#steve harrington sickfic

[strangerstilinski]

𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚

𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary; steve takes care of his sick gf

warnings; no use of y/n, (steve refers to reader as ‘girl’ but no mentions of specific anatomy i don't think), multiple descriptions of vomiting, steve being stupidly sweet, casual/non-sexual nudity, sickfic, fluff

word count; ~4k

a/n; i wrote 99% of this while i was sick and exhausted myself, so i'm not insanely happy with it??? but, uh.. fuck it? right? also this is my first time posting something on here that isn't DOB so pls, pls be nice — i beg you.

You had thought it would get better.

You'd thought that sleep would be enough to get rid of the overpowering warmth that had begun to prickle uncomfortably under your skin, the congestion that left your head feeling like it was just a little bit too big, too heavy, for your body. The better part of the last twelve hours have been spent curled up in bed, hoping to sleep it off.

You're not entirely sure what illness is to blame for your current state, but you're cursing each and every possible one as you stumble into the bathroom and fall to your knees in front of the toilet. An immediate ache from the collision against the floor goes ignored, as does the cold that bites at your shins through the glossy tiles.

Now, as your body rolls and tenses with heaves and coughs that have you spilling the remains of your dinner from the night before into clean porcelain, you can't quite believe that you'd dared to be so naively optimistic.

Time passes in that horrible way it always does when you feel poorly, too slow at times and a total blur at others. Your head has been pillowed on your arm at the edge of the toilet for one of those blurred stretches, time fuzzy while you catch your breath. You hear the loud trill of the phone ringing out from down the hallway and your head shoots up at the sudden noise. You intend on hobbling out of the bathroom to answer it, but the too-quick motion of your head snapping to attention has your stomach turning all over again.

The ringing continues as you upend the final contents of your stomach, and the grating noise of the telephone finally dies off only to pick back up again just as your puking turns into nothing more than dry-heaves, body still protesting despite there being nothing left inside of you to give.

When the roiling of your stomach settles slightly, it takes all of your strength to pull yourself to your feet, flushing the toilet and grabbing the bottle of perfumed bathroom spray to mask the lingering smell that's doing absolutely nothing to ease your nausea.

You fumble for a moment as you locate your thermometer, placing the end of the small glass tube under your tongue as you lean onto your elbows over the sink, head dropping weakly as you wait. When you pull the device from your lips a few minutes later, the little red line reads somewhere around a hundred, and you drop it to the back of the counter with a huff.

Your weight continues rest heavily on the edges of the sink as you flick on the tap and proceed to take a few long sips straight from the stream of cold water, rushing to take in grateful gulps. It clears some of the bitterness from your tongue, washing away the rancid taste of bile and stomach acid while settling cooly in your feverish body.

You push back up, weight resting on your palms until you can regard your unusually pallor complexion in the mirror. Your eyes are bleary, a little wet still with tears from your battle with your own body a few minutes before. The sight of just how truly unwell you look has your stomach turning all over again, the cold water in your stomach suddenly feeling as if it's moving in heavy, churning waves inside of you, as if it's fighting to break free.

You barely make it back to the toilet before you're retching and dumping back out all of the water that you'd forced into your body perhaps a bit too quickly.

You're so exhausted by the time your stomach settles once more, you don't manage more than flushing the toilet and misting the air with another quick spritz of freshener before you've slumped against the wall and begun to doze.

When your boyfriend eventually comes knocking at your front door, the sound isn't enough to rouse you, not even when the noise grows a little more frantic from anxiety, palms slamming against the surface paired with muffled shouts of concern through the thick wood.

You remain entirely unaware as an increasingly worried Steve Harrington begins searching for your spare key with muffled curses. He nearly upends the potted plant you have outside your door, kicking your doormat across the hallway in his haste to unlock your door and shove his way into your apartment. Steve stumbles through several rooms before he finds you in the bathroom and his steps falter at the sight that awaits him.

You look so pathetic it's startling; curled in on yourself in a way that makes you appear smaller, weak and innocent, younger even. Your head is tipped against the wall, lolled to the side until your nose and chin are nearly touching your shoulder. He knows it has to be wreaking havoc on the muscles in your neck, and he nearly winces at the thought, pushing further into the room and squatting down in front of you. Steve's hand finds your cheek, supporting some of the weight of your head to straighten your spine just a touch as he assesses the sickly pallor your skin has taken.

“Oh, honey.” Steve says softly, thumb stroking from your jaw to the apple of your cheek and back down again.

The soft touch is enough to finally wake you and he watches your eyes blink heavily, feverish confusion pulling your brows together as you struggle to focus on the face in front of you. You pout at him and the sight of your lip jutting out is so cute that Steve fails to notice your arm rising weakly from where it was blocked by the toilet. Not until it's too late.

A honeysuckle scented mist sprays in his direction, forcing him to flinch back in surprise as the perfume invades his nostrils.

“Jesus!” Steve exclaims in surprise, hacking slightly at the taste of it on his tongue, “Baby, what the hell?”

Your nose scrunches up as both your arm and the spray bottle fall heavily into your lap. You blink at him slow, “Smells like vom in here.” You explain meekly.

“It smells fine.” He tries to reassure you, pulling the de-odorizer from your weak grip and setting it on the countertop behind himself and effectively out of your reach.

“Wha're you doing 'ere?” You question in a rasp, shaky hand grabbing ahold of his wrist as if trying to prove to yourself that he's real and not some fever-induced hallucination.

“You weren't pickin' up my calls,” He tells you softly, thumb beginning to move across the heated skin of your cheek again, “I knew you were plannin' on staying in to get some cleaning done. When you didn't answer my mind kinda ran wild. Thought you might've slipped and fallen and cracked your head off the kitchen counter or somethin'. I dunno, I just.. I got worried, sweetheart. Came to check in for my own peace of mind,” His gaze trails the length of your body, taking in your wrinkled tshirt, your bare feet, your clammy skin, the puffiness around your eyes, “I'm glad I did.”

“‘'m sorry I didn't pick up the phone,” You apologize quietly, your gaze drifting to the toilet for a moment before slowly meeting his again, “Was busy puking my guts out.”

The way your lip pulls up at the corner from your own dry humor has Steve cracking a smile, his voice fond when it sounds again.

“I see that,” He says with a sigh, “How long you been sick?”

You try to shrug but your shoulders barely move, your body too weak to manage more than a small twitch of your muscles, “Started feeling shitty last night before bed. Slept a lot. Got sick when I woke up this afternoon.” As if suddenly realizing the lack of brightness coming in through the bathroom window, your raspy voice comes again, “Time s'it?”

“Five-ish,” Steve tells you with a frown, pretty brown eyes flicking over your face, “You haven't eaten anything?”

You give him a small shake of your head, his large hand supporting most of the weight of your skull as you do so, “M'sick.”

He sighs, “You still gotta eat, honey. Have to get something in your stomach if you're gonna get your strength back.”

You shake your head again, sad eyes meeting his, “I'll just throw it up. Don't want to get sick again.”

Steve smiles at you pityingly, a sad thing, “We'll try something real small to start, how's that?”

“How small?” You ask nervously.

“Some soup?”

You shake your head.

“Just broth and some crackers?” He bargains.

Your stomach rolls at the mere thought and it must show on your face because he sighs heavily.

“Dry toast?” He tries.

Your eyebrows pull together, but the thought doesn't immediately make you queasy, so you give him an indecisive shrug.

“Let’s try some toast, yeah, honey?” Steve says softly.

His fingers gently brush your hair back from your face and your mind whirls in realization.

“Oh god,” You bemoan weakly, “'s there puke in my hair?”

“No,” He says a little to quickly, “No, baby, there's nothing in your hair.”

You give him a look to say that you don't believe him for a single second, but he's looking at you so fondly that your expression melts away into something soft almost immediately.

“You want me to tie your hair back?” Steve asks, already turning around to peek at the bathroom countertop where there's a mess of hair ties and clips littering the surface.

“The big one.” You tell him, nodding vaguely in the direction of your favorite scrunchie.

He turns back around with the puffy material pinched between his fingers, already combing your hair back and collecting it in a bundle with gentle hands. The sensation of air meeting the clammy nape of your neck feels so good that you let out a small noise of relief, leaning forward to give him more room while he tries to smooth out the lumps in your hair with his fingers.

Once he's managed a messy ponytail, his wide palms rest on the sides of your neck, thumbs ghosting along your jawline as he frowns at the feverish sweat on your brow.

“You taken your temperature at all?” He questions in concern, his fingers meeting your forehead and somehow managing to feel blessedly cool against your overheated skin, “You feel like you're burnin' up, sweetheart.”

“Hundred or so.” You tell him, eyes falling shut as you lean into the feeling of his hand against your sweaty skin.

Steve hums, an unhappy sound, “That's not too bad. Not good by any means, but it's nothin' to be too worried about, huh?” He sounds like he's trying to reassure himself more than you, so you merely nod against his hand. He sighs after a moment, “Right. C'mon. Up we go.” He urges softly, arm curling around your back with one hand gripping at your hip as he pulls you to your feet.

You're not sure how he manages it so effortlessly, the only hint of his strain is the soft grunt he lets out when you collapse against his chest and knock a little bit of the wind from him. You bury your nose into the dip of his clavicle, the strip of skin and scarce chest hair poking out from beneath the collar of his stretched shirt is soft to the touch and masculine smelling and overall a little dizzying — although, the way you sway against him has you wondering if maybe that's just the fever.

“Toast.” Steve reminds you softly, hand slipping beneath your baggy sleep shirt — one that had been his shirt, once upon a time — to run his thumb over the soft, overheated skin at your hip.

You grumble something that's not quite disapproval or approval, a weak sounding thing to protest the thought of moving from your current position, but with an endeared sigh and a soft press of his lips to your sweaty temple, Steve's manhandling you into a better position. Your feet end up over the tops of his, your arms curled up underneath his own to grip weakly onto the backs of his shoulders. He holds you steady with one hand at the center of your spine and the other spread over your backside in likely the least sexual touch he's ever graced to that area of your body.

You manage a weak murmur about him copping a feel and he laughs. It falls over your ear in a breathy little chuckle as Steve carefully waddles the two of you down the hall. His arms continue to hold you tight to his chest while walks you back around the corner leading into your small kitchen, flicking the overhead light on as he goes.

“Hows'it you're mouthy even when you're on your deathbed?” He asks, a small grin on his face as he gently gets you settled up onto one of the kitchen stools where you can rest while he makes you food.

You collapse onto your elbows against the countertop as soon as he releases you, cheek resting heavy in your palm as you peer up at him.

“Dunno..” You tell him quietly, eyes flicking over Steve's face slow in a way that you didn't quite manage in the dim light of the bathroom.

His hair looks a little fluffier than normal, soft and messy in a way that makes you want to run your hands through it, tug soft on the strand that dips down over his forehead and curls toward his eye in that effortlessly beautiful kind of way. Caramel swirls prettily with the darker shades of brown and gold in his eyes, pink lips pulled into a barely-there grin when he turns back toward you after grabbing a half eaten loaf of bread from the cupboard.

You're watching him with a dazed sort of admiration, “How s'it you look so pretty even when I'm on my deathbed?” You counter dreamily, arms crossing against the cool countertop so that you can rest your temple over the tops of them when your head suddenly starts to feel a little too heavy, vision swaying.

Steve laughs softly as he gets two slices of bread into the toaster, “I'm not sure there's a correlation between my good-looks and your health,” The sound of his amusement fades out when he looks back at you and finds your new position, “Oh, Honey..” He says simply, the words pitying.

“'m dizzy.” You tell him with closed eyes. The darkness behind your eyelids doing nothing to slow the spinning in your brain.

“Well I'm sure that not eating all day is at least partially to blame for that,” Steve says softly, “Your body can't fight the virus if you don't give it any fuel.”

You pout petulantly, knowing he's probably right, “You're annoying when you're smart.”

The swirling blackness behind your closed eyes slows, your breathing following suit as you relax against the counter.

“C'mon, sit up, sweetheart.”

The sound of his voice startles you and the quiet clink of a ceramic plate being set down on the counter beside your head has you deducing that you might have fallen asleep for a few moments. You make a small noise of surprise as your gaze moves to the food on the plate, plain dry toast. Steve has sliced it into cute, neat little triangles for you and your heart melts a little at the gesture.

Hands on your arms guide you gently into an upright position as Steve crowds up against your side, letting you rest your weight into the wall of his chest when your head swims a little from the movement. You grab a slice of lightly toasted bread from the plate in front of you and bring it to your lips, nibbling slow at the corner with your eyes closed, trying to focus on the way you rise and fall with Steve's breaths where you're resting against him — the expansion of his lungs beneath his ribs rocking you in a slow, steady movement while you attempt to force down comically tiny bites.

Steve drags his palm along the length of your spine, drawing a smooth path up and down as you eat.

“Doin' good, babe,” He praises softly, his free hand falling to rest lightly on your stomach where he begins to trace tiny circles over your shirt, “You don't have to eat it all. Just need to get a little something in your stomach.”

You hum around your sliver of toast, crumbs raining down on both of your chests and clinging to the fabric of your shirts as you chew. It takes a stupidly long time, but you manage to finish a single triangle of bread, and Steve continues with his soothing touches all the while.

He feels you grip the hem of his shirt in your fist, your sweaty face turning into his chest with an unintelligible murmur, and he brings his hand on your back up to rest between your shoulder blades.

“You done for now?” Steve asks gently, fingers rubbing softly into the tense muscles beneath your neck as you nod, “Probably haven't had anything to drink either, huh?”

You shake your head and a frown pulls at your lips when he takes a small step away from you, “Wha'-?”

“Gonna grab you a glass of water, alright? Then we can take a bath. Get you all clean and relaxed.”

He's already stepping away before you can protest, though the phantom sensation of the water that had re-emerged from your mouth an hour or so earlier has you frowning anxiously.

Unaware of your silent distress, Steve grabs a glass and turns on the tap, the loud rush of the water hitting the sink basin filling the room while he sticks his hand under the flow. He stands like that for a few moments, fiddling with the temperature a couple of times before he fills the cup. He returns to you only moments later, settling the glass into your palms with more gentleness than you think you've ever experienced.

As both of your trembling hands lift the water to your lips, you take a small sip, frowning and lowering the glass only a moment later.

“It's warm.” You complain weakly, face scrunching up in disgust as you meet his eyes.

Steve nods and his hand urges your own to bring the glass back to your lips, “Cold water will shock your stomach,” He tells you softly, “Gotta be warm if you don't wanna get sick. My strong girl just ate half a piece of toast, you don't want to immediately throw it back up, do ya?”

“No.” You murmur around the lip of the glass, taking another careful sip.

“No,” Steve agrees, wide palm coming up to brush a few loose wisps of hair back from your forehead, “Doing good, honey, real good. Just a few more sips and we'll get you in the bath.”

