.”

Now it’s Gregory’s turn to snort. “And who said I’m still attracted to you?”

“You’re adorable when you lie.”

“Alright, you caught me,” he holds his hands up. “I came here with ulterior motives.”

Curious, you sit up even straighter and tilt your head. “Should I be concerned?”

“Not unless being an official concert photographer for Lenny’s record label makes you break out into hives.”

Your stomach drops. “Are you serious?”

Gregory fixes his glasses with a smile. “I told you that he was fond of you. He’s been trying to get you signed since he saw your work after sneaking you into an overcrowded venue.”

The law is whatever I fucking say it is. 

Leonard Branham. A glorious bastard. 

“I think I’m starting to love that asshole.”

“Gorgeous and talented,” Gregory winks. “Lenny’s favorite combination.”

Face burning in exhilaration and the compliment of being known, you throw your arms over the boy and thank him profusely. “God, I think you just saved me from a complete unemployed breakdown.”

“I didn’t do anything. It was all you, Y/N. Your talent is yours alone. Don’t forget that.” Gregory gently chides. “No one understands venue lighting or how to work a crowd without an instrument quite like you do.”

More more more.

And here it is. 

Allowing the pride to wash over, you finally release Gregory and settle your hands in your lip, facing him. Steading the rapid beat of your heart, it takes a few breaths to calm down. “Alright,” your skin glows. “Tell me about Lenny’s latest passion project I’ll be at the will of.”

Gregory chuckles, knowing you’d ask for details, and he leans against the couch and tells you everything you want to know. He reveals that Leonard has just signed an all female band called the Jinxs. Vibrant and bordering on the edge of indecency, Gregory tells you that soon they’ll be known for their screaming vocals and unashamed lyrics. 

“Best part is that the lead singer, Amelia Sloane, is a lesbian.”

Your mouth turns down. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

“Means there’s less of a chance of you accidentally sleeping with her.”

A gasp of betrayal accompanies the swing of a pillow to Gregory’s pleasant face. He shrieks, but you’re relentless, slamming the cushion down over and over again. If he wants to be a smartass then he can deal with the consequences.

In the midst of Gregory’s pleas for mercy and your adamant denial, Dustin walks through the door and stands at the edge of the living room, confused and slightly guarded. 

“Is this the guy you friendzoned?” He asks over the shouting.

Gregory yelps, unaware that anyone else would be home, and rolls off the couch to quickly stand to his feet. Skewed glasses, tangled hair, top button of his shirt having come undone in the chaos, he looks more like a reckless schoolboy than a highly admirable assistant. 

“My apologies, I’m–”

“Gregory.” Dustin finishes for him. “Heard a lot about ya, buddy.”

He winces. “I imagine they weren’t all good things.”

“Absolutely not.”

Gregory’s face falls and you walk over to him, glaring at Dustin as you do so. “Ignore him. He’s being dramatic. The band all loves you.”

“Not Steve.”

“I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

“Good. I have an orgo exam tomorrow.”

The two of you bicker back and forth, much to Gregory’s amusement. “Is it always like this with you guys?”

“Yes.” You and Dustin say at the same time, not once looking in his direction.

“Fascinating.”

Gregory ends up staying late into the night. After making the mistake of mentioning that he can cook, Dustin demanded he make a home cooked meal. Steve normally cooks for you, but with him gone, the absence of his cooking worsens the loneliness; you don’t know how Dustin managed to survive three months without him. 

But when Gregory sits to your left at the table, a warm plate of risotto simmering before you and Dustin’s excited chatter to your right, for a brief moment the loneliness lessens. It will never quite go away, but the grief that the Februarys are off making memories without you settles into a dull ache reverberates your tendons.

– 

The Februarys are not, however, making many fond memories together. 

Jonathan ends up tying Robin to a chair after she breaks a fifth pair of drumsticks. 

“We just dodged Leonard skinning us alive,” he tells her, tightening the knot when she fights back. “Let’s not add gasoline to the overwhelming campfire.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

“What else is new?”

In the other room Steve throws another pair of drumsticks. “I’m not singing the fucking song!” 

Jonathan pinches the bridge of his nose and turns to Mike. “Go in there and calm him down before Max shoves my last remaining drumstick up his ass.”

“Why would I wanna stop that?” Mike mumbles to himself. When Jonathan glares at him, he huffs, drags his feet to the door, and leaves. 

“Remember when we all liked each other?” Jonathan sends Robin a sarcastic smile. “Good times.”

She tugs at her cable restraints. “Not my fault Steve decided to sleep with Y/N and almost ruin everything we’ve worked for.”

“Y/N also decided to sleep with him, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Robin’s eye twitches. “That’s why she’s not here. I adore that girl, but between Steve’s bitching and her willful ignorance that she’s the reason why, I think I might’ve killed her.”

Another crash sounds from next door. The crash sounds suspiciously like one of Jonathan’s cymbals falling to the ground, followed by Max’s screech of anger and Mike’s pained cry. 

Biting back a curse, Jonathan looks tiredly at Robin. “I miss when we all liked each other.”

She doesn’t say anything in return. Her eyes trace the lines in the carpet below her, arms slowly falling numb at their awkward angle behind her. She never thought she’d be here, recording her first ever studio album in Major Tom’s while tied to a goddamn chair because she’s become a liability. 

Jonathan leaves her alone to go breakup whatever fight has broken out between Mike, Max, and Steve. It’s hard to imagine that less than a year ago the Februarys managed to record and edit a total of eight songs within three sleepless days. 

They had three days to create their EP, yet despite the strict time constraint, all Robin can remember is how much she laughed. Photos of their time in the studio together hang on her wall. A gift from you.

Now you’re gone and Robin has a month to record fourteen songs written in a haze of three long, confusing, overwhelming, incredible months of tour. The Februarys’ EP had been shorter both stylistically as well as lyrically, less mature, a product of their short time and inexperience. But this album brims with the potential for more, and Robin really wishes she could share the experience with you. 

The heavy responsibility of producing an album within the month becomes almost unbearable with Steve’s bordering mania. He hates every song they’ve written. 

Every song is somehow about you, and the few that don’t have your name spelled out in the lyrics are still inevitably centered around love. It’s a sick fucking joke that almost everyone in the Februarys has found someone to call their own. 

“I’m not singing ‘but she can drive me crazy as long as she can drive me home’.” Steve slams the sheet music onto the piano, fingers almost shaking. “Better yet, I say we scrap the entire song.”

“You’re the one who wrote the song!” Max has never wanted to strangle him more. 

“Which means I should get final say in whether or not we include it.”

Jonathan shakes his head. “No. That’s not how we do things and you know it.”

“And an insane waste of time,” Mike butts in. “We have fourteen perfectly good, pretty incredible songs already written and ready to be recorded. We’re not cutting anything. That’d be like, I don’t know. Cutting off a healthy leg or some shit.”

“I can’t believe you’re making me agree with Wheeler.” Max sneers to Steve.

Her malice cuts his paper-thin flesh. The pain sears his nerve endings, but they’re numb in comparison to the pain he feels when he thinks about singing everything he never got to say to you. 

“Can’t we just…” The fight in Steve’s voice has long died. “Change the lyrics? Or make the songs less… Soft?”

Mike’s sudden obsession with soft grunge couldn’t have come at a worse time in Steve’s life. He wants every song to sound airy, lighter, mellow instead of energetic and loud like their EP had been. The idea of singing pathetic ballads about you makes Steve so uncomfortable that he’s already picked all the skin off his nails and they’re only on day four. 

“Leonard liked the new sound, Steve.” Jonathan reminds him again, voice bordering on annoyance. Seems even his patience has limitations. 

“The guy’s drunk off his ass most days. I’m not listening to a word he says.”

Max opens her mouth to argue that Steve is drunk off his ass most days now, storming out of recording sessions every time he doesn’t get his way, inevitably extending the already unbearably long schedule, only to return later smelling like a bar, but Jonathan stops her with the shake of his head. Not here. Not now. 

Steve’s skin itches at the silent exchange between them. The exchange is about him. He’s become familiar with their knowing looks, and he fucking hates it. 

“C’mon, guys,” he tries one last time. He doesn’t know how many more times he can sing about your skin and the way your lips taste. A purgatory of his own creation, Steve is at its merciless will. “Please.”

To Steve’s utter horror his voice cracks. Revealing the faulty fragments that struggle to hold him together. He clears his throat, looks away from his band members, and the silence that follows his weak plea tells him what he already knows.

There’s nothing else they can do. 

“One day you’ll thank us,” Jonathan’s hand clasps Steve’s shoulder. Brotherly, protective, remorseful. “We wouldn’t ask you to do this otherwise.”

“They’re the best songs we’ve ever written.” Mike promises, softening his voice in a way that nauseates Steve; the pity constricts his throat. 

“Can we record already?” Robin shouts from the other room. “I can’t feel my arms, which isn’t ideal considering I need them to play the keyboard.”

Squeezing his shoulder, Jonathan forces Steve to look at him. “It’s just us, alright? Even if the songs are about someone else, they’re still ours. They’ll always be ours.”

Steve doesn’t want the songs to be his. He doesn’t want the songs to be about anyone else. To be for anyone else. What Steve wants lives in the East Village, surrounded by photographs and scratched writing, waiting for him to come back. 

He’s waiting for you to come back, too.

And he isn’t the only one. 

– 

When an unusually warm fall weather lands on a Saturday, Nancy knocks on your door with a plate of food in her hands, a smile on her face, and a blanket draped over her shoulder.

“Picnic on the rooftop,” she says with a wink, giggling to herself, before quickly running up the stairwell.

You stand in the doorway for a moment, blinking, unsure what to do with the sudden information, but Dustin simply grabs leftover takeout and runs after her without hesitation. 

“Get the forks!” He calls over his shoulder, already long gone. 

And who are you to argue?

Locked up all spring and summer, the rooftop shimmers under the September sunlight when you arrive. Steve explained to you once that the owner of the building only allows rooftop access while he’s away on vacation. He promised he’d show you the rooftop as soon as it was open again, but now as you open its heavy door for the first time Steve isn’t with you. 

Instead you’re greeted with Will’s excited hello, Lucas’ pleased nod, El’s kind wave, Nancy’s knowing smile, and Dustin’s offer of the plate he’s made for you. 

“Took you long enough,” he hands the plate to you. “Here, Lucas’ mom sent her chocolate chip cookies. Practically liquid gold in this economy.”

“Thanks,” next to the chocolate chip cookies that load your plate are pieces of candy, some sliced fruit, and even last night’s Thai food. “Dinner of champions, huh?”