You frown at the reminder, clutching your cup to your chest with both hands, “Oh god,” You whisper in horror, “I smell.. I smell really bad, don't I?”

“You don't smell,” Steve promises with a soft smile, though it's not entirely convincing, “A bath'll help your head, though. You said you were dizzy, yeah?”

“Yeah,” You agree quietly, “Feels, like, swollen. Like my head's gonna explode.. But also 's spinny.”

“The steam will help,” He promises, “And you'll feel better when you're fresh and clean, y'know?”

You sigh around another sip of the warm water, a reluctant nod against the hand resting over your forehead. He urges you to drink a little more before he's dragging you back toward your bathroom.

You're forced to sit on the closed lid of the toilet, watching with tired eyes as Steve flits in and out of the room — adjusting the flow of the water in the bathtub and digging through your basket of bath salts and filling a bowl from the sink tap for reasons you can't imagine but don't bother to question aloud.

Instead, you wait. The loud rush of water filling the tub lulls you into a sort of trance until your eyes are slipping shut, head swaying heavily on your shoulders. The steam filling the room smells nice, lavender salts and oils having been added to the bath at some point, and the smell has you beginning to relax.

“Not fallin' asleep on me already, are you?”

You blink slow, heavy eyelids fluttering as you open your eyes to find Steve standing in front of you, already stripped down to his boxers. He steps between your legs to pull your shirt up over your head and you're down to only your underwear with just that one quick move. When he pulls you up, gentle hands cupping your elbows in case you sway on your feet, you lean into his bare chest with a contented sigh.

“This is nice.” You murmur, rubbing your cheek against the soft hairs littering his chest.

“This isn't even the relaxing part, honey,” Steve chuckles softly, his hands falling to your hips to rid you of your final article of clothing, “Come on. In you go.”

He helps you step over the lip of the tub, one hand in yours and the other on your waist to steady you. The water is hot and silky against your skin, a gasp on your lips when it first licks at your calves. It sends blissful shivers down your spine as you settle down into it, your eyes falling shut with a contented groan as you curl your arms around your knees and bow your head to rest over them.

You're only alone for a moment before Steve is settling in behind you, his long legs caging you in as they stretch the length of the tub. The water flowing from the tap cuts off and the room is thrust into startling silence, the thundering sound of the bathtub filling being replaced with the quiet sloshing of the water as Steve adjusts himself beside you.

You gasp in surprise when a warm stream of water falls over your shoulder and you crack your eyes open to watch as Steve cups his hands again, bringing the water to the back of your neck and releasing it in a warm rush down your spine. You hum in approval and he repeats the action a few times, dropping handfuls of water over your back as the steam works to lessen the pressure in your head.

A few minutes pass before Steve's maneuvering you around with big hands at your ribs, your thighs splaying wide over either side of his knees as he settles back against the end of the tub. Water sloshes around you with all the movement, licking high on your skin until you rest chest to chest, your face tucking into the damp curve of his neck.

“You alright like this?” Steve checks, his voice unbearably soft as the words fan out over cheek, “You comfortable?”

You hum happily, eyes closed, “So comfy, Stevie.”

He brings a big, bath-warmed palm up to rest on your shoulder, wet fingers trailing along your skin and leaving tiny oil-sheened drops of water behind that bead down the length of your arm and back as they fall.

Just as your mind starts to slip into that space between wakefulness and sleep, a startlingly cold cloth is pressed to your forehead. The chill has you reeling back slightly, a betrayed sort of frown on your face as you peer at your boyfriend who's holding a damp washcloth in his hand.

“To help bring down your fever,” Steve supplies in response to your silent question, “Sorry. I should've warned you.”

You settle back against his chest with a small huff, hand curling around his wrist as a way of telling him it was okay to try again. The cold doesn't shock you nearly as much the second time around, taking only a moment to warm into a comfortable coolness against your skin.

A deep breath fills your lungs with the sweet smell of lavender combined with the lingering musk of Steve's cologne. Your fingers trail over damp skin until you can settle your palm against his pec, blunt nails tracing slow patterns on his skin through the short damp hairs.

“Thank you,” You whisper over his chest, your breath causing his nipple to pebble up against the steam-thickened air, “So good to me, Steve. 'm so glad I have you.”

The wet cloth against your forehead disappears only to return a moment later, cool again from having been dipped back into the bowl of cold water Steve had placed beside the tub. Your breath stutters a bit at the chill, body tensing and relaxing back against him only a second later.

“How many times have you been the one taking care of me, huh?” Steve asks, fingers dragging up and down along the skin at the outside of your thigh in a soothing touch, “And I'd say you're in much better condition now than I was at least a few of those times.”

“'s different,” You argue quietly, “You were hurt. You're always getting hurt.”

“And you're always there to take care of me,” Steve agrees, “So I'm gonna take care of you. 'cause we got each other's backs, don't we, honey?”

His voice is smooth like silk to your ears, his big hand still trailing softly along your skin. His fingers find their way to your shoulder, the gentle drag of his knuckles skating along your jaw, the apple of your cheek, the length your brow bone, tiny streaks of moisture left behind in his wake.

“Yeah,” You murmur against his skin, tipping your head to place a small kiss to the corner of your boyfriend's jaw, “We do.”

[mirkwoodmunson]

So I don’t know if you write for steve or not but if you do, could you do a steve x sick reader please? I have the flu and I’m dying

i’ve never written for anyone but eddie so i hope i do steve justice!!! thank you for the request, anon, i hope you feel better soon!!

“anything funny, just… the dumbest comedies you can find…”

“…’dumbest comedies?’”

“don’t question my needs, harrington, i just gotta numb my brain out… oh, speaking of, can you pick up some tylenol on your way?”

“that i can do. might have to ask robin about the comedies… what exactly counts as, ‘dumb comedy?’”

“i dunno, like… howard the duck, toxic avenger…”

“…those are comedies??”

“steve!”

“okay okay okay! i got this, i got this. hang tight, i’ll be there in a bit, okay?”

you hang up the phone and cover your face with the crook of your arm, spread out in your bed. despite your discomfort, you couldn’t help the grin — steve always had that effect on you. he’d called to check in on you, see if he could bring you anything after his shift at family video, and aside from your other requests, really all you needed was him to rub your back. maybe pet your hair a little.

the thought of it was enough to lull you to sleep, as the next thing you knew it felt like you were waking into a heavy dream, that familiar weight at your back scritching comfortable spirals against your spine to get you to wake up.

“steeeeve,” you whine, and his response is a soft breath of laughter.

“got that right,” he murmurs, and then you hear the sound of a plastic bag rustling, rattling of tapes in their cases, followed by soft footsteps padding around your carpet as steve heads to your little vcr tv.

in no time at all he’s got airplane! playing on the screen, before heading out of your room for a few minutes and returning with a large glass of water and meds cupped in the other hand. he sets it all down on your bedside, and then coming to your side he kisses your forehead, tucking hair over your ear.

“think you can sit up for me?”

your response is a tired whine, to which steve just chuckles before kissing you again. he aids your slow movements in shifting up and leaning back against the headboard, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders and pulling another over your legs. rather than watch the movie, you just smile softly and watch him.

his face is set with determination, a light pucker of focus at his lips as he ensures your comfort before picking the water and medicine back up, handing you the meds first and then the glass of water once they’re in your mouth. he grins when you wash it all down and take some extra sips.

“there ya go! robin said this was the good shit, so. get ready to feel… y’know. not sick. hopefully.”

“can’t wait,” you murmur weakly with a thumbs up. steve breathes a chuckles and strokes your hair before turning and picking his things up as though he’s getting ready to leave. you pout.

“steve,” you mewl with nasally insistence. he turns with a raised brow. you pout harder, holding your blankets open in silent invitation. at the sight he grins and shakes his head a little, like he can’t believe how cute and sweet you are. he comes to you with another kiss to your cheek.

“thought i was just gonna leave you like this? no way. i’m making you soup and crackers, and we’re watching dumb comedies all day. i’ll be right back. promise.”

he picks his things up again, procures a can of your favorite soup from the bag, and then heads out of your room for a short while.

and he keeps his promise, of course. he nestles into your blanket cocoon beside you, holding you into his side as you slurp your hot soup and watch the small screen with heavy eyes. he has to act fast at one point to catch the empty bowl as it begins to slide from your fingers, setting it aside before leaning forward a bit to check your face.

you’re passed out against his chest with the most serene expression, snoring gently with your lips cracked open, cheek pressed into him. steve slides down a bit to lay you back, holding you against him all the while and tucking his warm smile into your hair, slowly dozing off with you.

[butyoumakemesohot]

Could you maybe write a Steve x reader where he gets really touch starved and cuddly when he’s sick? 🥺

i want you to know i nearly screamed when i saw this request i love soft steeby. i hope you like this!! (0.4k words)

"Babe?"

Steve's head lolls to one side of the couch, his arm pitifully falling off the edge. You perk up from your spot on the floor, tearing your eyes away from the movie you've been trying to pay attention to in between catching glimpses of his tired, flushed face every time he sneezes or blows his nose.

"Yeah?" you ask.

He dips his hand down to your lap, catching your fingertips with a quiet sigh. "Come hug me."

You smile knowingly, sitting up on your knees and placing your hands on his shoulders. He's taking gentle breaths through his mouth, nose stuffy and throat sore. You slip your hands around the back of his neck, absently toying with his hair.

"Like this?" you ask, although you already know the answer.

“Hell no," he mutters, making you giggle. "C'mere, you."

He's got his hands hooked beneath your armpits before you can protest, pulling you in until you have no choice but to hoist yourself onto the couch and lay against him. Chest to chest, you push a thigh between his legs and nudge your face into the crook of his neck. He's a warm, feverish weight beneath you.

"Are you sure I'm not squishing you?"

He turns away from you to cough, lifting a large hand to cradle the back of your head. "Not at all, baby. Feels good."

"Sure, Stevie."

"Like my own personal weighted blanket."

You laugh again. "Are you objectifying me, Harrington?"

"'m too sick for your big words," he mumbles, tenderly scratching the skin of your scalp. The heat of his breath warms your forehead. "Can I give you a kiss?"

"Hmmm," you pretend to ponder, lifting your head so you can look at him properly. His cheeks are almost as pink as the skin around his nose, beneath his eyes. You want to press your lips against every irritated inch of skin until his fever drains. "I don't know, can you?"

He sniffles, chasing his fingertips down your cheek. Then, for the first time today, breaks out into a boyish grin. "Doesn't hurt to ask."

His lips are warm as he presses a sweet kiss to the swell of your cheek, cupping your jaw in his palm so he can then kiss you proper. He's all soft sighs and gentle sniffles as he pulls away, the tip of his nose brushing yours so lightly it tickles.

"Love you," he whispers, draping his free arm around the small of your back.

"Love you too, Stevie."

"Love you so fuckin' much, you have no idea."

You grin. Maybe he's right, but when you nudge your nose against his until he lifts his lips for another kiss, you hope it makes him think that maybe you love him just as much.

[ducky-died-inside]

21 35 37 & 38 w/ the beloved himbo steve <3 (my brain went crazy 👹)

Migraines: Steve Harrington x Fem Reader

Summary: Steve has been hiding a migraine and you force him to take care of himself

Promts: 21. "You're a terrible liar.", 35. "It's just a headache, I'm fine.", 37. "Try to eat something.", and 38. "I'm going to be sick."

Genre: hurt / comfort

Notes: thanks bestie👹 I think I caught what you were doing here

Warnings: migraine, swearing, vomiting, delirious steve

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Something was wrong with Steve.

You couldn't remember the last time he ignored this many of your calls. Even after the Russians, he was there. You pulled into his driveway, and knocked on his door.

After three minutes of waiting, you were about to leave and Steve answered the door. He squinted at the sun behind you, and you could see inside his house was completely dark.

"Hey?" He asked tentatively. "What are you doing here?"

"You," you said, tapping his chest. "Steven Harrington, have ignored my past 13 calls. It's like 1:00pm and you look like shit. Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he rubbed his eyes. "It's just a headache, I'm fine."

You could tell that wasn't everything, just from the way he shifted his feet. "You're a terrible liar, Steve."

You pushed your way inside, ignoring his protests. "Jesus Christ, babes. It's so dark in here. How do you even see anything?"

"I'm just used to it, I guess?" He said, scratching his head.

"How much have you eaten today?"

He scratched his head. "Maybe an apple and some water?"

"Oh my god. You need to take care of yourself!"

"I have been! I'm perfe...perfec..." His words dropped off and he held the side of his head, his eyes squinting in pain.

"Clearly not." You clapped your hands, the sound making him wince. "Alright. Sit on the couch, I'm making food."

"Really, you don't need to." Steve argued.

"Yeah, I do. Now park your ass on that sofa or I will do it for you."

Steve sat down and you went into the kitchen. You had water boiling for ramen when you heard the pattering of feet behind you. "I'm going to be sick."

You turned and saw Steve running to the bathroom, holding his mouth. He swung the door open, and you followed just in time to see him retch his guts out.

"Oh shit."

He glanced up at you before retching again, foul smelling bile mixing with the water. You knelt next to him, helping him lean back against the wall after flushing the toilet.

After a beat of silence, he spoke. "Migraine. I get them every so often and can usually take care of it myself, but it's a bad one today."

You nodded slowly, understanding. It wasn't that surprising that he got them or didn't ask for help. He had suffered so much head trauma over the last couple years and he didn't want to bug anyone by asking. "You know you could’ve asked me to come over, right? I wasn't busy. Literally, my only plans for today were hanging out with you."

"I just don't want to feel like I'm invading your time. It should be something that I can just deal with myself."

"You don't need to though. Even if I was doing anything else today, I would've dropped it all to make sure you're ok."

He smiled at you and squeezed your hand. "You look really pretty today."

His words slurred together and you looked down, studying your outfit of sweats and a tank top. Hell, you hadn't even done your makeup or hair yet. "Thanks?

He grinned dorkily as if he had come up with something brilliant. "Did you know you're my favorite person?"

You laughed as he talked, obviously in a weird state. "What about Dustin and Robin?"

"Nuh uh." He shook his head, seemingly unable to stop. "It's you."

"Well, I'm honored to have the privilege. Do you think that you could try to eat something for your favorite person?"

He nodded, jerking his head up and down.

"Good! Let's get you taken care of." You pulled him to his feet and helped him over to the couch. "It's going to take a minute for the soup to finish if you want to lay down." Steve nodded tiredly, not protesting as you put a blanket on him and he curled up on the cushions.

You sighed, going to kitchen to finish the pot of ramen. You could get him awake when you were done. However, he clearly needed the rest.

You werd going to make sure he was properly taken care of. Nothing could convince you otherwise.

[flowercrowngods]

for prompt tag!