Nancy shrugs. “The fruit was a compromise. El only wanted candy on her plate.”

“I like watermelon.” The girl says with a nod. “I think it was a fair compromise.”

Nodding, you sit down on the plush blanket and look around at everyone. “So, this something I should get used to? Picnics on a rooftop overlooking the East Village?” 

Lucas takes a bit of fried rice. “Not necessarily. I mean, we always do one big picnic up here when the weather gets really nice, we just only have half the group since the others are currently locked away in Leonard Branham’s basement.”

“Mike called me yesterday and said that Max bit Steve.” El turns to you. “Apparently he bit her back.”

The information doesn’t surprise you, and admittedly you’re a little hurt to find out that the Februarys have access to a phone at Major Tom’s. Robin and Steve haven’t called the apartment once. The most you’ve seen of them are rare moments when they return home to shower or steal whatever food they can find before running away again. 

Robin stole your ice cream last night. Dustin’s pretty convinced that Steve stole his leftover pizza a few days ago. 

“At least he didn’t bite her first.” Although you wouldn’t really know, would you? Seeing as how they never fucking call. 

Nancy straightens the blanket. “Jonathan came home the other night with a scratch on his cheek. Said he tried breaking up a fight between Mike and Robin.”

“Jesus,” Dustin scoffs. “What the hell are they doing at that recording studio? Hosting a fight club?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Will, hesitant, catches your eye. “We, uh. Heard what happened in Chicago. Sorry, by the way.”

“I’m not the one who deserves the apology.” The sympathy feels tight against your skin. “I almost derailed the Februarys. They deserve the apology. Not me.”

Will winces, but doesn’t say anything else. His uncertainty of saying the wrong thing reminds you so much of his brother that for a moment your breath catches in longing. You miss Jonathan, you miss everyone.

“I think you’re giving yourself too much credit.”

“I’m sorry?” Your eyes narrow at Nancy.

She doesn’t flinch at the precipice of your anger. “The Februarys have known each other since they were kids. They grew up in a small town together and they ran away from it together. We all did. Sure, your confusingly immature relationship with Steve probably isn’t beneficial to them, but it definitely isn’t enough to derail them. They’ve faced a lot worse than petty theatrics.”

Jonathan always did tell you that it was Nancy’s edge that ultimately got her the position of head investigative journalist at the New York Post. 

“I’m not telling you this to be mean, Y/N.” She leans forward, rests a careful hand on your exposed ankle. “I’m telling you this because you need to realize that while you may have chosen to fall in love with a rockstar, that same rockstar chose to fulfill his dreams with lifelong friends who will fight tooth and nail for each other.” 

“She’s berating you while also telling you that it’s stupid to feel guilt over what happened in Chicago.” Dustin says through a mouthful of noodles. 

“She means well.” Will adds.

“Was this all a trap to get me up here and force advice down my throat?” You attempt to joke, hoping your laughter doesn’t sound as forced as it feels. Too much spins through your conclave mind. Attention has always made you uneasy despite how willing you are to vie for it. 

“Robin told me you were stubborn,” a glint in Nancy’s eye, she sees right through you. “And she’s never wrong.”

That’s what scares me. How stubborn you are and how lonely Steve is.

“No,” you breathe out. “I guess she never is.”

Satisfied with your answer, Nancy hums and tosses you an apple. “Eat up and enjoy the picnic, Y/N.”

“Yes ma’am.” Apple juice explodes in your mouth. Everyone laughs. Sugar coats your lips. Guilt still bites at your skin, there’s more that needs to be said, the ache lessens in your chest enough for you to breathe, and for now you enjoy the September Saturday in the sun. 

And as luck would have it, the very next day a storm rages over Manhattan. Thunder shakes the apartment building and rain patters over the windows in a rhythmic manner. Grey and overcast, the rain begs you to stay inside.

Instead you’re frantically running around the apartment trying to find your film camera for your first gig with the Jinxs. Gregory called you the night before with all the details. Soundcheck at seven, doors at eight, show at nine. The venue itself just so happens to be Higgins—the very first venue you shot the Februarys in. 

Gregory promised it’d be an easy and simple gig, signed off by Leonard’s checkbook and all.

Yet here you are, thirty minutes from seven, with no fucking idea of where your camera is. 

“Dustin!” You screech at the top of your lungs, long past rational as the minutes tick by. “Did you move my camera off the table?”

You always leave your camera on the kitchen table before shows. It’s what you’ve done ever since becoming a concert photographer. The night before every gig you lay the device out alongside endless film to ensure nothing gets forgotten. 

So where the fuck did it go?

“Dustin!” You scream again, tripping over your heels to look under the table, the couch, the goddamn cabinets. Anywhere you can possibly think of, but it’s gone. “What the fuck?”

Hot tears of frustration slide down your cheeks. You can’t be late, you can’t risk the job that Leonard himself has paid you for, and as you nauseate yourself spinning in circles to find the device that quite literally defines your entire career, all you feel is utter dread. 

You’re standing in the middle of the ruined living room, breaths uneven, cheeks stained with tears, when Steve walks in. The shock of seeing him after weeks of deprivation slams a fist into your vocal chords, choking air out of your mouth. 

You didn’t know he was even home in the first place. 

Dark circles etch underneath Steve’s eyes. His normally styled hair falls over his forehead in messy strands and even the silver of his jewelry dulls against his pale skin. Lips cracked and fists clenched, he resembles a broken marble sculpture carved for the gods. 

Lost in the realization that you’re face to face again after weeks of forgetting how the other’s voice sounded, neither of you move. Time stands still. The scene reads like a movie, but Steve’s fingers have been picked raw and he’s exhausted of the anticipation for more; he hates how beautiful you are in maroon. 

He needs to leave. 

Shifting his body weight, Steve takes a cautious step back towards his room, but weak as he always is, his eyes roam the body he misses one last time, and it’s then that he sees it. 

You’re crying. 

Against everything, Steve rushes towards you in a wave of hesitant concern. His eyebrows furrow together and before he can stop himself his hands land on your waist. Where they belong. 

“What’s wrong?”

Hearing his voice again weakens your remaining resolve. The last of the composure in your body cracks. It’s been weeks since Steve has last spoken to you, yet suddenly you’re telling him everything. 

“I-I can’t find my camera,” shaking hands find his. He holds them steady, eyes never leaving your face. “Lenny, he got me this gig for another band and my-my camera’s gone and I was supposed to leave five minutes ago and god I’m gonna get fired again–”

“You’re photographing other bands?” Hurt seeps into Steve’s chest, but he quickly tries to mask the hurt with the same wit that you used to adore. “What, the Februarys are gone for a few weeks and you’re already cheating on us?”

But the panic of losing yet another job strikes so deep into your body that you don’t laugh. You don’t push him with a smile or tease him for his jealousy. Instead your tears only build into crescendos. 

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Your teeth clench together, mistaking the tease for an accusation. “If you’re gonna be an asshole about this then just get out of my fucking way–”

“Hey, no.” Steve catches the hand that tries to hit him away. His fingers wrap around the wrist that he used to kiss. That he kissed the night his lips finally landed on your chest. Softening his voice, Steve forces you to look at him. “I was kidding, alright? It was a shitty joke, I’ll admit, and I’m sorry.”

His touch feels foreign. “Let go–”

“I’ll help you look for it.” 

You stumble back. “You’ll… help?”

“Of course I’ll help you, angelface.” Steve says the familiar name with half the smile that he used to, but it’s enough. At least for now. Something flickers across his face as he says it. Something akin to nostalgia. But then he remembers where he is, that he’s still holding your hand. 

Suddenly hyper aware of your body heat, Steve clears his throat, uncomfortable, and drops your hand. He steps back, your gaze drops just enough to see the flex of his hand, tense, nervous, before his faux smile returns. “I’ll check the laundry room, you look under Dustin’s bed. We’re gonna find that goddamn camera.”

Sometimes the rapid change between the Steve who lays in your bed and traces lyrics into your ankle and the Steve who indulges strangers to fawn over him nauseates you; performance ready even when there’s no one around to perform for. 

A strange sensation licks at the back of your neck, a burning to tell Steve this. To tell him that he will never have to perform for you. 

Only you don’t. In your overwhelmed state the words refuse to come out, as if your body is aware of its time constraints. You’re forced to nod at Steve, silent. Time doesn’t allow for anything else. 

The state of Dustin’s room borders on numerous legal hazards. You have to hop over wires, robotic parts, and even leftover takeout in order to even get to his bed. Holding your nose, you wince, bend down, and search beneath the biohazard. 

Digging through rusted nails and piles of empty water bottles, your heart drops with every passing second your camera isn’t found. 

“Nice view.”

Your head hits the bedframe in alarm. “Fuck!”

Steve’s amused laugh eases the sting. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Stop staring at my ass,” you quickly stand up, pulling your skirt down while glaring at him. Your frown only deepens when you notice his arms locked behind his back as he leans against the doorway like he has all the time in the world. “Please tell me you found my camera in the laundry room.”

“I could never lie to you,” Steve bites his cheek. “So I won’t. I have no idea where it is.”

Hot anxiety pinches your intestines. You clutch your stomach, metallic blood fills your mouth. “I think I’m gonna be sick–”

“It was in Robin’s room, actually.” In a grand flourish Steve presents the camera, bowing his head to you. A charming smile takes up his entire face. “I believe this is yours.”

Dizzy with relief and heightened senses, your arms wrap around Steve’s neck. Chest to chest. Encased in the scent of your perfume. The unexpected weight of you.

In the middle of September, spring has come again. 

“Thank you.” Your gratitude kisses into the constellation of stars that made their home in Steve’s chest the day he heard your voice. 

He’ll blame the constellation for the way his hand shakes when he cradles the back of your head, holding you even closer. “Of course.”

He doesn’t recognize his own voice. 

“Just…” It’s too much. Your perfume. Your hair in his mouth. Intertwined so intimately with the sickly feeling in Steve’s lungs. He stutters out a breath, somehow he manages to look down at you, to meet the gaze that makes him weak. “Don’t go leaving the Februarys for a younger model, alright? Can’t have you falling in love with any rockstars.”

He feels your laughter more than he hears it. “I heard they’re awful.”

“The worst.” Steve agrees softly, tangling his fingers through your hair.

He looks down at you and the weight of him doesn’t hurt the way you expect. Leaning into him, you find that Steve already carries the very same weight. He grounds you, leans back against you as you do him. 

A taxi blares its horn outside insistently. 