28. i'm just getting comfy (would love if this was established relationship/domestic fluff.. perhaps one of them is sick in this... idk)

but also take your time 🫡🫂

in which steve is sick but that won't stop soft boys hours

When Eddie hears the sound of fuzzy sock-clad feet dragging over the hardwood floor, accompanied by a sniffle or two, he drops the book he's reading onto his chest, exasperated by his restless boyfriend who refuses to stay in bed after Eddie tucked him in — again! Ready to give him A Look and tell him to get back to bed, because whatever it is he needs, Eddie can and will get it for him, Just go back to bed, Stevie. 

But whatever words were on the tip of his tongue even just a second ago have disappeared at seeing Steve – the same way that they always used to when they've only been dating for a few months. Instead of giving him anything remotely like A Look, Eddie grins, and instead of exasperated, all he feels is immeasurably fond. Endeared. Fucking enamoured. 

Because Steve, in all his pale, sniffly-nosed glory, is standing in the doorway to the living room, blinking against the sunlight streaming in through the windows, painting everything golden and bringing colour back to him, too. But it's not the way the light catches on his skin that makes Eddie fall in love all over again in what Robin would describe the most pathetic way possible, no. 

The thing that makes Eddie want to propose on the spot, in sickness and in health, is the fact that Steve is wearing Eddie's woollen hat. The one Joyce knitted for him with thick, soft, dark brown wool a few Christmases ago, with two distinctive bat ears sticking up.

God, where did Steve even unbury that? 

And what business does he have looking so absolutely fucking adorable wearing it?  His glasses are askew, the hair sticking out from beneath the hat is tousled and greasy, and the bags under his eyes are stark against his sickly pale skin that makes his nose shine red. 

Eddie is about to die with how much he loves him. It’s like a scream lodged in his throat that he cannot let out, an urge that grows evermore to let the whole world know, to not rest until the last person knew about his endless, endless, endless love for this angel of a man. 

In sickness and in health. It is there, residing in the back of his head, and he almost says it out loud — but Stevie would kill him if Eddie proposed to him because of a stupid woollen hat with bat ears (Sorry, Robbie). 

“Baby,” he breathes instead, miraculously keeping a hold of his heart in this wave of affection that overcame him so suddenly. “You good? Everything okay?” 

“Mhmm,” Steve hums, though it’s more of a growl with how rough his voice is. He wipes at his face, almost nudging his glasses off his nose, and Eddie can’t keep in the chuckle that bubbles out of him. 

He’s about to get up off the couch and wrap the angel with bat ears in his arms, just because he can, but then Steve is already approaching him, the blanket thrown around his shoulders dragging on the floor just as much as his feet. There is something so young about Steve when he’s sick, something so vulnerable and raw that makes Eddie want to latch onto him and never let go. Protect him from the evil germs and the headaches they bring. It’s dumb. Stupid, really. 

Eddie doesn’t even try to fight it as he sits up and holds out his arms for Steve to fall into. He brushes kiss after kiss to his overheated skin as Steve cuddles into him, burying his face in Eddie’s neck and his hands underneath his shirt. 

They hum in unison, finding a sound for serenity.

“That’s my hat,” Eddie says after a while, breathing in his sick angel and feeling him melt in his arms. 

“Our hat,” Steve mumbles into his skin. "My turn to be Batman."

Eddie laughs, wrapping his arms tighter around him, giving in to the urge to hold, the urge to never let go. “You’re ridiculous, d’you know that?” 

“I did know that,” Steve says, and he somehow manages so sound proud of that. 

“Good, just making sure,” Eddie remarks, hiding his own grin in Steve’s cheek, nosing along his temple and the edge of the hat. After a moment of silence that they spend just holding onto each other, he murmurs, “You need anything?”

Steve shakes his head, winding his arms tighter around Eddie’s shoulders and leans into him; it takes him a moment to catch up with Steve, but eventually he lets himself fall backwards so they’re lying flat on the couch. 

“What are you doing, hm?” he asks, reaching for the blanket that has pooled around Steve’s legs and pulls it up again, wrapping it around his shoulders properly again. 

“I’m just getting comfy,” Steve rumbles, slowly and sluggishly wiggling and twisting on top of him until he stills with a satisfied hum that sounds a lot like a smile. 

“Good?” 

Another hum, affirmative this time, as Steve buries his cold fingers underneath Eddie’s body. “You’re warm.” 

“And you have a fever.” 

“Hmm. Still.” 

It makes him grin again, makes him want to burst and scream and cry and laugh endlessly. 

“Ridiculous,” he says again, no louder than a whisper, and Steve turns his head to press a kiss to the centre of Eddie’s chest. It’s as much of a No, you as Eddie’s going to get, and he cherishes it with everything he has. 

“I like that,” Steve says, half asleep by the sound of it.

Eddie reaches for Steve's glasses and places them on the coffee table, and tucks the hat back over his ears. When no elaboration follows, asks, “You like what, angel?” 

“That. Your voice. Feels nice.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhmm.”

“Want me to read to you? I think you might like this book, actually.” 

Another hum, another kiss — to his heart this time. “I like everything about you.”

“That’s what I wanna hear,” Eddie laughs, reaching for the battered copy of Momo that’s been one of his favourites since Wayne brought it home on a rainy night in ’85 and Eddie stayed up all night devouring it. 

“At the edge of the city,” he starts reading the blurb, to give Steve an idea what this is about and let him decide if he wants to listen in or just feel the rumbling of Eddie’s voice in his chest, “in the ruins of an old amphitheatre, there lives a little homeless girl called Momo. Momo has a special talent which she uses to help all her friends who come to visit her. Then one day the sinister men in grey arrive and silently take over the city. Only Momo has the power to resist them, and with the help of Professor Hora and his strange tortoise, Cassiopeia, she travels beyond the boundaries of time to uncover their dark secrets.”

Steve doesn’t react, but Eddie can feel that he’s not quite asleep yet, so he opens the book and starts reading from the beginning that he almost knows by heart. Somewhere on page seven, Steve takes to playing with Eddie’s hair, carding slow fingers through the strands in the gentlest way that is almost enough to distract him. Switching the book from one hand to another as his arms get heavy from the position he’s holding the book, he always has one hand drawing idle patterns underneath the blanket, between Steve’s shoulder blades. 

It’s a slow afternoon as the sun sets on them, painting them in golden hues of orange and rose. Once he’s sure Steve is asleep and the living room too dark to keep reading, Eddie puts down the book and sneaks his arms under the blanket, wrapping them loosely around Steve’s shoulders to follow him into dreamland.  

hope this lives up to what you had in mind! 🫶

[hornedqueenofhell]

Steddie Sick fic pt. 3

Pt 2

When they make it to the parking lot Steve is clearly having a time freeing himself from octopus Eddie who has decided to latch onto Steve with a single-minded determination. Gareth wishes he had a camera.

He can’t see what Harrington does to make Eddie let go but whatever it was was very effective as Eddie finally releases his grip and allows Steve to lay him down in the backseat. Dustin hands his keys back and accepts a hug from Steve before the freshman trots back over to them as Jonathan pulls into the parking lot. The boys wave to each other and then Steve is gone, taking Eddie with him.

“You think he’ll be okay?” Grant asks worriedly, they did just hand Eddie the Freak Munson, weak as a kitten, off to King Steve. The enormity of what just happened starts to hit them all and they start to panic.

“Oh fuck, oh god what if he kills him?”

“He wouldn’t do that right? The kids wouldn’t have called him if he would, right?!”

A sharp whistle cuts them off and they all turn to Lucas who pulls his fingers from his mouth, he gives them all a disappointed look, his hands settling on his hips like a small, angry soccer mom. “Steve is getting certified as an EMT. He’ll keep Eddie safe.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?” Gareth explodes, he was ready to tear his hair out worried about his friend.

“Steve doesn’t know that we know.” Mike says as he hands Dustin his backpack, Will is already off to go talk to his brother.

“Huh?” The band collectively replies.

“He’s scared he’ll fail. Doesn’t want to tell anyone until he’s sworn in, like there’s any chance he won’t be top of his class. He doesn’t know that we all know already, we’re planning a big party for him once he graduates. Of course Dustin has all the subtlety of a brick to the face so how Steve hasn’t figured out that he knows yet is the real surprise.” Lucas explains, giving Dustin some major side eye.

“Hey!”

Well that was kinda reassuring, didn’t people who did medical stuff have to take a vow to not hurt people or something like that?

“What’s going to happen when Eddie wakes up?” Oh boy.

~O~

Munson was scary light as Steve got him through the front door and onto the couch. He’d mumbled a few things into Steve’s neck when he got jostled as Steve kicked the front door closed behind them but settled down again shortly after.

“What was that?” He asked as he pushed Munson’s sweaty hair off his forehead.

“Had… dream…like this.” He mumbles and yeah Steve needs to get his fever down. He walks into the kitchen and finds a frozen bag of peas he used to use for sports injuries and after wrapping it up with a towel from the stove he plops the bag on Munson's face.

"Blindfolding me 'lready, sssso bold."

“You really never shut up do you?” He rests one arm on the couch arm, chin propped on the other with a slight smirk. He leans over Eddie and watches as the older boy drags the bag of peas to his chest to hold against his overheated core and blinks up at him with foggy, wet bambi eyes.

“C’n think… a feww ‘ays.” Munson tries to give him a flirty look back but his fever makes him uncoordinated so it looks more like his face just scrunches up uncomfortably. It makes Steve chuckle softly and Eddie lights up in response.

“Pretty… pretty boy.” He tries to reach up but Steve catches his hand and gently places it back on the pea ice pack. Munson was smart, pressing his wrists against it to help cool him down. 

“I know I’m gorgeous Munson but let’s get you feeling better before you try to kiss me okay?”

“Promise?” Well, Steve feels like he should be surprised but considering Eddie has been basically spilling his sexuality in his fevered state, he’s just going to wait it out and see if Eddie remembers any of this later. And if he doesn’t then he will keep the older boy’s secret.

“We can talk about it when your fever breaks. Do you think you could keep some food down for me or would you rather take some Nyquil and sleep?”

Eddie looks queasy at just the mention of food so it’s not a surprise when he asks for sleep. Steve stands and goes to dig through his medicine cabinet, he knows he stocked up when Dustin had a cold from all the stress after Starcourt. After filling up the little cup with the medicine he fills another glass with some gatorade mixed with ice for him to wash it down.

Eddie’s breathing is still a little shallow when he returns, but hopefully the medicine will help with the fever breaking. He is able to haul Eddie up enough to get him to drink the medicine but struggles with getting him to sip the juice. Eventually Eddie places his hand over Steve’s to steady him so he’s not feeling waterboarded. 

“Spose it’ss too late t’ ask, you di’n’t poison me right?”

Steve sets the glass aside since it seems like Eddie is done drinking. “No Munson, I’m not that jealous of you stealing my kids yet.”

“Nooo, not jel’uss. Kids luv you.” His slurring started to get worse as the meds kicked in.

“We can debate that in the morning, for now let’s get you in a bed.” He takes the melty bag of peas and sets them aside before scooping Eddie up again. Getting up the stairs leaves Steve huffing a bit, Eddie is light but he isn’t weightless. He says as such and gets a bite to the shoulder for his trouble.

“...u callin’ me fat?” He pouts and weakly tries to squirm away.

“No Eddie you’re the prettiest princess at the ball I assure you. I will search the whole kingdom to find out who could ever fit into your scuffed up Docs.” Steve snorts but Eddie looks pleased as punch at Steve’s proclamation.

“Damn straight.” Eddie sighs tiredly, his head lolling against Steve’s shoulder. “Don’ wanna wake up.”

“Wake up from what Eddie?” He asks as he lays Eddie in the guest bed, he kneels down to tug off Eddie’s boots and set them aside. Talking to Eddie is like conversing with a sleep talker at this point.

“Dream, you bein’ niccce.”

“What would you like me to say in this dream of yours then? Before you wake up.” He asks, looking up at Eddie from where he’s kneeling in front or the other, hands gripping his shins to keep his balance. He’s not expecting Eddie to reach out and touch his cheek with icy fingers.

“Ssssuch a crussh on you…school.” 

Steve’s cheeks explode with color at that admission and he quickly stands up to lay Eddie down and tuck him in. Eddie is out as soon as he hits the pillow. Steve runs a hand through his hair and sighs as he watches Eddie Munson curl around his pillow in his sleep and let out a loud snore.

Shaking his head he leaves the door cracked open and heads back downstairs to clean up and watch some tv before bed.

Pt 4

[jaebeomsbitch]

There’s nothing you hated more than being sick. You felt helpless and useless, leaning against your partner for help when you despised relying on others. Nonetheless you sit quietly next to him feeling the heat of his arm radiating deep into your skin as you cough and sniffle.

You wipe your nose with your sleeve standing up and slowing, swaying with dizziness.

“Woah, hold on. What do you need baby?” He asks softly holding onto your wrist, thumb tracing your inner wrist comfortingly.

“Need a blanket” you murmur, wiping more snot against your sleeve. He pulls you down softly onto his lap.

“Got one here sweetheart, where it’s always at” he says, pulling the blanket from the back of the couch where it always hangs.

“Oh” you blink, as he spreads the soft fabric over the two of you, tucking in the edges under your thighs.

“Better?" he asks quietly, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns onto your thigh.

When you nod sleepily, he leans in and whispers into your ear, "Good. Now let's try to enjoy this movie, yeah? No more coughing allowed - I want to hear those sweet little gasps of yours when the scary parts come on."

[hitlikehammers]

a Valentine's-flavoured cuddly-loose-lipped-secret-spilling-hopped-up-on-cold-medicine!Eddie

(and his ever-devoted boyfriend Steve who he's been crushing on since high school but that part's a secret was a secret)

for @thoroughlycollected: featuring the (actually kind of horrible) way schools would sell carnations for $1 or something for Valentine's Day to anonymously deliver to your crush

It turns out that Eddie under the influence comes in a variety of flavors.

High Eddie is languid, touchier than he’s normally prone to which is fucking saying something, and weirdly philosophical. He talks about alternate universes beyond the Upside Down as a meta-something concept. He theorizes how maybe he died in another dimension but some weird particle-subversion-something-something-whatever couldn’t survive re-sublimation in the Right-Side-Up and honestly when the big-brain bullshit skirts the edges of Eddie’s mortality Steve is here for all of none of that part, because Eddie’s heart was beating under Steve’s hands the whole goddamn time, sometimes maybe coaxed by Steve’s hands but from the moment Steve found him and Dustin to the moment he let go at the hospital he didn’t not feel Eddie’s heart beating, and he knew that not least because he would have come apart at the seams if that’s happened, he would have crumbled entirely for losing, or almost-losing, or thinking even close to losing the potential, the promise between them they’d barely skirted but that’d rooted heavy and at home in Steve’s chest already and fuck, fuck—

When Eddie philosophizes in general usually Steve just hangs on his every word, mesmerized by the beauty of him top of bottom, inside and out: somehow all Steve’s. But when his philosophizing leans toward that Steve’s own heartbeat does some weird shit that the weed can’t claim whole credit for and he grabs Eddie hard every time and kisses him until he’s dizzy with it, until they both are, until Eddie’s reduced just to blinking for at least five whole minutes and by that point High Eddie’s on to another topic altogether.

Which is for the best.

By comparison: Drunk Eddie is a lovelorn bastard, a little bit teary with it sometimes even, but always clingy and a touch extra possessive, sappier than he gets on even his most sappy days. One time he told Steve that no, he couldn’t let him go to take a piss because, and Steve remembers this word for word: there’s stardust in my body that’s in your body and that shit’s like magnets, Stevie, like magnets or whatever so my heart’s like pulled to your heart and if you go away without me ever you’ll rip my heart out—because like, a guy remembers that kind of declaration shouted into his ear over the music at a bar that’s safe enough that they’d get away with the excuse that Eddie was plastered, for the way he was hanging on Steve, but thank fuck the lighting was shitty enough that no one could see the flush on Steve’s cheeks, and thank fuck even more that no one could see his magnet-heart and how pounded something wild for the way Eddie draped over him and pressed full against his chest and nuzzled under his chin and made the kind of declarations that Steve had kinda been searching and hoping for all his life.

Drunk or not.

But then there’s another flavor, a specific one: and that’s medicated Eddie. And that Eddie, that cough-medicine-soaked-to-the-gills Eddie?

He’s an adorably giggly little fuck, is what he is.

“I’ll feel better by Saturday,” he lolls his head over to Steve’s shoulder where they sit beside one another, Eddie properly bundled in three blankets with a Sprite in hand. “Pinky-promise,” he slurs a little, but it might just be the stuffed-up nose doing the heavy lifting on garbling his words, and then fuck, of course the dipshit reaches up to seal the deal like the absolutely irresistible goofball he is, and always: snot-coated and all.

“Just rest up, babe,” Steve pulls him close with an arm around around his shoulder, dropping a firm kiss to his forehead: still warmer than Steve would like, in all honesty: “forget about Saturday,” and he means that with his whole chest, because fuck reservations and flowers and boxes of the chocolates Eddie likes best from the city—his boyfriend is sick, his boyfriend is hurting, and there is kinda not a single more important thing than that, than attending to that and making it hurt even the slightest bit less of he’s able, if it’s in his power.

“But we had,” Eddie sniffles heavily, loud and almost painful-sounding; “we had plans,” he whines, and turns toward Steve with overbright-eyes, far too watery:“our first,” he says it like it’s a heartbreak unto itself, bottom little quivering, and fuck.

Steve smiles though he hurts for Eddie right now so hard, want to take all the aching into himself it to spare this beautiful man for a fucking second, just he reaches and traces lilting patters around Eddie’s eyes, his browbone, his jaw, slow down to press soft at his lips:

“You not planning on having many more?” Steve asks soft, a little playful, a little leading: he likes to hear it, and often: that Eddie’s in this as deep and true and Steve is. For the long haul.

“All the more,” Eddie sing-songs sniffily, which is both pathetic and adorable, tugs at Steve’s heartstrings and the corners of his lips alike; “alllll of the more, Stevie-baby,” he draws out in promise, crosses his heart uncoordinated for feeling fuzzy with his cold and being fully cocooned in blankets and again: adorable and pathetic and perfect.

The man’s fucking perfect, even when he’s all stuffed-up and curled sick on the couch.

“Got you the best presents,” he adds on dreamily with a little chuckle, the high-pitched airy kind that float in the air between like bubbles; “so much better than all the other ones,” he adds kinda petulantly, pouts full around the words and maybe it’s the cough medicine, or the fuzziness Steve knows well comes with both the cold itself and the remedies to help alike; he brushes his lips against Eddie’s forehead just to be safe and Eddie giggles a little and leans full-bodied into Steve, unbalanced for the swaddling of most of his frame and that just makes him laugh all the more: he’s no more feverish than he had been, which was admittedly barely, just more than Steve liked, but: yeah.

Yeah, that’s…he kinda guesses it all could combine to have Eddie spewing kinda nonsense, and he probably should just smile and pull his boyfriend closer in his arms and cuddle him some more but he’s both curious and concerned, which turns out to be a potent mix, so:

“Other ones?”

“Mmm,” Eddie hums long and warm as he snuggles up to Steve a little closer, and Steve stretches an arm around him wholly, settles him flush to his chest: “but shh, don’t tell, okay?”

And Eddie sounds breathless, which piques Steve worry alongside the bright flush he finds on Eddie’s cheeks when he looks down: his eyes are fairly clear and…no, forehead’s still the same temperature, not clammy or anything, and Eddie’s just preening as he lazily tips his face up to receive more kisses, mostly unaware that Steve’s attentions serve any other purpose than loving on him.

And , well, no: they really don’t, it’s just the love’s multi-layered here, just now. It’s love, and it’s devotion, and it’s dedication to Eddie’s general wellbeing all wrapped into one. So: yeah.

“Swear,” Steve decides to play along, hoping for clues as to just how loopy Eddie’s ended up for one end of the sick-stick or the other; “what’s up, baby?” he draws circles over the harsh jut of Eddie’s clavicle, little massages that Eddie eats up with a dimpley grin as he sighs, back to the dreamy-tone again:

“Flowers.”

Steve buries a little smile into Eddie’s tangly tresses, because like…

“You got me flowers?”

No one’s ever really gotten Steve flowers.

“Noooo,” Eddie giggles and shakes his head under Steve’s chin as he buries closer into Steve’s chest, stretches Steve’s already mostly unbuttoned shirt out to damn well nuzzle the fuzz of curls beneath, and he makes this fucking…soft little half-whine that’s almost a purr, that vibrates straight through Steve’s ribs and his heart goddamn flutters, fucking hell—

“But that’s a great idea, can you remind Eddie tomorrow?” he pulls back with those fucking button eyes so big, as he talks about himself like he’s another person with such innocence then chuckles, burrowing against in Steve’s chest:

“I’d love to buy you good flowers, the nice kind, not the ones in a ten-gallon bucket sitting getting brown,” and his voice is all frown but…adorable, fuck, he’s such a fucking adorable drugged-up sicko, Steve can’t really handle this shit.

“And it was so sad,” he sniffles against Steve’s chest, and hell if Steve knows if it’s congestion or something like…mounting? Because he’s so sad? “The white ones, because they got brown so fast and, and,” and his words get caught up as his lungs rebel, as he sneezes, shakes from his core and Steve’s hands grab for him, tighten around him fiercely and Eddie gives into that protective instinct in Steve like clockwork, magnetic and automatic and Steve loves him so goddamn fucking much.

He presses his lips to Eddie’s temple as Eddie catches his breath and groans a little; kisses his over-warm skin just because.

“Carnations,” Eddie sniffles once he gets his bearings back enough; “are symbolssss,” he draws out long like a sloppy hiss; “of devohhh,” and he coughs a little, and pouts at being interrupted so he huffs heavier on the last syllable: “shun.”

De…devotion? Fucking…carnations?

Shit, Steve hasn’t seen a carnation, at least not knowingly; not since—

“And white ones mean pure,” Eddie rambles, all nasally but indignant anyhow, somehow; “so white carnations would be pure devotion,” and Eddie untucks himself from Steve’s chest for a second to look at him straight on with a little wobbly grin.

“You didn’t even notice, did you,” Eddie says, and there’s no sadness in it; but fuck, Steve…

Steve might fucking, like, start fucking crying.

Because he knows exactly what Eddie’s talking about, now.

“I noticed,” because it was the fucking carnations, the last time he thought about them: Hawkins High School, where they decided to hold up the horrible preteen tradition of anonymous flowers delivered for Valentine’s Day, so three people could be reminded they were the top of the fucking food chain with a pile of crushed flowers still dripping from their buckets of water, the little colored-paper tags soggy with the writing unreadable, while the rest of the school got to feel less-than when they got nothing, and Steve got more than his share even in the years after he toppled from on high in the social hierarchy, but they’d never mattered to him, they’d kinda made him feel uncomfortable. Except—and he could never explain it, but it was predictable, it happened every fucking year—in the collection of reds and pinks there was always one that stood out, all on it’s own.

A white one; Steve never even caught that they’d gone brown at the edges.

“Every year I noticed,” he exhales, and breathes Eddie in from the top of his head because, because—

Every year? Meant…meant every year. Freshman on up.

“My heart used to do this thing,” Steve murmurs against Eddie’s scalp, kinda; and yeah, it’s basically doing the same goddamn thing right now, a little trippy and dizzy and just…it’d scared him a little.

He recognizes now it’s how his chest feels when what he’s doing, where he is, who he’s with, who he holds inside tight close with him: it’s how his chest feels when what he’s doing is right.

“When I saw the white ones,” Steve whispers, and kisses against Eddie’s hair again, and again, because god; “only one person ever sent those.”

“Sometimes I’d have to run, like, hide in the gym showers so no one would know it was me,” Eddie matches his whisper, almost conspiratorial as he reaches out for Steve hand and Steve’s more than happy to meet him, to grasp tight, so tight; “hated gym, did you know that?”

“Oh, I had no idea,” Steve deadpans as he nuzzles Eddie’s hair, while Eddie goes back to nuzzles his chest, and Eddie’s breathing starts to even out and Steve thinks maybe he’s asleep, but then—

“Stevie?”

“Yeah, baby?” Steve wraps his arm around Eddie a little tighter.

“You’ll remind me about the flowers?” he asks, so goddamn soft; “wanna buy the best white carnations you’ve ever seen in your whole life.”

And Steve promises, yeah, of course—except: he kinda thinks maybe he already got the best ones years ago, again, and again.

He won’t discourage more of the very best, though, so long as Eddie’s the one next to him, handing them to him face to face, no hiding anywhere, just: them.

Pure devotion.

✨ ao3 link here

permanent tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson

♥️

divider credit here

[fandsart]

Sickening Disparity

Sick-fic based on the comment @stevesbipanic made on this post

Steve was supposed to be here like a half an hour ago. He told Eddie he’d help him prepare some stuff for Wayne’s birthday tomorrow. Mostly the cake, since Eddie’s admittedly terrible in the kitchen. Especially baking. So when Steve offered to help it was a huge relief. He knew he could save some money on a store-bought cake for other activities for the day.

He really wants to be frustrated, but getting to know Steve over the past eight months, well, he wouldn’t just bail. He’s had people abandon him before to get other people—bullies—off of their backs, so it’s always something he’s paranoid about. It’s why he was so willing to drop Lucas from Hellfire, so sure that Lucas was down a path of the inevitable anyway, leaving the ‘light side’ behind. But he knows Steve has already been on the other end of the social curve. He already knows what he’s giving up and he’s talked about how glad he is to have dropped his social status. Giving him the benefit of the doubt he heads to the phone and calls Family Video, hoping he just got held up at work.

Only to hear from Kieth that Steve called off work that day.

The speed at which his thought process instantly goes straight from trying to talk himself out of judging Steve and being upset about being stood up– from telling himself that he knows Steve wouldn’t do that, to concern gave him mental whiplash. Something’s wrong. He calls Steve’s house three times before resorting to the walkie talkie.

“Has anyone seen Steve?”

“Have you checked his job?” Dustin voices back slowly like he’s talking to a child.

“I’m not an idiot. Kieth said he called in sick, but he’s not answering his home phone.”

“Yeah…” Lucas says, “it’s been getting colder out. If I were sick I wouldn’t want to wander away from his bed either.”

“Yeah, he’s probably just at home,” Dustin says. “You can check on him if you’re really worried, but if he called in sick he’s probably safe. If there was a serious emergency he’d let us know about any kind of code red at the same time.”

“I think he should check on him,” Lucas says. “He can’t be getting much better there.”

“That’s a good point. Eddie, can you bring him to your place maybe? At least pop by his place?”

↞⬡+¤+⬡↠

When Lucas said that, Eddie had assumed he meant that Steve couldn’t be getting better all alone, especially if he didn’t want to leave his bed for whatever reason- well… Eddie thinks he knows why Steve might not want to leave his bed now. Especially if he was sick.

Because when Steve doesn’t answer the door, as expected really, and Eddie finds the door unlocked, upon entering he expects to feel the relief of heat flooding around him, only to find no temperature change at all. Which is just so unexpected. It’s not even 35 degrees out! Why would someone have their heat off right now? Even Wayne’s turned their heat on by now!

He still lives at his parents’ house doesn’t he?

“Steve!” he calls uncertainly. “Are you here?” At the lack of response he peaks out the door again to double check that he had seen Steve’s car on the way in. With the confirmation that it still sits in the driveway, he knows the chances of him not being here are slim.

Still, he rushes up to where he knows Steve’s room is from the few times he came over a few months ago. On that minuscule chance he’s not here, that would be a major cause for concern. He knocks on the bedroom door, not receiving an answer, but opens the door slowly at the subtle sound of shifting sheets. “Stevie? You doing ok?” His visible breath crosses the barrier to the room before he does.

“Eddie?” Steve croaks, poking his head out from the layers of covers where he was fully buried. He looks between Eddie and his clock. “Oh, shit… I swear I didn’t expect to sleep that long.”

“Jesus, Stevie, it’s freezing in here.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“‘Sorry about that?’”

“Well I didn’t exactly expect you to be here.”

“Ok, let me rephrase. Why is it so cold in here?”

Steve sighs. “This hasn’t really been an issue since high school, but I’ve been saving up for a deposit to get my own place.”

“What hasn’t been an issue since high school?”

“Heating and cooling expenses.”

“I don’t think I’m following. Why would you have issues with that in high school?”

Steve shrugs jerkily through the feverous shivers that wrack his body, burying deeper into his blankets. “My allowances were only so high. Things got easier once I got a job, but since I want to get my own place I’ll be at square one for a while.”

“I feel like… I’m lagging… You made more money at Scoops Ahoy than you got from your parents.”

“To be fair, most of my meals were provided by the school at the time. It only got really hard during the summer.”

“They didn’t-” he cuts himself off seeing Steve pull the comforters further up his face, covering his lips, which Eddie now realizes are purple. “Ok, we will continue this conversation later, but for now we’re taking you to my place. Now come on. The engine’s still running, so it should be nice and warm in the van.” Steve looks tempted, but hesitant, before sitting fully up with a large shudder.

The transfer from carpet to hardwood, then later concrete are hard to watch, but it’s definitely worth it when Steve sinks in the passenger seat of the van and relaxes. Not fully, but a hell of a lot better than what was going on before.

“I’m gonna lock up your place, alright?”

Steve gives a little hum and a nod. “Keys’re on my dresser.”

On his way out, Eddie heads to the kitchen with the intent on grabbing a vegetable or something. He knows those are good for when you’re sick and he figures anything Steve has will be better than whatever canned shit he and Wayne have at the trailer. Especially knowing what a cook Steve is, he makes the assumption that Steve keeps a large stock of things.The only things in the fridge are milk, butter, and eggs; all frozen.