“That’s your ride, angelface.”

Pulling back slightly, your head tilts up at Steve. “My ride?”

“Called you a taxi while you were having a breakdown. Figured you have a better chance at making it to your gig that way.”

And there he goes. Pulling you back under the tide over and over again. 

Steve laughs at your stunned silence and finally untangles your limbs. He steps outside your reach, tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, and gives you your camera. “Better go before the driver ups the fare.”

“Yeah,” but you’re afraid to step outside. You don’t want to leave. Not yet. 

Steve’s ever gentle hands find the small of your back and coax you to move. “Go, Y/N.”

You’ve used up all your time. 

Swallowing down the morose, your body snaps back to life. You run to the living room and grab the rest of your equipment. Steve follows behind, finding your shoes while you quickly check your makeup in the mirror. Another old habit that formed between you. 

He tosses you your keys just as you’ve opened the front door. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” For everything, goes unsaid, but Steve hears it anyways. His cheeks flush rosie, and seeing the pink that you love so tenderly, just before the door closes you tell him, “And there’s only one rockstar I have my eye on.”

Steve doesn’t have time to react. The door closes, leaving the scent of your perfume behind.

– 

How the Februarys managed to not only finish their debut album without disbanding, but also how they were able to accomplish such a clean, cohesive, intricate album that diverged entirely from their earlier work yet felt familiar in its lyrics and style that defined the band in the first place remains a topic heavily debated. 

Born out of anger and strife, the album becomes the very piece of art that defines who the Februarys are and who they were always meant to be. 

The songs play through the expensive speakers. Mike’s lithe fingers hover the control panel. He studies the chords as they play. Analyzes them, makes sure the pieces have fallen together how they were meant to. 

Jonathan sits next to him, head tucked against his knees as he curls into himself. His hair covers his face, though a faint scratch on his cheek remains visible. His eyes are closed. The most peaceful he's appeared in weeks. 

Max sits against the wall, furthest from everyone. She nods along to the melodies, pleasure masked in pride. She catches Mike’s eye during a particularly stunning chord progression and the two share a secret smile. 

Robin rests her head in Steve’s lap. They sit on the floor together. Her own eyes are closed. Pink hair contrasts against the dark wash of his jeans. She taps her fingers against her thigh, hums to her own voice that plays back. She studies the music just as carefully as Mike does. 

Mike’s production makes the album vulnerable in a way that Steve has never heard before. Every twist of the guitar, every slowed tempo, creates a melancholy ache that he can’t believe he tried to sever. Steve’s chest lightens hearing Robin’s soft vocals behind his gravelly tone, giving depth to the lyrics they wrote together. Steve’s bones reverberate Jonathan’s drums. He can practically hear Leonard’s manic joy during Max’s bass solo. 

The album dances throughout the room, courses through Steve’s addictive veins. The album is amazing. He knows it’s amazing.

And he can’t believe that they stayed.

Robin and Max. Jonathan and Mike. The Februarys. His bandmates. 

His family. 

Steve doesn’t believe in a god, but he believes in the love that the Februarys relentlessly endow him with. They’re still here. They haven’t abandoned him despite the blood he’s shed and the wreckage he’s left in their wake. 

Love and grit tie the Februarys to Steve, and the realization sobers him. To know that even though he has yet to apologize for Chicago, that he’s the reason for Jonathan’s cut cheek and Robin’s tired eyes, that these last few months he’s tried to force them away, and yet they stayed. 

Steve has done nothing but exhaust the selfless love the Februarys have for him, but somehow there’s still more to give.

And now here’s the proof of it. The physical, material proof. This album. Their album.

Angelface. 

Created together. Fought for together. Just them. No one else. 

“Don’t look so surprised that we still love you.” Robin’s voice cuts through the symphonies in Steve’s choir mind. He looks down at her, startled that she’s spoken, and she huffs in amusement. “It’s written all over your face.”

The next song plays. One Mike wrote, its lyrics detailing how growing up together can create wounds that only the ones who grew up with you can patch.

Steve finds it fitting. 

“I’m sorry,” the words tumble from his war-torn lips, echoed by his fingers hesitantly finding the edges of Robin’s hair. He hasn’t played with it in a long time. 

She shrugs. "You’re an asshole, but you’re also our best friend. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive, contrary to what you may think. That’s why we stay.”

“Even when I constantly want to go faster?”

The vague question doesn’t faze Robin. She knows what he means, and he’s never been more grateful to have her in his life. 

“Even then,” she laughs. “Though I think you should take a page from Eric Turner’s book and cool it down from time to time. Just in case.”

Laughter cracks from Steve’s chest. Though slightly hollow, not quite full as it used to be, the laughter feels good against his lonely ribcage. He nods at Robin. “Maybe I will.”

“Good.” She pinches his leg fondly.

The next song plays. It’s just as incredible as the previous ones had been. 

Steve looks around the room again. Mike smiles at a line he loves, Max and Jonathan nod together in harmony, Robin’s eyes have closed once again, her face young and beautiful, and Steve swears to himself that he’ll be better for them. 

He has to be better. 

– 

Leonard sends the band home with strict instructions not to touch the finished album. 

“You glorious bastards deserve the rest.” He looks pointedly at Steve. A silent warning to do as he says. “You gave me an album that sounds like expensive lox. I fucking love lox. And for that reason alone, now it’s my job to force record stores to sell the lox you’ve given me.”

The Februarys stopped questioning Leonard Branham a long time ago. 

They leave Major Tom’s together for the first time since recording their EP. 

“I can’t believe we’re done.” Mike shakes his head, jumping over the curb and whistling at a pigeon. “I mean, don’t get me wrong I’m fucking drooling over the idea of sleep, but… Feels anticlimactic.” 

“I had to tie Robin up three separate times while recording the album.” Jonathan rubs his jaw, tired. “I wouldn’t call that ‘anticlimactic’.”

Max snorts. “Then she scratched your cheek.”

“You could sound less pleased about that, you know.”

Robin side steps a woman and her dog. “I’m not apologizing.”

Jonathan sighs. “I figured.”

Steve remains silent, allowing his friends to carry the conversation as they walk to the nearest subway line.

“Look,” Mike extends his arms. “Battle scars aside, all I’m saying is that we just finished recording an album at a major studio and now we’re walking to the subway sidestepping piss and pigeons. Not a very ‘rockstar’ end.”

“At least we actually finished the album.” Max points out, flicking her middle finger up at Steve.

He shrugs. “Deserved that.”

“And never think otherwise.”

Everyone laughs at the interaction, joined together by a common disdain for Steve’s theatrics. He doesn’t mind. He laughs along with them, thankful that at least he’s offered the band something to laugh about. 

Comfortable silence settles over the group. Mike and Jonathan kick at each other’s feet as they walk, skipping over tripped traps and teasing one another. Max and Robin walk side by side, both rolling their eyes at the boys’ antics. Steve hangs back, content to watch his friends for just a little longer. 

Gratitude rings deep in his chest.

His eyes catch on a bright yellow pay phone tucked into a local booth. He stops. An idea alights in his mind. He stuffs himself into the phone booth, digs through his pockets for spare change, and dials a number that’s engraved into his heartstrings.

“Steve, what are you doing?” Robin calls out to him when she finally notices that he’s no longer walking beside her.

He holds a finger up. The line rings. 

Confused, Robin tugs at Max’s shirt to get her to walk back to the phone booth. Mike and Jonathan stand to the side, curious as well. 

“Dude,” she says, squeezing into the phone booth with Steve. “Who the hell are you calling? We’re practically the only friends you have.”

“Hello?” Your voice sounds even lovelier over the landline. 

He sucks in a breath. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Y/N?” Robin blanches, loud enough for the others to hear and come running towards the phone booth. 

“He’s calling Y/N?” Max shoves her shoulder inside. The booth far too small for any more bodies, yet she finds a way inside anyways. “Why the hell is he calling her?”

Steve snaps his fingers at them both, silently demanding them to shut up. They glare at him, but he doesn’t care. You’ve gone quiet over the line and he really doesn’t want to risk you hanging up. “Listen,” he softens his voice, aware of Max and Robin listening in. “How would you feel about hosting a party at our place tonight?”

“A party?” This time Robin doesn’t even try to lower her voice. Max elbows her side, shushing her, while Jonathan and Mike come running. They force their own lanky bodies inside the phone booth.

“There’s a party?” Mike’s eyes light up and Steve’s shoulder presses uncomfortably against the booth’s glass. He has to close his eyes to prevent himself from snapping at the kid.

“Considering it’s a Wednesday night with no prior warning, I’d say I’d feel pretty confused as to why.” Even through a telephone line Steve can hear your quiet surprise. 

“We just finished our album.” He tells you, feeling the familiar warmth of pride in his bloodstream. “I figured we’d celebrate.”

Mike’s fist bumps into the air and nearly knocks Jonathan’s head against the metal frame. “Yes!”

Steve grabs Mike’s arm and twists it just enough to hurt, but not enough to leave lasting damage. The kid shrieks and Max covers his mouth in annoyance.

“What was that?” You ask.

“Nothing,” Steve releases Mike’s arm. “Anyways, what do you say? Are you in?”

A prolonged pause. If he closes his eyes, Steve thinks he’d be able to imagine the way you bite your lip as you contemplate. He doesn’t blame you. A party at the apartment would mean being in the same room together. It’d mean facing each other with all of your friends. An audience awaiting a show. 

But you’ve missed the audience. You’ve missed having all your friends together in one space, laughing into each other’s sides and sharing drinks and smiling until you ache. 

“Please?” Steve risks the soft beg. He won’t force you, he would never force you into anything, but he wants so badly to right his wrongs. The Februarys deserve to celebrate even if it means he hides out in his room the entire night. 

He doesn’t care. 

All that Steve cares about is whether or not you’re in. 

“I’m in.” You accept the wilted olive branch offered. “I’ll tell Nancy and the others.”

Again it hits Steve that you’ve stayed, too. “Knew I could count on you, angelface.” 

“Bye, Steve.” He hears your smile as you hang up. 

He lingers for a moment with the phone tucked against his ear. The dial tone drones on. He allows himself to mull over the saccharine of your voice. 

Despite everything, you’re still here.

“Well, what’d she say?” Mike’s impatient hands hit Steve’s arms repeatedly. “Are we partying? Should I call El next? You’ll pay for everything, right? Wait, speaking of which, can I borrow a quarter–”

Jonathan’s hand covers the kid’s mouth. “I’ll take him outside,” he says, awkwardly squeezing past the girls to get out. Mike shouts against the hand, but Jonathan’s stronger than he looks. “Sorry.”

“We seriously need to get him checked out.” Max watches Mike fling himself out of Jonathan’s arms and tries to run back to the booth, only to be stopped again.

“Nancy won’t let us.” Robin responds before turning to Steve. “I’d ask you what Y/N said, but judging by the lovesick smile on your face I think it’s safe to assume she’s in.”

“She’s in.” He doesn’t bother to correct the lovesick comment. 

Max and Robin cheer and high-five. Steve admires the glow of their faces and the shine of their smiles and he thinks that he’s finally starting to get things right.

– 

Dustin shoots up from the couch as soon as you tell him there’ll be a party tonight. He stumbles over himself and curses, rushing towards his room. “Fuck, I gotta clean!”

“Why?” You trail behind him, not understanding how a party that will be hosted in the living room will affect his disgusting room. “No one’s gonna see your room.”

“Suzie will!”

You pause. “Who the hell is Suzie?”

“No time to explain!” Dustin slams the door in your face.

Alone in the hallway you say to no one in particular, “He concerns me.”

Nancy knocks on the front door not long after. “Prepared as always, Wheeler.”

She balances an assortment of food and drinks in her arms. Will stands next to her, carrying his own arsenal of party games and mixers. She smirks at you. “When am I not?”

“And that’s why I adore you.” You step aside to let them in. 

Together the three of you set the kitchen up. Alcohol lines the countertops alongside several boxes of frozen pizza. Will arranges the games on the dining room table. You place a bowl of chips next to a deck of cards and soon the apartment slowly returns to its warmth. 

“Steve really thought of this?” Will hands you a glass to pour liquor into. “I thought you guys weren’t on speaking terms.”

“Don’t believe everything Dustin tells you.”

“It was Jonathan, actually.”

“Oh.” You grab a bottle of coke and untwist the cap. “Well. Help me with the drinks, please.”

Will raises an eyebrow at you but doesn’t argue. You’ve always appreciated that he takes after his brother in that sense. 

Dustin resurfaces once Lucas arrives. The two bicker over which radio station to play and Nancy has to intervene before they can scratch each other’s eyes out. Childhood friendship holds more aggression than you think is necessary, though a part of you finds it beautiful as well. 

By the time the Februarys arrive, drinks have already started flowing and you’re showing El how to place film into your camera when you hear Steve’s excited voice greeting Dustin. 

“Henderson!” He opens his arms and collides into the boy. He squeezes him tight, ruffling his hair despite Dustin’s pleads not to. “God, I missed your freaky little mind.”

“Watch the hair!” He shrieks, trying to fix the now even messier curls. “Dude, Suzie will be here any second.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “You’re finally bringing Suzie around?”

“She wants to meet you guys.”

“Dude, that’s great! I’m happy for you, seriously. I know you really like this girl.”

Dustin’s face turns pink. He looks away, uncomfortable by the genuineness in Steve’s voice. He’s in a surprisingly good mood. “Uh, thanks. I guess.”

He pats his shoulder. “No problem, buddy.”

“Y/N,” El’s quiet voice draws your attention back. She holds up your camera. “Did I put the film in right this time?”

You quickly check, and when you find that she has indeed placed the film in correctly, you give her a high-five. “You’re a crazy fast learner, sweetheart.”

“That’s my girl.” Mike appears next to you guys, beaming at El. “C’mon, I stopped by a market on the way home and got you those cookies you really like.”

El gasps and scrambles to her feet, following Mike into the kitchen. Their hands interlock as they walk and you can’t help but smile at how sweet they are together. In the corner of your eye you see Jonathan rubbing Nancy’s arm as they talk to Max and Lucas, the younger couple resting against each other in comfortable practice. 

You look across the room and find Dustin with a girl his age with glasses and thick brown hair. He holds her hand with careful shyness as he shows her around the apartment. She blushes at the contact and he flushes just as vividly. 

She must be Suzie, then.

Dustin brings her to Robin, who leans against the counter with a girl you’ve never seen before. She’s blond, pretty, shorter than you’ve seen the other girls Robin has brought around, but she politely shakes Dustin’s hand and waves at Suzie and you can understand why she’s Robin’s date for the night. 

The doorbell rings and Will answers it immediately. He reveals a tall boy with bright red hair. The two embrace, lingering in each other’s arms while Jonathan watches from afar with a glint in his eyes. 

Love, both anew and familiar, fills the apartment. 

Mike’s fond kiss to El’s forehead as they share a sugar cookie. Max’s laughter listening to Lucas’ jokes meant only for her. Nancy caresses Jonathan’s scratched cheek, kissing the injury better. Dustin’s excited rambling while he introduces Suzie to his closest friends. Robin and Will introduce their dates to one another. 

You look through the viewfinder of your camera and capture the love that showcases itself around you. Seeing Robin through your lens again after a month of her absence fills you with giddy warmth. 

Steve’s eyes find yours as soon as your camera falls from your face. Somehow you aren’t surprised that he’s watching you. You never are. 

Holding his gaze, his lips turn upwards and he gestures over at the group you’ve just captured on film. He seems to have come to the same realization as you.

The two people who slept together a month ago are now the only ones without a date for the night.

Steve raises his eyebrow as if to say, ironic, huh?

His eyes only on you, your smile meant only for him. A small, intimate moment, reminiscent of how it used to be. Stolen glances amongst a crowd. Interlocked fingers under tables. His breath mixing with yours. 

The remnants of the reminiscing pinches at the longing in your stomach and forces your throat closed. All the air escapes your body in its craving for something more.

Steve sees it. Of course he sees it. Your conflicted reaction constricts his own throat. Forcing his eyes away, he looks down at his drink and downs it before you can react. 

The erratic change unnerves you, but Steve gets lost in the crowd as more people arrive. Friends from school. Other musicians. Neighbors. No one gets left uninvited for the celebration of the Februarys’ very first album. 

You meet Robin’s date, Jamie. She’s witty and interested in photography and you spend almost an hour discussing street art and poets. The conversation only comes to an end because Will introduces Westley and you’re eager to know all about their relationship and how they met.

“I still can’t believe he has a boyfriend.” Jonathan whispers in your ear once Will isn’t looking.

“I still can’t believe Dustin has a girlfriend.”

Jonathan chuckles. “We’re getting old.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m still perfectly agile.”

“Steve would agree.”

You punch his stomach. Nancy gives you a thumbs up. 

Music plays over the radio and despite the mass of people in the small apartment, the celebration itself remains tame. The Februarys talk about their album with whoever they can find. People congratulate them over and over again. Drinks get passed around and you have your fair share of them to drown out the worry that never seems to leave. 

You don’t see Steve for the rest of the night. 

Eventually the late hour forces an end to the party. At some point the Februarys yawn more than they drink. The month of constant sleepless nights and arguments finally catches up to them. Nancy has to carry a drunk and exhausted Jonathan upstairs. El drags Mike behind them. Jamie guides Robin to her room with a promise to you that she’ll only tuck her into bed. Lucas calls a taxi for Max as she sleeps on his chest. 

As the last of the guests leave, Dustin grabs Suzie’s hand. “I’m gonna walk her home.” 

“Mind if I walk down with you guys? Need some air.” 

Neither of them denies you this and you’re thankful. The elevator ride down is quiet, but a comfortable quiet that lulls you. In the lobby you wish Suzie a good night and make Dustin promise you to be safe.

“Stay at her place,” you gently urge him. “It’s late. I don’t want you walking back on your own.”

“That was the plan.” Dustin whispers, winking. 

Sugar coated love swells in your chest. Ruffling his hair, you pull Dustin into a hug. “Good luck.”

His teeth poke out in his smile. Tipping his hat at you, he grabs Suzie’s hand and leaves with one last boyish goodbye. 

Their young love giggles echo down the sidewalk. 

After they’ve left, you stand in the lobby for a while. Alcohol slowly weans itself from your veins. Your feet ache and it’s difficult to keep your eyes open. You feel your body acclimate itself to the silence. 

You know you’ll have to face him eventually.

And you do. 

Steve sits on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t move when he hears you return. His faces forward, looking out through the floor to ceiling windows that overlook lower Manhattan. His shoulders are drawn in. His head hangs to the side.

He’s never looked so small.

You aren’t sure how many drinks Steve has had tonight, but when you carefully bridge the distance that spans between you, it becomes clear that the alcohol within him hasn’t made him angry or bitter like it normally does. Instead the alcohol leaves Steve lonely, remorseful. 

Alcohol soaks you in remorse as well.

Though your unexpected body heat surprises him, Steve doesn’t look at you when you join him on the counter. His eyes remain on the skyline, though he does press your back to his chest and hooks his chin over your shoulder. He settles against you, the touch tender, no demand for more; it’s familiar. 

You lean into the familiarity, inhaling the nostalgia and exhaling the grief. 

For a while all you do is watch the sunrise from the kitchen counter together. The sun peeks its head over the city and greets you with warmth. The delicate orange drenches the kitchen in its early wake. Pinks accompany it, a bit rosie, a bit darker. 

Somehow it always ends up rosie.

“Do you know what we decided to name the album?” Steve’s nose presses into the base of your neck. His questions whispers against the skin there. 

“No,” for some reason the response feels like a confession. 

Steve pulls you closer, pulls you against his chest as if trying to crack it open to fit you inside of it. He would nestle you between his ribs if he could. Sort you against his lungs. Just the right of his heart. 

“Angelface,” he says so softly, drenched in so much vulnerability, that the name becomes a holy relic dripped in gold. “We named the album Angelface.”

His childhood dream he named after you. 

Your fingers find his hair. There isn’t anything you can say. He already has you. He’s had you for a long, long time.

“I’m still yours,” another confession. The golden relic glistens in the sunlight. “Why can’t you promise me the same?”

All you have to do is tell me that I won’t just be some girl you fuck and forget about.

The catch of Steve’s breath gives away everything he can’t tell you. He doesn’t know why he can’t. The only answer he has is that he’s too afraid to fall, but how is that fair to you? The fear of falling despite the knowledge that you’ve already begun the fall. 

“I wanna go faster.” Steve’s cheek rests on your shoulder. He can’t look at you. Not yet. Not while the sun creates halos on everything it touches. “My entire life, all I’ve ever wanted to do is go faster, even faster than what I’m ready for. I throw myself head first into everything without looking back. And sometimes it works. It’s how I formed the Februarys. But sometimes–”

His breath catches again. “Sometimes… it doesn’t.”