Eddie swears under his breath as he shuts the fridge a tad harshly. All he finds in the freezer is ice. It gets the same treatment as the fridge. When he checks the cabinets he finds the stock of ingredients he’d initially assumed Steve would have but it’s all more baseline stuff. Flour, oats, salt, spices. He practically growls in frustration at the lack of resources on his way out the door.

He’s about ready to start questioning Steve again about this entire situation, only to find him asleep in the van.

“Fuck’s sake,” he grumbles as he puts the van into gear.

↞⬡+¤+⬡↠

The drive back gives him plenty of time to think about it. Usually he turns his music up loud enough to not have to think at all. That’s how he prefers it. But he doesn’t want to wake Steve up. So it plays at a low volume while Eddie goes over the facts in his head.

It’s Eddie’s second senior year, and Steve’s first, well, only senior year. Steve’s been less of a jerk the past few years, but Eddie can’t help but be annoyed when he hears Steve complain about needing new shoes. Because the thing is, Eddie just knows he’ll be getting a new pair by the next day. He must be setting up the idea in people’s minds so he doesn’t look so self centered when he goes around showing them off. Eddie rolls his eyes at the audacity and he’s standing on the table before he can stop himself

He looks at Steve, still wrapped up in the comforter, just his head and feet poking out. He didn’t bother grabbing his shoes on the way out. His socks are visibly wet now from the now melted snow that fell last night.

“Oh, have you owned those name brand running shoes for a day too long? Get a grass stain on them? You know not all of us get credit cards at the age of 12 because our parents are willing and able to provide anything their precious little child could want. Some of us can’t even afford long showers. Only getting so long before the faucets start spitting out ice.”

Eddie still doesn’t know why the house was left so cold. He’d like to try to convince himself that Steve thought it would be a way to combat the fever, but, no, Steve’s already confirmed it had to do with saving. It sounded like he was meant to pay for heating and cooling with his allowance back in high school, but why? The scenario is so bizarre. His parents would give him money to put into heating anyway? It comes out of their pocket anyway! What’s the point of that? Maybe if they wanted to teach him some kind of lesson about priorities?

“My uncle doesn’t even turn his heat on until mid-september,” Eddie goes on. “Have you ever skipped a meal to afford a new coat? Or any clothes for that matter? Huh, Mr. Polo and Nikes? Never had to cultivate a style on a budget?”

Glancing over he sees Steve’s hair sweat-plastered to his forehead. He might be getting a little bit too hot now in the heated vehicle and under all three blankets. They’re almost to Eddie’s trailer now, so he can situate Steve to a better condition while he asks him to elaborate on the situation.

It’s a little weird. He’s never really conversed with Steve, and yeah he’s annoyed that Steve gets to take his silver spoon for granted, but something seems off. Steve’s usually a pretty good sport whenever he goes on his little rants. Usually he goes after how people adhere to the stereotypes of their cliques, and he’ll often spot Steve laughing along or making a ‘fair enough’ face, even when his statements definitely apply to him too. But he doesn’t react at all this time. Doesn’t even seem annoyed at all; just stares back blankly at Eddie. He’s used to getting some read out on him. He knows it’s irrational, but it really does serve to piss him off even more.

Waking Steve up made Eddie feel so guilty. He’d fallen back asleep so fast, and he’d already been sleeping all day. He must truly be exhausted. Steve hobbling to the front door is a miserable sight. His socks are now browning with mud from the squishy ground he’s walking on. Eddie holds the door for him, and he nods in thanks, but never complaining about the cold, despite shivering so hard he physically could not have openned the door on his own.

“Priveleged, spoiled bitch,” Eddie grumbles as he hops down from the table.

↞⬡+¤+⬡↠

He gets Steve new clothes first. His warmest pajamas and some of his uncle's thick work socks. Then he pulls out some of the canned soup they have stored for just such an occasion. The soup doesn’t take long, and by the time he finishes Steve is sitting on the couch, outfit changed. He’s not asleep now, but he’s still visibly tired. He’s shed two of the three comforters, but he still shivers slightly under the layers.

“Your clothes are soft. I put my stuff in your washer by the way. I don’t know how yours works so they’re just sitting in there, but it was empty.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Eddie says, passing the bowl over to Steve. “I’ll take care of it later. For now… I guess I’m a little confused about why your house was an ice block.”

Steve huffs out a small laugh. “My parents pay for the heating and cooling, but they aren’t always home, so it doesn’t always get paid for.” He shrugs. “When I was in high school I could go to Tommy’s because his parents were also away most of the time, but then we had our falling out. When I got a job I could start heating for the power myself, but I’m saving up now.”

Eddie can’t think of a follow up to that before Steve fully drains the bowl of soup.

“I, uh, haven’t eaten since this morning and it was just toast,” he explains shyly.

Eddie takes the bowl to the sink and finds a sleeve of crackers to bring back to Steve, along with a glass of water.

“Sorry about, uh…” Steve starts when Eddie enters the room again. “I mean, I know we had plans today. I was hoping I’d be able to sleep it off before I had to be here, but then I just slept through it I guess.”

“Dude it’s fine. You can’t help your shitty immune system.” He gets flipped off for that comment. “Just next time let people know you’re sick when you have plans with them. Also, next time leave your freezing house! No wonder you weren’t getting any better!”

Steve laughs a bit, which devolves into a coughing fit. “I’d hope to have my own place by the time I’m sick again,” he says once his coughs subside. That’s when Eddie changes his priorities from getting more answers to getting Steve to finish eating what he has before giving him medicine and moving him to Eddie’s bed to sleep the rest off.

As they make a last minute cake the next day, he learns about how Steve’s parents used to give him 10 dollars to survive on per week since he was 8. About how they limited his budget to keep him from buying things that contradicts their image; so that he would only wear the clothes that they provided. About how they didn’t want to waste money heating the whole house if Steve would be the only one home, only really using 3 rooms.

He feels like he should maybe be more shocked, but everything he’s learned about Steve suddenly makes so much more sense. The way he’s behaved over the past months; not having a single moment of culture shock when exposed to Eddie or Robin’s means of living.

He remembers a time when Dustin asked Steve for ‘a loan’ and Steve told him that if he needed money to ‘mow the neighbor’s lawn like all the other kid his age.’ Eddie remembered thinking it was kind of hypocritical, but was largely dismissive of it. But he gets it now. It was an expression of his own experiences.

[urhoneycombwitch]

shelter thee to me

foreword: apparently I just love putting Steve in Situations™️ since this is the second back-to-back sick fic I’ve written for him. Hmm. Cheers to all u other hurt/comfort lovers this one’s 4 u <3 this piece was finished thanks to the inspo I got from Syl @thecreelhouse - she has a GREAT fic called Accident Prone that you totally should check out if you’re interested in this type of subject matter! ❤️‍🩹

cw: descriptions of a migraine, Steve is a bit of a depressed mess, there is comfort tho I promise, alcohol consumption, Steve actively does things to worsen his pain (but it does get addressed), gender neutral reader

wc: 4k

___

It’s the first warm spring day of 1987, and the Munson Bar-B-Q Bash is in full-swing.

Wayne flips burgers and rotates hot dogs dutifully on the grill, cigarette perched at his lips wiggling as he talks to El. Her doey eyes are wide with rapturous attention, like she’s never seen someone cooking outdoors before (highly likely; the world holds so much newness and wonders yet-unseen for a kid who’s been recently liberated from her windowless underground existence).

A few of the other Party kids are playing a raucous and complicated game of multi-player checkers, Dustin and Lucas kneeling in the grass while Mike and Will oppose, pressed in close around the small board. Max (inexplicably and suddenly) declares her piece as “knighted”, the chorus of boyish complaints quickly silenced the moment her hand flexes around the handle of the black cane at her side (in every possible alternate universe, you hope Max Mayfield always has a cool weapon to defend herself with).

The adults of the group are in various forms of relax around Forest Hills park- Joyce stacks paper plates at a nearby picnic table while Hopper is close behind, muttering things that make her laugh, earning playful little swats from her free hand; Jon, Argyle, and Eddie gave the classic “taking a walk” excuse to Mrs. Byers about twenty minutes back, the heady smell of weed drifting from the sparse forest nearly imperceptible over the smell of cooking meat.

Robin’s at your feet, the length of your legs supporting her torso as your fingers work to tie off the neat braid you’ve just finished on the left side of her hair. She’s been letting it grow, since the shitshow of last year- tawny brown locks swing just past her upper shoulders now.

“And I really mean it, this time- Keith’s out to get me,” Robin is saying, wiggling despite your instruction to “Sit still, or your right braid’s gonna be all fucked up,” gripping the strands of her hair a bit tighter in warning. She complies, then huffs out- “Steve, are you even listening back there?”

Steve hums. He’s by your side on the bench, a spot that you’d snagged early on for the both of you- under the comforting shade of a big willow tree, slightly on the outskirts of all the activity. Heat and direct sunlight can sometimes mess with Steve’s vision, loud noise has the potential to fuck with his hearing- facts of life he hasn’t so much told you rather than the result of many quiet observations about your partner over the course of a year.

Steve doesn’t like to talk about it. He’s not interested in rehashing the past, tunes out Eddie’s dramatics whenever the curly-haired boy’s story-telling nature arises; the only thing Steve hates more than remembering is being remembered- by Joyce, tearfully thanking him for being brave and saving her boys; by Hopper, with a firm pat to the shoulder and a stilted speech of unsung heroics; even by Robin, who gets in on the recollections in defiance of Steve’s glare, her hands arcing through the air to recreate the whoosh of his wooden oar.

Alcohol also tends to affect Steve differently, in this post-fight world that you all now live- but he’s taking sips from a cooler-chilled can of beer, thick-framed glasses resolutely off and buried in that nest of hair. You’d given him a look, earlier, when he’d walked back to give Robin a soda, hands still wet from digging around in the ice- but if Steve noticed your worry he didn’t respond to it, instead pressing a freezing can of Coke to the bare skin of Robin’s leg, backing down with a laugh when she squealed and got one good smack in against his arm.

“I’m listening, Robs,” Steve says, leaning forward to rest elbows on knees, condensation dripping off the can of Coors Light between his hands. “Keith’s been on one lately. I’ll fight him for you, if y’want.”

Robin snorts. You fit another elastic around her second braid, just as she brings her fist up to bump against Steve’s. “We’ll tag team him. Out back by the dumpsters. Great place to hide a body.”

“Jesus, Robin,” Steve chides, over the sound of your giggle.

She pushes herself up from off the ground, smoothing hands over her fresh braids as she thanks you, then turns to walk towards the huddled group of teens, winking over her shoulder- “Gotta show the kiddies what a real Checker Champ looks like.”

There’s a din of excitement as Robin joins, cheering and clapping echoing across the lawn- beside you, Steve stiffens, just slightly.

You pretend not to notice, instead scooching over until your shorts-covered thigh is pressing against his leg. Steve makes a happy noise in the back of his throat, wraps the arm not impeded by a beer can around your shoulders, tucking his nose to the top of your head.

“Feeling okay?” You try to keep your tone light, neutral, plucking a stray thread from Steve’s jeans absentmindedly.

He nods into your hair, squeezing your opposite shoulder- “Yeah. How ‘bout you?”

Ignoring his immediate deflection in the form of a question, you spread your hand flat over his thigh, thumb running up the side seam of denim, a bit more earnest in your questioning- “It’s just- are you okay? You’d tell me if you wanted to go home, right? You know I’m always happy to make some excu-”

“I don’t want to go home. I’m fine.”

Steve rarely ever interrupts you, even more rare that he speaks to you with any sort of anger, which is why the sharpness of those short sentences is enough to have you pulling back to look at him, incredulous and a little wounded (though you do your best not to show it).

He seems to realize his mistake as soon the words are out of his mouth; Steve winces, palm still warm over your shoulder blade, comforting squeeze as he cuts in, quickly- “Honey. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just- I’m good, okay? You don’t have to worry about me.”

Your eyes roam over his face: the deep-set apology in those amber eyes, the soft lock of hair flopping over his forehead, the twist at the corner of his mouth. You fit your thumb to it, and the shape changes, your heart lurching as he smiles against your touch. “Steve-”

“Steve!”

The moment you say his name softly there’s a louder, more piercing version being yelled from a few yards away, Dustin waving frantically amidst Robin’s triumphant cackles- “Steve! Stop making out and come help, Robin’s whipping our asses!”

Steve blinks, and you can pinpoint the exact second he gives in, shuttering those walls back up with a straightened spine. One tender kiss to your palm, then he rises, leaving the beer in his empty seat- “Duty calls.”

After a robust round of Crazy Checkers surrounded by shrieking children, Steve’s energy is waning, you can tell- there’s this certain way he holds himself, little indicators of pain and discomfort that you’ve learned to pick up on; his finger taps mindlessly on the rim of his plastic water cup, the space between his neck and shoulders is one tight line, and his silence has been absorbed by the miasma of noise all around.

No one else seems to have noticed, too absorbed in eating and joking with mouthfuls of food, everyone crammed around two shoved-together picnic tables.

Robin jostles into your side reaching for the ketchup, which in turn makes you bump into Steve on your right; when you hear the sharp intake of his breath, you lean in, careful to keep up appearances, making it seem like you’re whispering a sweet nothing, hand cupped around his ear to dampen all the other sounds.

“Will you let me take you home?”

Should’ve known that wasn’t gonna work. Steve squeezes your leg under the table, his hand wracked with tiny tremors, smile tight and not reaching his eyes as he turns to whisper back, “Quit asking. Stop worrying. I’m fine.”

So goddamn stubborn. Well, so be it, Harrington. You scoff, as if he’s just told a joke timed to the beat of overlapping conversations, and peel yourself off of his side.

Cool air seeps up your bare arm where it had been kept warm in the crook of Steve’s own arm. It feels strange, to not have some sort of constant contact- but if Steve is playing the obstinate game, count you in.

Twenty minutes later, lunch and its accompanying mess has been cleared away, many hands making light work, and Eddie has brought out his stereo system to try and goad the anti-dancers of the group to join a makeshift dance floor.

Jonathan’s playing at being too post-meal sleepy to move off the bench, while Will and Eddie tussle and pull at him, and everyone’s laughing but you can’t focus on anything other than Steve- silent and stiff at your side, doing the bare minimum of human interaction to fly under the radar of suspicion.

Your radar, however, is finely tuned, and you know he’s minutes away from needing to be horizontal; it’s physically painful to keep your hands to yourself as they long to soothe, hugging arms-crossed around your own middle to keep from reaching for him.

Jonathan joins the dance circle with shambling reluctance, and when everyone cheers, Steve’s voice is at your ear, faint and sounding like a shadow of himself- “Gonna use the bathroom. Save me a piece of pie.” And with a final squeeze to your shoulder, he starts back down the path to the Munson’s new trailer.