“Is that what happened to us?” You ask him because you know he won’t admit it otherwise.

Steve swallows. “I hate it.”

An indirect answer. Closer to the truth than he’s ever given you before. 

“And I really miss being your friend.” His voice cracks, but he’s too tired to hide it any longer. “Can we… can we go back to being friends?”

It’s all I can promise you.

But you and Steve were never really friends. More always followed closely behind every lingering touch and glance. Your dreams became his. His fears became yours. You learned every ridge of his mind, every crevice of his lonely heart, before your tongue even knew what he tasted like. 

Though you miss Steve like an abandoned house misses its former inhabitants, you know him too well to be his friend again; he’s hurting too much to mean anything he says. 

He’s still trying to go faster than he’s ready for. 

It’s this that forces you to pull away. You slide down from the counter, out of Steve’s arms. He doesn’t fight it, though the grief in his once honey brown eyes leaves your lungs weak.

“Thank you for the album name,” unable to hurt him more than you already have, your lips press softly to his cheek. They remain there for several long seconds, your nose grazes the skin, his fingers tighten around your waist. But all things must come to an end. Parting your lips from his skin, you brush his hair back and whisper, “Goodnight, rosie.”

Steve watches your silhouette as you leave.

– 

The next night, Robin can’t sit still the moment she gets to Higgins. 

She paces the dressing room back and forth, mumbling to herself about trusting her friends and believing in the power of friendship and all that bullshit. Her pacing echoes Jonathan’s nervous tapping against the vanity. He matches his tempo to her footsteps and you wonder how long it’ll be before she throws her heel at him. 

Steve isn’t much better. The Februarys’ first show in New York since returning from tour and he rocks back and forth in his seat like a shell shocked soldier. 

“I’m not going to fuck this up.” He’s whispered the same mantra since finalizing the setlist for Higgins. “I’m not going to fuck this up.”

“Can you shut up?” Max flings a pick at him. “You’re freaking me out.”

He shakes his head, not once breaking his mantra, and his repetitive mania makes Max shift uncomfortably. Mike isn’t any better, curled into a ball face down on the ground. 

“Do they normally do this?” Dustin asks you, looking around at the band members in concern.

You shake your head. “No, they’re just… nervous.”

More like terrified that Steve might do something. Which, if he’s being honest, he’s also terrified of. All his friends have shown up tonight and he’s still on thin ice with Lenny. One wrong move and he thinks the man might actually order a mafia hit on him.

Lucas scratches his nose. “Well, I mean. I don’t blame them.”

“Lucas!” Nancy berates, nudging him to stop talking. 

“I’m just saying!”

El clasps her hands together. “I do not think you’re helping.”

“He isn't.” You glare at him. “Go be useful and grab the Februarys’ cables with Dustin. Place them near the stage door so the crew can easily find them.”

“But–”

“Go.”

Dustin makes a face. “How’d I get involved?”

“Because you live with me.”

“Technically you moved into my home.”

“Go before I send Max over.”

This gets Lucas to yank at Dustin’s shirt. He doesn’t want his girlfriend to strangle him before the show has even started. Will, the smartest in their group, chooses to keep his mouth shut. You pat his shoulder in return. 

“I’ve never seen them like this.” Nancy lowers her voice so that only you hear. Her eyes linger on Jonathan’s nervous frame. He runs his hands through his hair repeatedly as if it will somehow ease his frayed nerves. 

“Unfortunately, I have.” You can’t remember the last time the Februarys were excited before a show. 

Nancy frowns. “Was the last half of tour really that bad?”

Rather than answer her question, you take your camera out and begin photographing anything you see. You don’t want to talk about the tour. You don’t want to think about Steve’s offer of being friends. You don’t want to think about anything other than which composition best suits Robin’s deep purple trench coat that hangs from its wire.

Steve’s eyes follow you. He hasn’t spoken to you since last night. He isn’t sure if there’s anything left to be said. 

Nausea sinks into his stomach, but he forces it down when one of the crew members gives the five minute warning. Steve grits his teeth and stands up. He avoids your gaze. He can’t afford to fall your eyes. Not tonight.

He has to keep his promise to the Februarys. He wants to be better for them. 

“Alright,” he gathers them around, feigns confidence in his smile when he looks at his band members. “C’mon, you know the drill. We’re back in New York and even though it’s endless, it’s just us out there, okay?” 

“Just us.” Robin leads the chant. The others follow. 

In his periphery Steve thinks he sees you taking their photo. He pushes the thought aside. He puts his hand in the center of the band’s circle and one by one their own hands fall on top of his. They await his final chant. His final words before they go on stage. 

Max stares up at Steve like a sister does a brother. Mike winks at him. Jonathan nods, places all his trust into his friend. Robin smiles one of her rare, soft smiles, and Steve knows that everything he’s ever done has been for them.

“Showtime.”

Everyone cheers. 

He thinks he’s ready.

Except when Steve steps on stage the lights nearly blind him. He squints at the harsh light, holds a hand up to block its attack. When the crowd screams his name he thinks his ears ring metallic metal. The overwhelming onslaught of attention and sensation feeds into the fear that maybe he isn’t good enough.

“How’re we doing tonight, Higgins?” Steve desperately tries to hold onto his confidence. He tries to force the mask back onto his face, to become Steve Harrington again, but he can barely get through introducing the band before his hands tense up and his legs shake. 

Jonathan starts the first song and Steve misses the count in. He starts a beat too late and Robin has to quickly rework her keys to recalibrate. No one seems to notice, at least not in an obvious way that Steve can see, but the mistake blows into his chest hard enough to collapse the remaining assurance that he’ll be fine. 

Steve’s stiff body clumsily moves through the songs. He sings at the audience, not to them. Too wrapped up in his mind, he doesn’t play his guitar to Mike. He doesn’t beckon the crowd to cheer when Max and Robin do their handshake. He forgets to count Jonathan in during the fourth song. 

You notice everything. 

That’s when he finds you in the crowd. 

You’re looking at Steve and fuck you haven’t looked at him in so long and your fingers wrap around your camera in a way that dizzies his mind and holy fuck have you always looked this beautiful with your cheek pressed against the stage as your body tries to capture his?

Suddenly all Steve can focus on is you and how you didn’t accept his offer to remain friends but thanked him for the album and he’s a fucking mess the entire performance and everyone knows it and god he misses you. 

Robin has to start the fifth song when Steve comes in four beats behind. This time it’s impossible not to notice. A few people in the audience murmur to each other and their uncertainty stings Steve’s skin. 

He manages to get through the remaining three songs. His vocal chords strain against his anxiety and Steve doesn’t think he’s had a worse performance in his entire life. Max sends him concerned glances and Mike has to play all the notes he misses. 

The second the show finishes and Steve chokes out a goodbye to the crowd, the Februarys swarm him backstage. 

“What the fuck was that?” Robin demands, grabbing his t-shirt. 

No words come out of Steve’s mouth.

Max steps forward. Her arms cross against her chest. “You’ve never choked before. What gives?”

“Did you drink before the show?” Mike squints at him. “Or did you smoke? I thought we weren’t allowed to perform while high.”

“Guys, give him some room.” Jonathan blocks Steve from everyone, forcing Robin to step away. “We can’t just jump him every time something goes wrong–”

“Let’s go.” Suddenly you appear, snatching Steve from Jonathan and dragging before anyone can even blink. You disappear as quickly as you appear. 

Mike blinks. “Should we…?”

“No.” Robin rubs her eyes. She has another fucking migraine.

Meanwhile, you turn a corner and find a closet. Flinging the door open, you shove Steve inside. Not giving him any time to breathe, you grab his shoulders and force him to look at you. “This can’t continue to be an issue.”

“What–”

“Whatever the fuck is happening between us can’t keep affecting the band.” You release him and inhale deeply. Like ripping off a bandaid. “It isn’t fair to them and it sure as shit isn’t fair to our careers. I mean, I lost an entire month of work because we were horny teenagers.”

“That wasn’t my decision–”

“It doesn’t matter.” You cut Steve off. You have to get it all out. Say everything you should’ve a long time ago. “It also doesn’t matter that we can’t be friends. What matters is that we have to be professionals, alright?”

Instinctually Steve feels an overwhelming urge to deny you. He doesn’t want to pretend to be civil with you. What he wants is to call you his, to spin you around like he used to do, but Robin’s angry eyes flash in his mind. He can hear Jonathan’s disappointed sighs. 

He let them down tonight. 

“You’re right,” he finally admits. 

“Then it’s agreed.” This is the longest you’ve held Steve’s gaze in months. “We remain professional, we play nice, respect each other so that our issues don’t leak into the band.” Your hand reaches for his. “Deal?”

Professional. Nice. Words used to describe a coworker, not someone that you love. 

It leaves a bitter taste in Steve’s mouth. 

But he accepts your hand. Even though it’s a hard deal to make and even harder to shake your hand as if you’re a stranger, Steve convinces himself that it was always meant to be this way. 

“It’s for the best, right?” He has to convince himself that the words are true.

Your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s for the best.” 

He wonders if you have to convince yourself, too.

Mike sees you walk out the closet and calls out your name, about to ask you where Steve went, when he sees him come out behind you. He stops, mid-step as his face pales. “I really don’t want to snitch to Robin about this.”

“Nothing happened.” You flick his forehead, wandering away to go find your friends. 

Steve remains in the hallway. Mike looks at him, scrunching his face. “Is she lying? Say no so I can have plausible deniability.” 

“Sometimes I regret introducing Jonathan to your sister.”

“That wasn’t a yes or no.”

– 

Like fall turns spring leaves yellow, slowly the scattered pieces of the Februarys come together again. 

They perform sold out shows with large crowds and eager fans. Steve puts on a show each and every night. He winks at the audience and plays into their demands and riles them up and shines so bright on stage that it edges on painful to look at him. 

He upholds his end of the deal just as much as you do. He keeps his distance, smiles for your photos but doesn’t pull you into his lap afterwards like he used to do. You make polite conversation before shows. You help him put his rings on, both of you ignoring the static that shocks your skin at the touch. 

By the end of the month Leonard releases the album. He sends the Februarys another crate of illegal liquor that Jonathan quickly throws away. 

In the release of the album comes the release of their lead single, Rosie. Steve wanted to cut the song from the start, but the rest of the Februarys fought to keep it. Despite who the song is about, it’s a fucking good song and an even better single. 

Reminiscent of the night Tease released, you’re in the kitchen surrounded by your closest friends. The radio sits on the counter, dial turned all the way up to not miss a single thing. Steve leans against the doorframe with Robin. Max and Lucas sit on the floor alongside Dustin. Mike sits with his sister and El while you’re squished between Jonathan and Will. 

The clock on the wall ticks.

Midnight strikes. 

“And that was Matthew Dove’s single Upside Forward. How fun are directions, huh?” The radio presenter forces a cheesy laugh out and Dustin scoffs in annoyance. “Next we have the Februarys, which by the way, what a name! It’s grown on me. Has a nice ring to it.”

“Told you people would like the name.” Steve huffs at Dustin. “You’ve been the only one to complain.”

“And I will still complain.”

Robin throws a beer can at Dustin. “Both of you shut up!”

You bite back a smile as the radio presenter drones on. “Anyways, months aside, here’s their latest single Rosie. Seems we’ve moved onto colors! Fun!”

El giggles at the insanity of it all and Mike kisses her hand, smiling as well. 

The radio crackles one last time. “Enjoy, New York.”

Hearing the opening piano keys to Rosie after months without hearing its notes hits you so violently that while everyone cheers, you sit there, numb, reliving it all. 

Steve’s lips kissing the inside of your wrist. His hands on your waist. Sleeping with your ear pressed against his chest. How his eyes darkened just before you kissed him.

The memories come to you in flashes. Quick and vivid. Debilitating and reviving. Gripping the table, you try to steady yourself as you remember it all. Somehow your eyes find Steve’s, and his own pained expression mirrors yours.

He remembers everything, too.

“That’s our song!” Mike screeches, jumping up and down with Jonathan. “Jesus, that’s us!”

Hearing the song in its polished, stylized version almost doesn’t feel right. Mike has changed the background production, adjusting it to be more clean. Steve’s voice isn’t as gravelly as it is when he performs it live. 

You find yourself missing the stage version. You find yourself missing a lot of things, really.

Jonathan spins Nancy around as they dance together. He dips her, kisses her neck, laughs at her joyous shrieks. Max and Lucas sing to each other and Dustin claps his hands. Robin tugs at Steve, forcing him to dance with her because she still loves him. She’s still here. Mike and El join them.

The scene unfolds before you, and just as you did the very first night the Februarys’ EP was released, you grab your camera and take photos of them dancing together with the ones they love the most. 

“Everyone, listen up!” Robin shouts above the chaos. The song has faded off, another random song plays in its place. When she has everyone’s attention, Robin holds up a vinyl. Angelface is written across the front. “Our dear pal Lenny sent me the album, and I don’t know about you guys, but I really fucking wanna listen to what I’ve spent the last month of my life working on.”

“Hell yeah!” Dustin whoops.

Lucas claps. “Play the damn thing that stole my girlfriend!”

You cheer as well, excited to finally listen to what the Februarys have kept hidden from you. They spoiled you by allowing you to sit in while they recorded their EP. You got to hear every song come together before anyone else could. A rare, simple pleasure that you reveled in. 

“Let’s hear it, Buckley.” You plead, and she answers with a wink.

“Don’t mind if I do.” She walks over to the record player that sits against the far wall, but when she notices Steve slipping away into his room, she calls after him. “Where do you think you’re going, Harrington?”

His face remains calm, though you can see him nervously tapping his fingers together at his sides. “I think I’m gonna call it a night. I’m tired.”

Robin narrows her eyes. She doesn’t believe him. “Let me get this straight. You want to go to bed instead of listening to our album together?”

He wants to listen with them more than anything, but listening to the album means seeing your inevitable realization that every single song on the album is about you. 

“Like I said,” Steve’s mouth draws into a thin line. “I’m tired.” 

His exhaustion isn’t only physical. 

Worried you’re the reason he refuses to stay, you try to convince Steve otherwise. “C’mon, you can sleep in tomorrow. Stay with us. This is your night, too.”

“Yeah,” Max agrees. “Stay. It’s just us, right?”

Only this album isn’t just the Februarys. It’s you, too. In every lyric, every melody, every chorus. You’re drawn into the very fabric that makes the album, and Steve can’t cut any deeper into the wound that bleeds your name. 

“I’m sorry.” And he is. He really fucking is. 

His bedroom door closes. The living room sits in silence following his absence. 

“Well,” Robin sucks in a breath. “Guess he can go enjoy his beauty sleep.”

Weak laughter follows. No one believes that Steve had been too tired to stay. 

But rather than sit in silence, Robin carefully places the vinyl into the record player. She sets the needle down. It skips, crackles, before the first song begins. 

And it’s beautiful from the very beginning. 

Back for more bleeds into Going and as the songs continue to play, you understand why Steve left. It’s in the lyrics. The production. It’s in the very album title. 

All the songs are about you.

You aren’t the only one who pieces it together, either. 

“So are we gonna ignore the fact that all these songs are about Y/N?” Dustin asks, always one to state the obvious. 

“Two are about Nancy.” Jonathan meekly responds. 

Mike raises his hand. “I wrote one about El.”

Lucas looks at Max. “Any about me?”

“One.” She says, not elaborating any further. 

“Great,” Dustin makes a show of adding up the numbers on his fingers. “So that leaves us with roughly ten songs about Y/N. Out of fourteen.”

Robin shoves him. “We also wrote a few about growing up together, you dipshit. We just haven’t gotten to them yet.”

“Wow, so then only nine songs. My mistake.”

Jonathan grabs Robin before she can tackle Dustin to the ground and all you can do is sigh into your hands. 

– 

Leonard only gives the band a week to prepare for their next tour. 

Angelface sells out overnight. It was inevitable. 

Steve avoids you the entire week leading up to tour. Embarrassment prevents him from facing you. Too much of himself has been revealed to you before he was able to find the words. Love songs for someone who no longer loves him. 

“Alright, you bastards.” Leonard gathers the Februarys around. A warm October day, he had them meet him at a local bus station to discuss the details of the next tour. Waving his arms around, he presents them with two bigger, and much nicer, tour buses. “Meet your home for the next six months.”

“Six?” Jonathan chokes on his spit.

“Why are you shocked by the length? This your first time?” Leonard cackles at his own joke. “Sorry, that was lewd. What I meant to say was of course it’s six fucking months. You’re going to more cities. Thirty cities, in fact. And twenty-five shows. That’s how fame works, kid.”

Robin looks behind him, noticing a group of people walking in and out of the vehicles as they load things. “Want to introduce us to your friends?”

Leonard makes a surprised sound. He’d forgotten they were even there. “Oh, that’s your tour crew. Bus drivers, stage crew, probable hookups if Steve gets too drunk.”

He winces. “Thanks, sir.” 

“Gregory will also be going with you guys.” Leonard looks only at Steve. “Just to be sure.”

Steve bristles at this, but he’s smart enough to bite his tongue. 

“There’s two buses.” Max observes. “They’re both ours.”

“You’re as smart as you are red.” Leonard chuckles. “Yes, dear. With both your band and the crew, you’ll need them both. Apparently I can’t force twenty people into one vehicle. Fucking road laws.”

“I call top bunk again!” Mike is the first to run onto the nearest bus, completely ignoring the fact that Leonard hasn’t technically dismissed the meeting yet. 

Jonathan smiles apologetically at his boss. “Guess that bus will be for the band, then.”

“Whatever. Pick whichever you want. Both were fucking expensive. Just don’t get any semen on the carpet.” Leonard has always had such a lovely way with words. Clapping his hands together, he grows bored of the conversation. “Well, this was fun. You leave at six in the morning tomorrow. If you’re late, I’ll send the press your family’s addresses.”

Unfortunately, you believe him.

Leonard leaves without another word. The rest of the crew members continue to load the buses with equipment and supplies. None of the band members can process the fact that they’ll have an actual team of people accompanying them on the tour.

“Six months.” Jonathan shakes his head. “Should we place bets on how long we’ll last?”

Max kicks his shin and walks onto the bus, leaving him rolling on the ground in pain. Robin spares him enough sympathy to help him up, though she also wants to kick him for his stupid question. 

While they’re distracted, you take the chance to pull Steve aside.

“Listen,” he doesn’t meet your eyes. Grabbing his chin, you coax his head down to look at you. You remember the defeat in his eyes last week in the kitchen, how he admitted that all he’s ever wanted to do is go faster. “I’ll sleep on the bus with the crew members.”

Steve jerks his chin out of your grasp, eyes wide. “Why would you–?”

Patient. You’ve always been so patient. “You know why, Steve.” 

Of course he knows. 

You’re trying to slow everything down. 

Six months, thirty cities, and two separate tour buses. You won’t be sleeping in Steve’s bunk every night. Not this time.

He isn’t sure if he loves you for it or if he resents the fact that you have to know him so intimately. Maybe it’s both. Maybe he isn’t meant to know. 

Steve swallows down any remaining fight within him. 

You echo his own words from a deal made against his will. “It’s for the best, right?” 

He isn’t so sure he knows what that means anymore. 

-

⌑ series masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

⌑ please feel free to like, reblog, and comment. i adore hearing from you guys :)

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me when i have to do work for the class i signed up for, at the school i wanted to go to

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does anyone wanna do these three chapters of reading for me and take notes on it for me pretty please

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DJO Paris, FR — June 23, 2025

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:'( <3

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Hi, saw you said stranger things requests and I have one !! Steve and reader going to a party, and he accidentally spills his drink on her short and he panics because he thinks of what happened with Nancy and reader ends up having to comfort him with vodka all over her shirt :,) thank you

From the minute the bronze liquid comes in contact with your cream top, Steve's already reacting strangely. It's like a live wire stabbed through the base of his spine, shooting heated sparks towards his shoulders that tense.

"Hey, I- I'm sorry," He stammers, trying to set the now half-empty cup onto the counter. It doesn't work, and the cup falls to the ground, splashing this time over your feet. You take a hasty step back, and Steve's hands reach out to catch you with too strong of a grip.

"No, don't- I'm sorry," One glance into his eyes and they're alive with the same fever that's tripping up his words, "I'm sorry, don't go, please. Just- just come into the kitchen, please?"

"It's sticky here," You raise and lower your foot a few times, music not helping you assess the situation as it booms in your ears, "Steve, you're-" You grimace at the tight hold of his large hands, "You're squeezing a bit, Steve, let me go."

You try to pull away from him, but that only makes it worse. He holds tighter, pulls harder, and you have to grab his own arm to maneuver him a different way around the island.

"Okay- okay! Just- come this way, god," You hiss, "Steve, 's starting to hurt."