Two minutes is a rather generous amount of time, in your opinion, to stay seated- until Robin splits from the jumping, dancing fray, light sheen of sweat on her forehead as she bends towards your seated form- “If you wanna go check on Dingus, I’ll make up a good excuse for you both.”

Overwhelmed with gratefulness and anxiety, you pull Robin into a quick hug, then make a smooth break for the winding gravel path.

The noises of the party fade as you walk through the door of the trailer, wiping your feet on the Welcome mat but keeping them on in case you need to make a quick exit with a sick partner in tow.

“Steve?” You keep your calling quiet, rounding the corner of the sun-warmed trailer walls towards the sliding bathroom door, then pull up short- Steve’s sitting against the closed door, on the outside of it, shoes planted on the rug, hands in fists at his side.

His head is tipped forward, resting on bent knees; his glasses are tucked by one arm into the neck of his collared tee, bellows of his breath coming shallow and quick.

Sinking to your knees beside him, you press a hand to the back of his neck, firm pressure against the taut muscle, attempting to bring some relief; Steve makes a choked, whimpery noise, and it almost breaks you.

A wave of helplessness washes through your veins; in defiance of the feeling, you suck in a steadying breath, grasping at adrenaline-fueled resolve as you run through the mental checklist of warning signs.

Thanks to Doc Owens (and the one-and-only appointment you forced Steve into last year, when you found him passed out on your kitchen floor from overheating in the summer sun), you know what to look for, and it gives purpose to your movements.

Steve’s breathing is rapid but not emergency-levels; he’s sweating, but not entirely through his shirt, yet; you get him to lift his head with murmured encouragement- thick lashes rimmed with tears, flushed cheeks reflecting heat back into your palms, and you find what you’re looking for- the black of his pupils equally dilated, twin moons almost eclipsing the almond-brown of his irises.

Last time Steve got a migraine, it lasted for hours, a whole sweltering afternoon of him pale and in pain on your couch, arm draped over his eyes while you kept a rotating supply of fresh ice packs to his temples and top of his spine.

The worst part of all, besides seeing Steve in pain, is the fact that he so resolutely denies himself the help that he would give others, in a heartbeat. Years of putting himself on a back burner, of making sure his nearest and dearest are taken care of before he even thinks about his own needs, have stuck firm.

Steve doesn’t have any heels left to dig in, now, as you feel the slide-grind of his teeth beneath your hands; you let your thumbs brush down his cheeks, a small movement to say I’m here, I’m not leaving you, and his eyes flutter shut.

“Gonna take you home,” you say, soft as your hands that drop to the broad width of his shoulders, “And this time I’m not asking.”

“Okay,” Steve manages, voice thin and strained, and you hate how much that single word is soaked in defeat.

Moving slow, you manage to get Steve on his feet- he leans heavy against you, waving off your offer to get Robin or Eddie to help with a simple and devastatingly earnest “Please, don’t, just want you-”; at a snail’s pace down the hall, in tandem down the front steps, Steve’s eyes slamming shut to block out the waning light of the sunset as you guide him to the Beemer, thankfully out of sight from the party.

You get him settled in the passenger seat, pocketing his glasses and sliding the seatbelt into place across his chest with a click; while you don’t want to make Steve feel any more childlike than he already probably feels, you can’t stop from pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling away, adding in a voice that you hope is quiet enough-

“If you’re gonna throw up, do it in the glovebox, okay? This is my boyfriend’s car, and I can’t have him knowing I’m taking strays home. Especially since you’re so handsome.”

Steve smiles weakly at your joke- his eyes are still closed but he catches your hand wrapped around the seatbelt, brings your knuckles up to his lips- “Sure thing, honey.”

There are footsteps crunching up the gravel, and you straighten in the tight space of the partially open car door to find Robin approaching.

She stops a few feet away, hands planted on her hips with a shake of her head. “Jesus, Harrington, you look like shit.”

Steve, eyes still closed and leaning back on the headrest, says to you in an obvious, scratchy stage-whisper- “Maybe if we stay reaaaal still, she won’t know we’re here.”

“If you didn’t look ready to keel over at any moment, I’d punch you for that,” Robin snipes, rocking heel to toe in her converse, locking eyes with you- “Need a good excuse?”

Relief washes out any remaining traces of helplessness. You breathe a sigh. “Yes. Please and thank you, Robs.”

“I got you covered. Emergency at the office, sink sprung a leak, a goldfish death in the family- got ‘em locked and loaded.” She shoots you two exuberant thumbs up, then sobers a bit, expression dropping. “Just. Take care of him, okay?”

You shut the car door with the least amount of noise you can manage, bumping your hip into the handle so the inner latch catches, then squeeze Robin’s hand on your way to the driver’s seat. “I will, Robin. I’ll call your landline later, let you know if he’s up for visitors.”

With a final salute, the ends of Robin’s hair fan out as she jogs back to the party, outdoor sounds disappearing as you duck into the car.

The ride home is mostly silent as you listen for Steve’s breathing, taking each stop sign and turn in the road with measured slowness. Brake, check for signs of life, and creep onwards.

You’re less than three blocks from Loch Nora when Steve leans into the sling of his belt, one hand flat against the dash, the other to his stomach, and you’re quick to swallow down panic, asking in what you hope is a calm voice, “Are you gonna throw up?”

“No,” Steve says, chin dropping to his chest, huffing- then, quietly, “Maybe.”

You’ve already pulled off the main road, throwing the gear shift into park before unbuckling and scrambling around in the seat pocket behind you, plastic grocery bag you’d stashed months ago for occasions such as this crinkling in your fist.

Steve’s fingers on the dash curl into a fist. There’s a spike of alarm you claw at, capture, and shove back, unable to quell the rush of murmured comfort as you lean across the middle console- “Here, baby. ‘S okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you, you’re safe…”

Steve doesn’t take the bag that you press into his left hand, still in a fist at his abdomen; his eyes are squeezed shut under slanted dark brows, and tears begin leaking out, coursing in rivulets down cheeks gone pallid. His voice is barely more than a croak when he speaks.

“I just want to be normal.”

And then, Steve’s crying in earnest: short breathy sobs and strung-out whimpers, like the only thing that hurts more than the act of crying itself would be to hold it all in.

The plastic bag gets shoved to the side as you pull Steve in, hands soothing down the shuddering planes of his back, your voice soothing and breaking in equal measure- “I know, baby, I know, I’m so sorry…”

Hot tears drip down your neck as his forehead rolls against your shoulder. Steve’s hands ball into fists, fabric of your shirt caught in his desperate grounding attempt, fighting through the wreck to speak broken secrets against your bare skin-

“Jus’ wanna be normal. Just want to drink a fucking beer without getting a goddamn headache afterwards. I wanted to stay at the party, wanted to…”

Breath catching, a fresh jolt of pain, and Steve’s whimpering like a child against your chest, unspooling a release that’s been building for over a year- Steve never affords himself time for a breakdown, and it’s all coming to a head now.

“It’s not fair,” Steve grits out. He’s doing his best to ride the wave but it’s threatening to pull him under; you can tell by the sinking weight of his head at your collarbone, the way his hands loosen and go lax at your sides, sobs giving way to gritting teeth and steel-tight jaw as Steve battles back the slicing pain in his head.

You know this is a purging, of sorts, and you’re grateful that your boy feels safe enough around you to let go and feel, but you also know that him getting worked up is just going to prolong an already-bad migraine.

So you let your hands drift up again, take his face between your palms, let his forehead rest against yours, speaking low, stripped raw with honesty.

“You’re right, honey. It’s not fair.” Your thumbs smooth gentle against his cheeks, under the dark lashes that flutter into your touch. “I’m so sorry that you have to go through this, and you’re allowed to be upset- but right now, I need you to just breathe, okay, Stevie? Can you do that for me?”

It gives Steve something to focus on, instead of spiraling out- he’s obedient, clutching at your shirt again, eyes shut in concentration, trying to match his too-fast breathing to your steadied tempo. Your fingers wind into the longer pieces of hair at the base of his skull, notching against the pressure points Doc Owens instructed you on ages ago.

Steve shivers. Lets out a dry, choking laugh that sounds nothing like him. “Couldn’t even last one full afternoon.”

He sounds so disappointed in himself. It makes your heart ache, tears stinging at your own eyes as you respond, still gentle despite your first instinct to bite back against his self-loathing. “Steve, give yourself some credit. You’re doing remarkably well, considering the circumstances.”

Steve scoffs, makes to lean back and away but your hands stop him in his tracks, nose to nose with you now as you insist, “When you had to drive Max home because her leg was hurting during Will’s birthday party, you didn’t judge her, right? Didn’t question why she needed a ride home?”

With this proximity, you can see the light dusting of freckles spanning the width of his cheeks, color returning slow but sure. He doesn’t try to pull away again so you keep speaking. “And all those times you’ve taken care of me during a nightmare, or had to come home early ‘cuz I just couldn’t stand an empty room. Remember?

“You were there for me. Always have been, just like I’m gonna be here for you. Better or worse, Harrington. You’re stuck with me.”

There’s a puff of warm air against your lips, a half-laugh but you’ll take it, pulling him in by the elbows, nuzzling against the side of Steve’s tear-lined face for a close hug as you whisper, “I’m really glad you’re alive.”

Your nose follows the slope of his neck down, brushes at the rippled line of scarring, tissue healed but still lightly raised in a ring at the base of his throat.

“Really glad,” you whisper, fiercely.

___

Steve lets you take him home. Even lets you baby him, a bit; though you make a solid effort to not infantilize him, there lives in you a deep desire to swaddle Steve in a blanket and keep him there. Safe from all the swirling noise and light and too-bright colors of the harsh world.

You compromise. Get Steve stretched out on the couch, take his shoes off with a calculated swoop-tug, lay his favorite green knitted blanket over the length of his body.

There’s a pill bottle on the kitchen counter that you pocket, leaving his glasses folded in its place. Blue ice pack burning-cold until you wrap a thin dishcloth around it to take out the sting, you bring it to Steve’s side along with a glass of water.

He takes the pills you offer with a wince- sitting up causes the blood to pound at his temples so you help him back down, sliding the ice pack into place at the top of his spine where the pain is blooming.

From your place on the floor, you monitor Steve, one hand stroking soft at his chest to lull his breaths to normal. After a few minutes, his brows smooth out; a few more, and he’s taking careful blinks in the low-lit room.

“C’mere,” he says, voice still scratchy, doe-brown eyes pleading, catching your hand on the upstroke and giving a small tug. When you start to protest, he whines, sounding more and more like himself by the minute- “Come here, baby. Please.”

Another compromise. Keeping the jostling to a minimum, you settle into Steve’s side, ear pressed over the thumping beat of his heart, arms fit around his waist.

Steve holds you. Breathes. Says, “Thanks. ‘M sorry we had to leave so early.”

Nose tilting up, you kiss against his scar again. “It’s okay. I really didn’t want to dance, and Eddie was about to drag my ass out there against my will so really, you did us all a favor.”

Under your head, Steve’s chest dips and rises with a laugh. His lips press into the crown of your head, and you can feel his smile as he says, “You’re dancin’ with me next time. I wanna see some ass shaking at our next family barbecue.”

You exhale a laugh, too, kiss his jaw, his cheek. “Okay, Swayze. Next time.”

Eventually, you both fall asleep, winding down sleepy and safe in each other’s arms, Steve’s pain eased to near-extinction with the care you’ve given him.

Later you’ll call Robin, give her an update for her peace of mind, cuddle up to Steve some more and listen to a record.

But for now, you’ve got a boy in your arms and the warmth of his body as your anchor into the dreaming.

[steddieas-shegoes]

pitiful little guy

for @steddielovemonth prompt ‘taking care of them when they’re sick’

rated t | 514 words | cw: flu and all its glorious symptoms (vomiting, fever, aches, etc) | tags: established relationship, sick fic, hurt/comfort, Eddie is a baby when he’s sick

♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

The cold washcloth against the back of his neck was refreshing, but it was only a temporary relief from the raging fever and sweat and nausea he’d been fighting for more than 24 hours now.

Eddie was maybe dying, a delayed reaction to the bat bites or the general funk of the Upside Down. He’d never been this sick. If he had, he’d blocked out the memory.

Steve’s hand was rubbing his back slowly, not saying anything because the last time he’d tried to comfort him, Eddie snapped at him. Eddie didn’t deserve any of his care.

“You wanna try some water again?” Steve asked.

Eddie shook his head.

“Baby, you’re gonna get dehydrated. It’ll just make you feel worse.”

Yeah, obviously. But he’d just thrown up the four sips of water he’d taken a few minutes before and he wasn’t too thrilled at the idea of it happening again.

“Maybe I’ll pass out and sleep through it,” Eddie finally said.

“Eds-“

“Don’t,” Eddie felt the saliva gathering in his mouth again. “Not again.”

But apparently his body still had something to expel.

When he was done, he felt lightheaded, a little dizzy, and the cool cloth on his neck was no longer refreshing.

“Bed?” He rasped.

“C’mon, love,” Steve wrapped an arm around his waist to help him up, managing most of his weight as they walked into the bedroom. “You can take more Tylenol now. But you have to try to drink some water with it.”

Eddie groaned.

“I know you don’t want to, but I’m not giving you a choice.”

Eddie pouted.

“That’s not gonna work on me and you know it.”

Eddie whined.

“That was pitiful.”

“I’m a pitiful little guy, what can I say?”

Steve snorted. “You can take the medicine and go back to sleep.”

And after the last 24 hours of being beyond miserable and making Steve deal with the worst of him, he figured he could suck it up and do one thing Steve asked of him. Maybe it would actually help this time.

Steve got a new cool cloth for his forehead as he settled in the bed after taking his medicine.

“You want me to put your hair up again?” Steve asked.

Eddie shook his head, but immediately regretted the head rush it brought.

“You want a massage?”

“Please don’t touch me,” Eddie sighed. “I want one, but everything hurts too much and I might throw up.”

“Mkay.” Steve sat on the edge of the bed, being careful not to touch him. “I love you, you pitiful guy.”

“Love you. Sorry I’m…like this,” Eddie’s eyes were closed, but he could tell Steve was smiling at him.

“It’s alright. Just know you’re doing all the laundry when you’re better.”

“Fair.”

It took two more days for Eddie to be able to eat more than a cracker, and another day after that to meet Steve at the door when he got home from work and wrap him up on his arms.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” he said against his neck.

“Always will, baby.”

[atimeofyourlife]

Writing this because I've been in a flare-up of migraines and I want to make someone else suffer for it Cw: migraines and mentions of vomiting throughout, nothing graphic but it's there This was supposed to be quite short and quick but it ended up being 6.8k of making Steve suffer.

Migraines had almost always been a part of Steve's life, right from when he was young. They were genetic, his mother also suffered from them, as did his grandmother, two aunts, and three cousins.