Then you're the only one holding up the embrace; he's dropped you like you're on fire. You don't have time to ponder why, you just keep dragging him through the sea of partygoers and into the semi-isolated kitchen.

"'Kay, can you get some paper towels?" You turn on the faucet, water running cold as you assess the damage to your shirt. When no reply comes, you turn back to Steve, finding him lingering right where you'd left him, his face pale.

"Steve? The paper towels?" You try again, to no avail.

"Steve," You shut off the faucet, feeling liquor slosh through your socks as you step over to him, "What's the matter? Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry. For- ruining your shirt, and squeezing.. too tight."

"It's okay," You hum cautiously, "I can wash it. And it's not like you bruised me. Paper towels?"

"I didn't mean to." He promises, his big brown eyes still blown wide open, "I really didn't. And I can pay for the- for the shirt, like- dry cleaning. I promise. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," You promise, "Steve, it's just a shirt. It's okay, I just need paper towels."

Your prolonged reassurances seem to set him straight, and he looks like a robot rebooting. His eyes flash with something unreadable and he snaps to attention, stumbling backwards and trying to maneuver the unfamiliar kitchen.

"Right. Right, uh- paper towels. They're- here!"

He brandishes the roll towards you almost aggressively, and you wet three beneath the water you've turned back on. He takes the wad from your hand before you can apply it to your stained shirt, dabbing gently at the remains of his solo cup.

"Sorry," He breathes, tongue poking out from between his lips as he focuses on rubbing the stain away.

"It's okay." You remind him, craning your neck up to kiss at his chin. He still looks pale, like he's recovering from a brush with death, but at the feeling of your lips against his chin he looks up at you, and the corners of his lips quirk up into a weak smile.

"It's- uh, not coming out." He murmurs, "I'll have it dry-cleaned, um, tomorrow, I'll take it, and-"

"Okay. We'll figure something out." You keep your voice soothing, although you don't know why you need to, "It's okay, Steve. Hey, do you wanna just go home? We could do a movie night instead - get away from the noise and the people, and I could change my clothes."

"Yeah," He flounders slightly, hand still working to scrub the alcohol off of your shirt, "Yeah, uh- where...?"

"Your place," You decide, "If you don't mind me wearing your shirt?"

His eyes shine now, and his smile seems less rickety, "Yeah. No! No- I don't mind it. My place, and- and my shirt."

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guys it’s fine, i didn’t wanna see djo OR renee rapp anyways, it’s not like like they’re the lomls. idc they’re not coming to my city, it’s fine

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hello, i’m back from the trenches

good morning, i start college today

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good morning, i start college today

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joe keery in the movie mollys game is what would’ve happened to steve harrington if the upside down never happened

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guys i love finnick odair

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Love love love your fics

Would love to see more of Finnick. Maybe him fending for you in the district or comforting you before he leaves for the games?

౨ৎ꣑ৎOceans Away౨ৎ꣑ৎ

fem reader x finnick odair <3 angsty hours

Each wave was combing through the sand, erasing your footprints and burying them in seafoam. Your gaze pointed east, the sunset behind you making your shadow walk in front of you. Time had slipped through your fingers- you didn’t know how long you’d been walking, having reached the shoreline and not looked back. 

The news was swimming through your head, each letter of it melting into your blood. This was something you didn’t know if you’d be able to forgive or forget. You’d thought it was all over, that the time served had bought the rest of your life in peace. This was only proof of the cruelties being chosen contained. You wished you would wake up, find yourself free of every bit of this.

Quarter Quell. Two words that could send you into a frenzy. And it wasn’t just any Quarter Quell. Why Snow was choosing to send the already traumatized back into the arena was beyond you. Your mind was fragile enough, barely healing from the toll it had taken in your formative years. What had happened less than an hour ago was aiming to bring it all hurtling back. You’d stumbled outside in a haze, the demons threatening to close in. Lifting your hands to the sides of your head, you pressed in, squeezing your eyes shut. “Stop, stop, stop,” you whispered desperately, tone bordering on a sob.

It was getting dark slowly, steadily. You knew he’d be getting worried by now, and if you didn’t hurry back he’d come looking. Inhaling shakily, you forced your feet to turn around even though they wanted to run in the other direction.

The sky was orange and blue when you reached the house, finding Finnick hunched over on the front porch. He was sitting on one of the wooden chairs, head in his hands, fingers combing through his golden hair. When your weight on the boards sounded in a creak he looked up, getting to his feet in an instant. “Sweetheart.”

You thought you’d cried yourself dry, but you’d forgotten you were born of the sea. And the sea never runs out of water. When tears poured down your cheeks again Finnick held out his arms and you ran into them. He was your sun, your source. You couldn’t live without him if you tried and now he was about to go off into death’s shadow again.

Why was it him? Not that you wanted somebody else to see this fate, but why your Finnick? You needed him here with you. He was the only thing that kept the dark clouds at bay. The worst part was that you could have been the one to go with him.

Maybe you would have accepted it then. When your name had been called there’d been a shock in your heart but also a sickening strike of relief. You would be together in the Capitol, and you could protect him the way he always protected you.

Little did you know that Finnick had discussed it with Mags beforehand. It had been her idea. She was the last person you wanted to go through the rigorous stages of the Hunger Games, especially at her age. You’d screamed in horror in front of all those people when she volunteered, trying to rush forward but Finnick held you back, pushing your face into his chest as you cried. You couldn’t remember what he’d whispered to calm you down on live television but whatever it was helped him get you off the stage and back home, where you’d scurried off to the beach and he’d let you.

“Why won’t you let me go with you?” you breathed, voice stammering as you clung to his white sweater. “I w-won’t let you go without me. I’ll come for the Games-”

“No,” he said firmly, stroking the back of your head. A cool evening breeze made you shiver and he held you tighter to him. “You’ll stay here and try not to watch. Please don’t watch.”

“They might make me come anyways,” your voice hitched. “I can’t stand not being near you. Please-”

“No.” He kissed your forehead. “You need to be here. By the water.”

“Finnick.” Your emotions were heightening and you felt nearly angry at him, fisting his sweater. “Don’t do this.”

“I won’t let Snow get any ideas in his head about using you when I’m not there to protect you,” he said, tilting your face in his hands up to look at him. “I won’t let him be able to get to you easy.”

“Finn,” you tried but he shook his head and you knew the fight was lost. Wrenching yourself away from him you went into the house, not bothering to shut the door behind you. Kicking off your shoes, you ignored the constant feel of sand under your feet and stalked into the kitchen. Reaching for a glass, you filled it with water, still hazy from what he’d just said.

“Baby?” You ignored him, determinedly staring out the window. Grey clouds were shadowing the sunset, and you watched as rain started to patter down on the porch. It was pounding at the roof now, the way demons nagged at your head. During your Games it had rained excessively, and the fight you had won against your final opponent had been in a grueling thunderstorm that left you shaking and unable to be coaxed from for months. 

It was ironic how much the rain affected you, given how much you loved your beloved ocean. You tried to reason with it over and over, telling yourself that it was only water, but so far the effort had gone unnoticed by your subconscious. It certainly wasn’t helping now; you were gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles paling. 

“Hey,” Finnick whispered, a hand on your waist. “Let’s-”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, immediately feeling guilty for it. He removed his hand but didn’t leave although you wished he would. You didn’t want to cry anymore in front of him.

Thunder echoed across the sky, paired with a finger of lightning splitting the clouds in two. Flinching, you tried to breathe, but it was shaky. The storm paired with your distress over the events of the evening was a nasty combination that threatened to surround you in darkness.

Finnick tried again. “Baby, just come here. It’s okay.”

“No,” you whimpered, but when another instance of thunder rattled the house the glass of water slid from your fingers and shattered in the sink. Finnick grunted and moved forward, taking you into his arms and this time you didn’t resist.

“Shh, I’ve got you. I’m here.” Finnick started to guide you away from the sink even when you mumbled that you needed to clean up the glass. “No, I’ll take care of it. Just come with me.”

He brought you to the bathroom and turned the shower on, sitting you on the counter while he got out your towels and undressed himself before helping you. Hurrying you inside, he shut the glass door behind him and pulled you back into him so your ear was over his heart. The steady thumping combined with the noise of the water drowned out the thunder and lightning you so dreaded. Your breathing grew more even and you found it in you to relax. He was so warm and his hands were gentle as he helped you calm down. You knew thunderstorms upset him too but he hung on.

You weren’t sure how long you both were in there before he got you out and toweled you off, dressing you in his warm blue fisherman’s sweater and getting you in bed with him. One of your fleeting thoughts as you drifted off was that you hoped he would leave it behind when he went off to the Games, and that sent you into despair all over again. This time though, you were already half asleep and there was nothing you could do about it.

“I’m here,” he murmured over and over, stroking your side. “I’ve got you.”

For now, you thought as your eyes fluttered shut. For now.

He’d told you that he’d leave for the train station before you woke up. You knew why but that didn’t stop you from wanting to at least be conscious for when he did. 

When the mattress creaked as he got up you woke, staying perfectly still. Listening to the sounds of him getting ready, throwing his things into a bag, you tried to keep your tears to yourself. It hadn’t been a dream. He was really leaving. 

As you thought of the horrible thunderstorm last night a sense of dread struck you. You didn’t know how to keep calm when the noise threatened to tear you in two. Since you’d come home from the Games only Finnick had been able to nurse you back to sanity.

In the next room you heard him speaking on the phone. Who could he possibly be talking to right now, when he was about to leave? You were tempted to get up but you stayed put, cozied under the covers where he’d tucked you last night. Even though the house was heated, you suddenly felt so chilly without his body next to you.

You listened to him walk back into the bedroom, trying to keep the illusion of your slumber. Finnick sat on the bed beside you, hand warming your waist. He murmured, “I know you’re awake, baby.”

Springing up, you flung your arms around his neck, hiding your face there. He held on tight to you and seemed to breathe you in. “How’re you feeling, sweet girl?”

“Don’t leave,” you pleaded, fisting the fabric of his linen shirt. “Please. Please don’t go.”

“Oh, angel,” he whispered, rocking you back and forth. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

“I want to come,” you said, and he started to lay you back down. Finnick brushed your hair from your face as he leaned over you, one arm on your far side propping himself up so he wouldn’t crush you. His other hand lingered at your cheek, brushing it with the back of his thumbnail. He was nose to nose with you, staring into your eyes with a sort of devotion that made your insides weaken.

“Do you want the song?” he asked, brushing his lips to the tip of your nose. “Hmm?”

“I want you to stay,” you sniffled, eyes growing watery. “Finn-”

He started to hum the old shanty about a fisherman and his lover and how he brought her pearls and she had one for every day he came back from the sea. You started to cry softly but he didn’t let up, stroking your hair and finishing the melody. The repeated motions caused your eyes to grow heavy, but you refused to shut them. Not while you could still look at him.

“I love you,” Finnick breathed, kissing you once. “Don’t watch. Trust that I’ll do everything I can to come home to you.”

You nodded, and he kissed you one more time, every inch of love and need contained in it. It was his parting gift to you and you’d cherish it all through his absence. Even if it turned out to be forever.

He made you close your eyes before he left, another kiss to your forehead the only goodbye he’d ever utter. You were asleep before you could hear his footsteps leading away.

When you woke up again you were in a cloud of pure devastation. He was gone and heaven knew if he would ever come back. All you could do was sit up and stare at your hands in your lap for a while. The house felt haunted without him and yet more crowded than ever. Your demons were crawling up every wall and taunting you without your protector to scare them away.

The doorbell snapped you out of your trance. You wearily lifted yourself to trudge through the house and open the door, confused when nobody was there. A tiny meow made you turn your head to the side, and you gasped.

A basket on the porch bench containing a black kitten, pink bow around its neck and a card with your name on it behind it. You melted, reaching out to pet its head and smiling when a tiny but powerful purr started up. “Oh, hello,” you whispered, smiling softly. “What’s your name?”

The kitten mewed, climbing out of the basket and onto your lap when you sat down. Your heart seemed to grow as you watched it curl up against you and close its eyes. Remembering the card, you opened it eagerly, wondering who’d sent such a precious gift.

Sweetheart,

His name is Fish. He’s gonna keep you company while I’m gone. He is trained to jump on you whenever you turn the TV on so I’m going to trust that you will not do that :) I love you and we’re gonna snuggle all together when I come home.

Love,

Finnick

He’d drawn a little heart next to his name and you touched it, smiling softly. Still looking out for you even when he was away. You lifted the kitten to hold against your chest, kissing his head and breathing more evenly as he purred, looking out for you the way you knew your love would have.

He was going to come home. You knew it now more than ever.

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— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

lovesick! steve harrington who leaves little anonymous notes in your locker, saying how pretty your hair looks or how he loves that color shirt on you. he absolutely adores the smile on your face when he sees you read these notes, your face lights up like the sun and he has to hold back a smile himself.

lovesick! steve harrington who's your biggest supporter. whenever you get a good grade on a test, he's always the first to offer to buy you ice cream to celebrate. whenever you go shopping and find a cute new outfit, he's always complimenting you, saying how pretty it would look on you. what can he say - he's your biggest fanboy.

lovesick! steve harrington who, when you finally get together, cannot stop talking about lucky he is to have you. like, seriously, robin's getting sick and tired of hearing how amazing you are. but steve's just so in love, really, it's not his fault he can't shut up about how fucking perfect his girl is.

lovesick! steve harrington who loves physical affection. like, that man cannot go more than ten minutes without touching you. he's such a clingy boy. whether it's something small like a hand on your thigh or an arm around your waist, (or even better a full blown makeout session) he craves the affection.

lovesick! steve harrington who calls you things like 'sweetheart' or 'baby' more than your own name. he just loves using pet names, he thinks it's so cute (and you secretly love it too).

lovesick! steve harrington who loves to buy you things. flowers, chocolate, necklaces, perfumes, you name it! he sees you eyeing something in a store? he's getting it for you. it's your birthday or some holiday? he's going all out for you. he feels like spoiling his baby girl? he's buying you something.

lovesick! steve harrington who was made to be a boyfriend. dating you is seriously one of the best parts of his life, and he just loves you so so much.

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this is so cuteeee

𝙸 𝙰𝙼? | 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚃𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Drunk! Steve x Reader

Word Count: 2, 272 words

Summary: Steve drinks himself into a dramatic spiral over his unrequited love for his best friend, you. You’re absolutely no help. Mostly because you’re too busy laughing at his dramatic little love confession meltdown.

Contains: Hangover recovery, mentions of drunk behavior, soft teasing, reader absolutely clowning Steve for his antics, Steve being the most dramatic sap ever, sweet kisses and fluffy ending.

A/N: Honestly just wanted to write hungover Steve being confused and needy, lmao.

masterlist |

Steve Harrington was, by all accounts, tragically wasted.

He had his face half-buried into Robin’s hoodie, one shoe missing, and was currently narrating his heartbreak like a sad poet with too much lip gloss on his mouth.

“She doesn’t love me,” he mumbled.

Robin exhaled slowly. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do! She’s too perfect for me. Too sunshiney. Too good.” He sniffed loudly. “She needs a guy with a jawline and like... a motorcycle.”

Eddie sat cross legged across the room, lazily flipping through a magazine and sipping a beer. “You have a jawline.”

“Not a good one,” Steve said dramatically. “Not a jawline she’d marry.”

Robin leaned her head back against the couch and mouthed, I’m going to scream.

Steve, for his part, kept rambling. “She’s probably out right now. With that guy. You know, the one. The guy with the forearms.”

“Steve,” Robin said slowly. “She’s not seeing anyone else.”

“She better not be,” he said, very seriously. “Because I’d duel him. Like swords. Or nunchucks. Do people still do that?”

Eddie blinked. “Have you ever held a sword?”

“Metaphorically, yes.”

Robin sat forward. “Okay. Steve. Listen. She's-”

“I mean, we’re best friends, right? But like best best friends. Like, if we were in a movie, it’d be the part where I stare at her in the rain and whisper something dumb like, ‘It’s always been you,’ and she forgives me for being a total dumbass and then we make out.”

Eddie snorted. “Jesus Christ.”

Robin tried again. “Steve. Let me just say-”

“I can’t tell her, okay?” he shouted, as if someone had objected. “It would ruin everything. She’d laugh or... or worse. She’d pity me. And she deserves someone who’s, like, emotionally stable and... doesn’t cry at the end of The Neverending Story."

Eddie opened his mouth. “Dude, you’re-”

“I know!” Steve wailed. “I’m her idiot best friend. Her go to guy. The guy who shows up with fries and lets her rant about her stupid coworker and doesn’t kiss her even when he really, really wants to.”

Robin slapped her hands on her knees. “Steve. Shut up for two seconds-”

“She doesn’t need to know I’m in love with her. Okay? She’s got a good thing going. Probably dating some art history major who reads poetry in French. I’ll just stay out of it.”

Eddie looked at Robin.

Robin looked at Eddie.

Both of them looked at Steve.

Then they got up, dragged and forced him into Eddie’s van.

You opened your door in a tank top and pajama pants, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Steve?”

He blinked at you like you were a hallucination. “You’re home.”

“Yeah? It’s midnight. What’s going on?”

Robin shoved him gently forward. “Go on, Romeo.”

Steve stumbled inside, dazed. You reached for his hand instinctively. He gripped it like a lifeline.

“I came to say,” he began, very seriously, “that I love you.”

You paused. “Okay…”

“I know you’re taken,” he sighed. “And that’s fine. You deserve that. You deserve flowers and matching playlists and forehead kisses.”

“Steve-”

“No, it’s okay. I just had to say it once. So I don’t die with it inside me.”

You blinked.

Behind him, Robin and Eddie silently waved at you. Robin gestured wildly to say something. Eddie mimed a heart and pointed between the two of you.

“Steve,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

He did, watery eyed and flushed.

“You’re my boyfriend, dummy.”

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…Oh,” he said.

You smiled. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“I am?” he asked, voice cracking with confusion and wonder.

“You’ve been my boyfriend for like, six months.”

He looked behind him slowly at Robin and Eddie, who both gave simultaneous we tried shrugs.

Steve turned back to you, face flushed red and stunned into silence.

"I am." He says, sheepishly and now giggling.

Steve woke up with the grace of a corpse dragged from the lake.

Groaning, he blinked into your ceiling, one arm flopped over his face, one leg shoved halfway off the bed, your pillow missing entirely from under his head.

“Kill me,” he rasped.

You were already up. In the kitchen, making coffee, humming something cheerful. Too cheerful.

He frowned into the sunlight slanting through your curtains.

Why were you humming?

You were never that happy before 10 a.m.

His stomach dropped.

You walked into the room holding a mug, your sleep shirt oversized and your smile borderline evil.

“Good morning, Romeo.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Why do you look like you’re up to something?”

You sat beside him on the edge of the bed, handed him the coffee like you hadn’t been waiting to destroy him with it.

“No reason. Just wanted to see how my boyfriend’s head was doing.”

Steve winced, sipping carefully. “Feels like there’s a demon in it. One with a tiny drum set.”

You patted his hair. “Well, at least you weren’t dramatic or anything.”

“Don’t mess with me right now. My brain is literal soup.”

You shrugged. “Sure. I mean, Robin and Eddie dragged you to me like you were Frodo with the One Ring. And you did tell me you’d duel my imaginary boyfriend with nunchucks.”

Steve slowly turned to look at you, mortified. “...What.”

“Oh, and when they left, you cried. A little. About how I needed a man with a motorcycle.”

His face hit the pillow. “No.”

“And about your jawline.”

Steve groaned into the sheets. “Stop. Please. I’m too fragile.”

“I wish I recorded it,” you said, sighing. “Steve Harrington, prince of hair, heartbreaker of Hawkins sobbed because he thought he was ‘just the fries guy.’”

He peeked out from the blanket. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I earned this,” you said smugly. “Six months of going on dates, flirting, romantic drives, and homemade cookies, and my boyfriend forgot we were dating.”

“I was drunk!”

“You thought I had another boyfriend!”

“You said someone at work had nice forearms!”

“I was talking about a golden retriever named Max!”

Steve slumped, face pressed into your thigh. “I hate myself.”

You giggled, running your fingers through his hair. “It was kind of cute. You were very sincere. You said I deserved forehead kisses and little dates.”

He groaned again.

“And then you called me your sunshine girl and threatened to write a mixtape about your pain.”

“Okay,” Steve said, sitting up and wincing dramatically. “That’s enough. I’m cutting you off.”

You grinned, leaning in until your forehead touched his. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Steve huffed, cheeks pink. “Yeah. Lucky is one word for it.”

You kissed his cheek. Then the tip of his nose. Then his lips, soft and smiling.

And even with a hangover from hell, Steve smiled back.

“…Wait. Did I really say I’d use nunchucks?”

“Yup.”

“I don’t even own nunchucks…I take it back. I regret nothing.”

You laughed so hard, you nearly dropped your mug.