His earliest memories included the times when his mother would be struck with a migraine, hiding in a dark room waiting for the pain to pass, barely able to move between the bed and the ensuite bathroom. Steve knew he couldn't play loudly at those times, as it would make it so much worse, and that he was only allowed to knock on the door in a real emergency.

He got his first migraine at age seven. He woke up with a pain that made his head feel like it was splitting in two. He tried to open his eyes but the small amount of light seeping in around his curtains made the pain so much worse. He could only let out a weak, pained cry before throwing up all over himself and his bed. He stayed sat in his bed, sobbing quietly with his eyes screwed up tight, not wanting to move and make more of a mess. He wanted his momma to be there and hold him, but anything he could do to get her attention would only be met with even more pain. After some time, to him, it felt like forever, but in reality, was only a few minutes, his mother came to wake him up.

"Steve, time to wake up, it's time for school." She opened the door as she called for him.

Steve whimpered as more light flooded into the room, even with his eyes closed it hurt.

"What happened, baby?" She asked as she took in the scene in front of her.

"Hurts, momma." He cried, wanting her to take away the pain.

"What hurts, Stevie? Is it your head?"

Steve barely managed a nod, the slightest movement causing the pain in his head to intensify.

"Oh, baby, let's get you cleaned up." She lifted him out of bed, not caring that his sick was transferring onto her shirt. She made sure his face was tucked into her neck to block out any light, before carrying him to the bathroom. She set him down by the toilet, and stripped him of his soiled clothing.

"I'll be back in a moment, I'm just going to get you some fresh jammies." She didn't wait for his response before slipping from the room, leaving the light off. He whined as she left, but had to quickly turn to face the toilet as he started to throw up again.

His momma came back quickly, having removed her dirty shirt while she was out of the room. She put the bundle of clean clothes on the side before kneeling next to Steve, rubbing his back gently until he stopped heaving. Once he was done, she cleaned him up with a washcloth, not wanting to make him wait while she drew a bath or make him stand under the shower. The clothes she'd brought in were his softest pajamas, and she picked him back up once he was dressed, carrying him back out of the bathroom, still trying to block out the light.

He thought she was taking him back to his bedroom, but it was taking longer, going downstairs. He opened his eyes a little after he was laid on a soft bed, realizing he was in the same room his momma normally spent her time in when she had a bad migraine. He whined and reached for her as she moved away.

"I need to go clean up, sweetheart. I'll be back with some medicine once I'm done."

The medicine didn't help, only coming straight back up with the little water he'd drunk. His momma joined him in bed, holding him close until he fell asleep.

When he woke up again, he still felt bad, but the pain in his head had got a bit better.

-

Steve continued to get migraines throughout his childhood, five or six times a year. If it fell on a school day, he would be called out for at least one day, often two or three as he got over the lasting effects of the migraines. Always waking up with it. And every time leaving him struggling in a dark room, and throwing up repeatedly.

The first time he had one around someone outside of his family, he was ten and having a sleepover at Tommy's house. He woke up in his sleeping bag on the floor with the pain in his head. He bit back a whimper of pain, not wanting Tommy to think he was weak. He didn't want to move, but knew he had to get up if he wanted to avoid throwing up on the floor. He got up slowly, carefully, but each move made the pain increase and worsened the nausea. He held a hand over his mouth and the other shielding the light from his eyes. He had to walk fast to get to the bathroom, starting to gag and trying not to retch on the way. He made it just inside the bathroom, but not quite to the toilet before his body gave in and he was throwing up on the tiled floor.

"Ew, gross." Came Tommy's voice from behind him, and Steve instantly felt worse. It was bad enough at home when he didn't make it to the toilet, or at least over a trash can, when he had to throw up from a migraine, even with his momma and so many others in the family knowing what it was like. But to get sick on the floor at someone else's house? Especially when Tommy's mom didn't take kindly to any mess in the house. It was mortifying. He let out a choked sob, and hopped around the puddle of sick to get to the toilet to throw up again.

"I- uh. I'm gonna go get Mom." Tommy backed out of the room, leaving Steve alone. A few tears started to spill over as he wished he was at home, or just anywhere else, somewhere he could curl up in the dark until the pain was gone.

When Mrs Hagan came into the room, he could feel her anger even before she spoke. She berated him loudly, for the mess, over who would clean it up, for the disrespect when he wouldn't look at her, instead keeping his face buried in his arms in an attempt to block out the worst of the light. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Migraine." Was the only word Steve was able to force out, barely above a whisper. Even saying just the one word made the pain spike, and he curled further into himself, trying to make himself as small as possible.

Mrs Hagan just scoffed, and left the room muttering about calling his parents. Steve just wanted his momma to pick him up and take him home. He didn't notice Tommy coming closer and sitting down next to him.

"What's a migraine?" Tommy asked, his voice softer than usual.

"Headache. Real bad headache." Steve murmured.

"So bad it makes you puke?"

Steve nodded once. "Light hurts."

"Oh." Tommy got up and moved across the room to turn the light off, and came back to sit with Steve.

They sat in silence until two sets of footsteps came along to the bathroom.

"You've been in here for so long and you haven't even tried to clean-" Mrs Hagan started, only to be cut off by Steve's mom.

"Stevie, is it a migraine?" She asked as she crossed the room, carefully avoiding the mess on the floor.

"Uh-huh. Momma, it hurts so bad."

"I know, baby. Let's get you home and in bed." She pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from her pocket, slipping them onto his face to block some of the light, before helping him to his feet. She couldn't lift him like she used to, but held him close so he could bury his face in her side.

"Who is going to clean up this mess, then?" Mrs Hagan demanded.

"You, maybe? It's something you could have done instead of shouting at a sick child for something he couldn't control. Just be thankful he made it to the tile, when he gets like this at home, half the time he doesn't even make it out of bed." Mrs Harrington's tone was quiet, not wanting to make Steve's migraine even worse, but firm and cold. She kept her arm wrapped tight around Steve's shoulders as she guided him from the bathroom.

"I've got your stuff. Feel better, Steve." Tommy came out of his room with Steve's bag.

Steve allowed his mom to take him through the house and out to the car. She buckled him into the backseat, with a bucket beside him in an attempt to protect the upholstery. All he wanted to do was get home, so he could curl up in a dark room and try to sleep it off.

-

Steve's parents started leaving him home alone on occasion when he was twelve. Starting with a day or two at a time, getting a bit longer as he got older.

Luckily, they were never both away when he got a migraine, until a little after he turned fifteen. He woke up one Friday morning, near the end of his freshman year, with the all too familiar pain in his head. The usual rush of nausea sent him lurching for his ensuite bathroom, barely making it in time to throw up.

"Momma?" He called weakly once he was done, only to be met with the silence in the house. It took a few moments for him to remember that he was home alone, his parents had left the day before and wouldn't be back until Sunday evening. He eased himself up and shuffled back into his bedroom so he could call his mom. He opened his eyes as little as possible to read the note with the hotel information on. He dialled the number, and gave the room details.

"Maria Harrington speaking?"

"Momma?" Steve couldn't help whimpering as the pain spiked.

"Oh, Stevie. Another migraine?" She asked.

"Yeah. It hurts so bad."

"Okay, go back to bed, and I'll call the school. Call me again tonight to let me know how you are." She directed.

"Yes, Momma. Love you."

"Love you too, feel better soon sweetheart."

Steve spent most of the day sleeping or running to the bathroom to throw up. He only managed to consume some cold water from the bathroom tap, not wanting to make the effort to get downstairs.

He woke in the early evening, feeling a little better, to the sound of someone knocking on the front door. He tried to drag himself out of bed, but the dizziness starting to take hold made it nearly impossible to move. After a few minutes, he heard the door open and shut, followed by footsteps on the stairs. "Steve, dude? You here?" He heard Tommy call.

"Bedroom." He replied, wincing a little. Tommy must have let himself in using the spare key for the movie night and sleepover they'd planned. At least they hadn't planned for a party.

"Oh, shit. One of your headaches?" Tommy asked as he came into Steve's room.

"Yeah." Steve pushed himself up into a vague sitting position.

"I guess I should go, then. You need anything?" Tommy offered.

"Can you grab me some water? And like toast or something?" Steve asked, settling back against his pillows. He hated cancelling and changing plans, but at least Tommy was understanding about it.

Tommy agreed and left the room, returning a few minutes later with the requested items. He handed the plate to Steve and put several bottles of water on the nightstand. "I would invite you over so you weren't alone, but-" he trailed off, but Steve knew what he was getting at. Ever since the time he'd thrown up on the bathroom floor at a sleepover, Mrs Hagan hadn't let him in the house.

"It's fine. If this doesn't make me puke, I'll just be sleeping it off."

-

After the fight with Jonathan, the migraines became more frequent, happening about once a month. He also got a little more light sensitivity on the days around a migraine, leading him to start carrying sunglasses with him at all times. Everything else was the same, waking up with the agonizing headache, throwing up multiple times, trying to sleep it off, then the lingering dizziness once the pain started to subside. But he had one other thing to contend with. Nancy.

The first one that really affected anything was in January. They hadn't gotten back together until mid-December, then Nancy had been busy with family over Christmas, so she never knew about the migraines Steve got in that time.

But come January, it was nearly impossible to avoid it, with the amount of time they were spending together. Steve was driving Nancy to school most days, and home if their schedules lined up. Date nights. Study dates. Biweekly dinners with Barb's parents.

It was a day when they were supposed to have one of those dinners after school, and Steve woke up with the blinding pain in his head. He rushed out of bed, stumbling as he got caught in his sheets. He knew he wouldn't get to the bathroom in time, so he lunged for the trash can by his desk. He curled around it as he emptied his stomach, throwing up violently.

"Steve?" His mom opened his door, obviously having heard the noise.

"Momma." Steve swallowed hard, trying to will away the nausea. "It's a migraine."

"I know, baby." She moved to sit with him, rubbing his back gently and holding his hair off his face as he started heaving again. "It's okay, Stevie. Get it all out, then you can go back to sleep."

Steve slumped against his mom once he was done, wanting the comfort she was offering and unable to find the energy to move back to bed.

"If you're finished, I can clean that out for you?" She offered after a few minutes, just getting a nod in reply. "Okay, then let's get you back in bed."

Steve whined a little as she helped him to his feet, and guided him back to bed. She tucked him in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "Do you need anything?"

"Need to call Nance. Tell her I'm not coming." He mumbled.

"Do you want me to?" She offered.

Steve shook his head. "I can." He insisted, feeling around for the phone on his nightstand.

"Okay, baby. I'll check on you later." She left the room, taking the trash can with her.

Steve dialled the now-familiar number, hoping it would be Nancy answering, he didn't want to have to make small talk with her mom, or take her brother's attitude. It was Mrs Wheeler that answered, and he forced his way through the basic pleasantries and asking to speak to Nancy. He winced at the volume of the shout at the other end of the phone, before Nancy's voice came through.

"Nance, I can't make it today. I've got a migraine." He said, wanting the call to be done as soon as possible so he could try to get back to sleep.

"But we promised Barb's parents. We can't cancel just because you've got a headache." Nancy protested.

"It's not just a headache. I'm sick with it. It hurts so bad, I can barely get out of bed. I won't be in school, so can we please reschedule?" He was almost begging at the end, wanting to get off the phone and hating that Nancy wasn't believing him.

"Fine." Nancy huffed. "I've got to go."

Before he could respond, a dial tone came through. He hung up the phone and laid down, pulling the blankets right over his head in an attempt to block out the light filtering through his thin curtains.

Once he was well enough to be back at school, he explained his migraines to Nancy, the frequency, the symptoms. How they were different to normal headaches.

Right up until they broke up, if he cancelled because of a migraine, she always complained about him ditching her for just a headache.

-

After getting beaten by Billy, the migraines got worse. Way more frequent, two, three, four times a month. The pain was somehow more intense, the dizziness after was worse and lasted a lot longer. The light sensitivity was almost constant. And they would come on at random, not just when he woke up.

Multiple times he had to run out of class because a migraine started suddenly. Bursting into whatever bathroom was closest for him to throw up. More than once, he ended up in the girls' bathroom, but he couldn't bring himself to care as long as he wasn't puking on the floor.

People had different reactions, some girls freaking out when he ran into the bathroom. Some people assumed he had come into school hungover, others that he was on drugs. Sometimes people would offer help, but he was usually ignored. Tommy made a basic comment about the migraines being worse, but never tried to offer any help or comfort.

The worst one didn't hit at home, or even at school. He was driving home from the trip he'd taken to Indianapolis, and it hit as he came into Hawkins. He had to pull over quickly, opening his door just in time to throw up over the side of the road. He whined softly, knowing this was the worst place he could get a migraine. He was still in the wooded area before hitting the town, there were no houses this far out, so his only hope was if someone drove by and saw his car. As he retched and threw up again he wondered if he could get away with trying to sleep it off in the backseat, there was no way he could drive with the way he was feeling. A slam of a car door startled him, and he swore softly as it made the pain worse.

"Harrington?" He registered the gruff voice as belonging to Hopper, but he didn't respond. He heard the heavy footsteps coming closer. "Jesus Christ, kid. How much did you drink last night?"

"Not hungover," Steve mumbled, breathing slowly to try and ease the nausea. "Migraine."

"Shit. Are your parents home?"

Steve shook his head slowly. "Miami."

"Come on, I'll get you back to mine, so you can rest up." Hopper helped Steve out of the car, getting a few steps before Steve lurched forward onto his knees, throwing up a little into the grass. Hopper kept his hands on Steve's shoulders, steadying him so he wouldn't fall over.

"Sorry," Steve whispered, letting Hopper pull him back to his feet and guide him to Hopper's car.

"But-" Steve couldn't quite form the words, just gesturing vaguely in the direction of his car once he was in Hopper's passenger seat.

"Don't worry about it. We ain't far from the cabin, I'll come get it once you're settled." Hopper started the car, driving slowly.

Steve sat with his head back and eyes closed, hoping that he could hold off the nausea enough so he wouldn't throw up in someone else's car. It wasn't too much longer before the car pulled to a stop.

"Just a couple of minutes walk from here." Hopper got out of the car, and moved around to help Steve out. He kept an arm around Steve as he helped him to the cabin, not wanting him to fall over.

Once they were in the cabin, El perked up. "Is he hurt?" She asked cautiously.

"He's sick. Got a real bad headache, so we're going to have to be quiet, okay?" Hopper explained as he took Steve through the cabin. "Can you find the bucket from under the sink for me?"

Steve made a weak noise of protest as Hopper pushed him down onto a bed.

"You can sleep in here, it's my room. Sorry there's no door, but you can get some rest." Hopper explained, kneeling down to get Steve's shoes off when he didn't try to do it himself.

"No, I can sleep-" Steve started to protest, not wanting to put Hopper out of his bed.

"It's okay, kid. You need the bed more than me right now. I'll sleep on the couch tonight. Just try to hit the bucket if you're going to puke again."

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but decided against it, instead pulling the covers over himself.

"I'll grab you some medicine, then I'll leave you to sleep."

Steve shook his head quickly, regretting it when it made the pain get worse for a moment. "Can't. Makes me sick."

When he woke up, it took him a few minutes to get his bearings and remember where he was. He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but the intense dizziness had him dropping back against the pillows. He groaned and swore softly.

Hopper appeared in the doorway a couple of minutes later, he must have heard Steve's reaction to trying to move. "Hey, kid. How're you feeling now?"

"Dizzy. I can't move." Steve mumbled, wanting to bury his face in a pillow until the room stopped moving.

"Do you need anything?"

"Uh. Water please?"

Hopper nodded, leaving the room for a moment and coming back with a bottle of water. "Is this normal?"

"Happens sometimes. Got worse with the concussion." Steve explained.

"Your parent's know about it?"

"Yeah. 's genetic, Mom gets them too."

"Keep resting up, shout if you need anything." Hopper left the room and Steve shut his eyes again, hoping to sleep off the dizziness the way he had slept off the pain.

-

Steve assumed that getting a migraine at school would be the worst possible time, but once he was working ('a real job, Steven. None of this lifeguarding where you get to laze around a pool all day.'), it was on an entirely different level.

It was so much more migraine-inducing. The constant noise, music from within the store, in the mall, and seeping through from other stores. The horrifyingly repetitive tunes coming out of the kiddie rides dotted around the mall. The screams and squeals and cries and whines coming from the kids that were either overstimulated by the environment or throwing a tantrum when they didn't get their way. The attitude and entitlement from customers young and old over samples or not having enough choice or price or 'just how many calories are in this?'. Then there was the brightness, within Scoops the colors were all so oversaturated, the mall, in general, seemed to have so many lights at full power, showcasing all the options, as well as the neon lights advertising everywhere.

One of the worst things was the smells. So many conflicting smells mixing together with a nauseating result. The overpowering artificial lemon that always hung in the air from the cleaners they had to use. The sickly smell of the ice cream, the hot fudge, the caramel, the fountain drinks, and even the fruit made it worse. And sometimes there was the harsh smell when someone let their kid go too crazy on soda and ice cream and toppings resulting in puke on the floor.

Oh, and there was the snarky coworker he shared most of his shifts with that seemed to have a strong distaste for Steve.

It was over halfway through his shift when the migraine struck. It had been a rough day, a lot of customers coming through, kids constantly running around and screaming, and constant complaints that required the same few explanations. Steve could feel it coming on, but thought it would just be a normal headache, taking painkillers during his break to head it off. But they didn't work. There was only an hour or two left before the guys on the late shift were due to come in and take over when the pain struck. The initial burst of pain was so bad it caused him to double up behind the counter. He tried to breathe shallowly in an attempt to avoid the nausea but it hit hard and had him running for the break room.

"Where are you going, Dingus?" Robin shouted after him, but he couldn't respond.

He got most of the way across the room, but began to doubt whether he would make it to the bathroom. He grabbed one of the buckets from the cleaning supplies, and sunk to his knees as he started heaving into it. He did his best to stay as quiet as possible while he threw up, knowing that sound carried between the front and the breakroom and not wanting to put off other people.

"What the hell, you need to get back-" Robin burst into the break room, but cut off when she saw Steve on the floor throwing up. "Seriously, Dingus? It's barely two in the afternoon and you're already drunk? What were you doing, sneaking vodka in your lunch break?"

"Not drunk." He mumbled.

"Hungover, then?"

"Not hungover. Migr-" He cut himself off to throw up again.

Robin scoffed, but she had to go back out as the bell rang on the counter.

Steve couldn't tell how long. it had been, it could have been an hour, it could have just been five minutes. His vomiting had slowed, but the pain of the migraine persisted. He became aware of Robin speaking to someone, but couldn't quite place the rough voice.

"Harrington around?"

"He's in the breakroom throwing up. And he keeps denying being hungover."

"Mind if I go back there?"

Steve heard Robin agree, before the door swung open and heavy footsteps entered the room. Steve slowly opened his eyes just long enough to see Hopper.

"Shit, kid. What happened?"

"Migraine," Steve whispered, not wanting to make the pain worse.

"You didn't think to tell her that?"

"Couldn't." Steve gestured toward the bucket. "Tried to, but."

"Okay. You're gonna need to go home. D'you want me to drive you, or call your parents?" Hopper offered.

"You. Don't know if Mom's home yet." Steve mumbled.

"Uh-huh. I'll just let her know, then I'll take you home."

Steve let himself lose focus, not really paying attention to his surroundings. Once Hooper came back, he asked to leave using the back exit, not wanting to walk through the busy mall with the chief of police while clutching a bucket in case he threw up again.

Steve didn't really speak during the drive hom, keeping his head back and his eyes closed to try and fight off some of the pain. He opened his eyes as they pulled up outside his house, and noticed his mom's car parked on the drive.

"Why'd you come in?" Steve asked as he moved to get out of the car.

"I was going to ask for a favor for El, but it doesn't matter. It can wait 'til you're better."

"Okay, thanks chief." Steve stumbled up the drive, wincing at the brightness of the sun. He let himself in, knowing he was going to have his mom go overboard on caring for him, like she always did when he had a migraine.

When he returned to work on his next shift, he knew he had to face Robin. His mom dropped him off, as his car was still in the Starcourt parking lot. He beat Robin in, so started working on the opening tasks.

"Hey, Dingus, no hangover today, right?" Robin asked as she walked through to the breakroom to drop off her stuff.

"Wasn't a hangover." Steve protested. "It was a migraine."

"That's those really bad headaches, right?"

"Yeah, I get them sometimes. And if I had the choice, I would prefer a hangover. They hurt less." Steve leaned on the counter, waiting for Robin to double-check the till.

"Is that why you kept running out of class? I swear, if you were a girl everyone would have thought you were pregnant with the amount of times you kept throwing up."

"Getting my face beat in twice in like a year made them worse. I've had them since I was a kid, but after the concussions, it was on a different level. I started getting them at school more, and they always make me sick." Steve explained.

-

The only thought Steve could process before the final punch from the Russians knocked him out was that if he got out of it, this concussion was not going to help his migraines.

At first, he didn't really notice a difference. Between recovering from the concussion, whatever drugs the Russians had injected them with, and the other injuries he received from the beating, alongside the mental strain of everything that had happened, he just didn't have the energy to register any changes. But they did get worse.

They were hitting every week, at least once, sometimes more often. And the thing he found most worrying after he'd noticed it, was them fucking with his vision. Even at the best of times, his vision wasn't as good as it had been before the encounter with the Russians. But with a migraine? It was bad on a whole new level. Sometimes it even got so bad that he would go blind in one eye. Usually only for a few minutes at a time, a half hour at most, but there was that one time that his vision didn't return for the duration of the migraine.

He tried to keep it secret, hide the migraines as much as possible. Robin knew about them, but he didn't want her to know about the severity or the frequency of them. And if he could avoid it, he didn't want the kids to know about them at all. From the amount of times he had to cancel on them, they knew there was something wrong, but he wouldn't give them the details.

Robin picked up on how bad the migraines had gotten when one struck at work, midway through their shared Sunday late shift.

One minute they were laughing and joking together, having playful arguments over what the next movie should be, the next, Steve was hunching in on himself from the sudden onset of pain.

"Steve, are you okay?" Robin asked, worried about his sudden change in demeanour. "Is it a migraine?"

Steve nodded, and swallowed twice, trying to hold back the unavoidable nausea. He bolted out from behind the desk in the direction of the employee bathroom. He made it over the toilet with barely a second to spare before he was throwing up. He was only alone for a minute, then he was aware of Robin behind him, holding back his hair and rubbing his back.

"It's a bad one, huh?" Robin said after Steve had sat back, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed.

"Mmm-hmm. They're all bad." Steve replied, a slight slur to his words. He opened his eyes to look at Robin, the bathroom being dimly lit as neither of them had bothered to turn the light on. As he did, he noticed that his vision wasn't normal, he could see out of his right eye, but his left eye not so much.

"Your eyes look weird? Do they normally look weird when you have a migraine? They're kinda glassy and the left one isn't really focusing." Robin started to ramble but tried to hold back, knowing that too much talking made Steve's migraines worse.

"Can't see. Left eye." Steve mumbled, not wanting to have to try to explain.

"What do you mean you can't see? Should I call an ambulance, that's really concerning. What if it's like a brain tumor or something?" Robin started to panic a little, almost spiralling with concern for her best friend.

"Happens sometimes. Migraine thing. Goes away soon." Steve was only speaking in half sentences, not able to form his thoughts properly.

"How can you be so casual about not being able to see? Have you seen a doctor about it? How long has it been happening? Has it always happened with your migraines?" Robin's voice raised a little, causing Steve to wince at her tone.

"Russians fault. Doctor can't do anything." Steve explained. "You're too loud."

"Sorry," Robin whispered. "Are you done?"

"Think so. Help?"

Robin helped Steve up and guided him to the couch in the staff room, pushing his shoulder until he laid down. She left him with a small trash can on the floor near his head in case he threw up again, as well as a bottle of water in reach.

"Is your mom home?" Robin asked before she left the room.

"No."

"I'll call Dad to pick us up. They'll let you crash in the guest room until you feel better." Robin switched the light off as she went back out onto the shop floor.

Steve knew he would have a ton of questions from Robin once his migraine was gone, but for now, all he wanted was to sleep it off.

-

After Vecna, Steve was just grateful that everyone survived. Eddie had minor injuries from the bat bites, which would have been a whole lot worse if Steve hadn't insisted on him zipping his jacket closed, Max had two broken legs, a broken arm, and minor vision issues, but was expected to make a full recovery, just needing glasses in the long term. Steve had his bat bites, the road rash on his back and arms from being dragged along the ground in the Upside Down, infection in both those wounds from running around in a toxic environment without proper wound care, and slight damage to his windpipe from being strangled twice. He counted himself lucky that he hadn't received yet another concussion, no new head trauma meant that at least his migraines weren't getting worse.

But it didn't mean that they had gotten any easier. It was getting harder and harder for him to hide his migraines, or at least the severity of them, from the others, as the group had drawn in closer than ever, spending time together multiple times a week. Eddie figured it out early on, after Steve cancelled on another hangout.

He drove over to Steve's, letting himself in with the spare key when his knocking wasn't answered for nearly ten minutes despite Steve's car being parked in the drive.

"Steve?" He called, hearing a pained whimper from upstairs in response.

Steve didn't want anyone to see him deep in the throes of a migraine, at least not anyone that hadn't already experienced him with a migraine. But he wasn't in a position to turn anyone away, barely able to move, unable to get his mind and voice to cooperate enough to string more than two words together, his vision blurred in both eyes. He didn't even react when Eddie came into his room.

"Oh, Stevie," Eddie whispered.

Eddie easily fell into caring for Steve, cleaning out the bucket by the bed, replacing empty water bottles with fresh ones. Once he'd done the basic chores, he joined Steve on the bed, alternating between rubbing his back and gently tracing his fingers through his hair until Steve fell asleep.

Once Steve woke up, the pain of the migraine had mostly lifted, leaving behind the dizziness. He was coherent enough to be able to hold more of a conversation.

"Eds?" He mumbled, his throat a little dry.

"Hey, Stevie. How're you feeling now?" Eddie asked, keeping his voice quiet.

"Better. Dizzy, though." Steve burrowed into Eddie's side a little.

"Was it a migraine?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"My mom used to get them. I don't think they were as bad as that one looked for you. But I just did what used to help her."

"It felt nice." Steve hummed.

"Good. Do you, like, get them a lot?" Eddie asked hesitantly.

Steve froze for a moment, before dropping into the explanation of them being genetic, and getting worse with each round of concussions. How different people had reacted, how his mother looked after him, often going too far, how Tommy had tried once upon a time, how Nancy never believed him, how Hopper started to help, and Robin coming in and doing her best, alongside her parents when his weren't home.

Eddie vowed that he would be there to support Steve through as many migraines as he could.

-

It wasn't long after Eddie witnessed Steve's migraines for the first time when they got together. There'd been something building between them for some time, but the care Eddie showed during the migraine was the final push for Steve. It had been a sticking point for him in dating for so long, since Nancy, not wanting someone who refused to believe him when he had to cancel due to a migraine.

And it wasn't too long after that when everyone else found out about Steve's migraines. He was due to be hosting a movie night, as he had the biggest house, and his parents were travelling out of Hawkins more than ever, but had to cancel just a few minutes before everyone was going to arrive as a result of a sudden onset of a migraine.

Robin and Eddie had been there early to help him set up, and witnessed the quick onset of it. He didn't make it to any of the downstairs bathrooms, throwing up repeatedly on the floor before he was able to. He shut himself in his mom's room, not wanting to try and get upstairs, leaving Eddie and Robin to deal with everything else. Eddie set to cleaning up the mess on the floor, Robin taking the duty of turning everyone away. She'd tried to call the others as soon as she noticed the migraine hitting Steve, but all of them had already left. She waited by the door, not wanting anyone to barge in and start being loud enough to disturb Steve. She gave the excuse of Steve suddenly getting sick without enough time for them to call, not giving the details as she knew Steve wouldn't want her to. There were a number of complaints, but she was able to get everyone to leave without too much of a fuss.

But he had to explain it at the next gathering. The kids basically confronted him about his constant cancelling, getting backed up by Nancy.

"I'm surprised he hasn't tried blaming a headache. He used to pull that all the time when we were dating." Nancy said.

"Jesus christ, Nancy. How many times did I have to explain it to you that they weren't just headaches? I get migraines." Steve snapped, then suddenly realizing that he'd said it in front of everyone.

"Yeah. That's the same excuse you always used. Cancelling on me because you had a headache, using a fancy word for it doesn't change what they are."

"Migraines are totally different to just a headache. Let me guess, you've never seen him while he was experiencing one?" Eddie asked.

"No, but they can't be that much of a big deal." Nancy scoffed.

"I puke. A lot. And it's the worst pain imaginable. Way more painful than getting chewed on by those demobats. I would take a thousand hangovers over one migraine. I can't eat or drink or take anything for the pain because it just comes back up. Opening my eyes gets nearly impossible if there is any amount of light, and speaking becomes physically painful. I can't do anything when I have one other than try to sleep it off. And once the pain is gone, I get so dizzy I can't move." Steve explained.

"You're over-exaggerating it," Nancy replied, rolling her eyes. "You don't need to be so dramatic."

"He's really not? I've seen a couple and they're bad." Hopper pointed out.

"If anything, he's underselling how bad they get. Just accept that you were wrong, and move on." Robin added, glaring daggers at Nancy.

"Well, how was I supposed to know?" Nancy huffed.

"You could have just listened to me. I explained this repeatedly when we were together, and you never believed me. You could have come over after school to see how I was, or even called to check on me. When we were friends, Tommy would drop by if I ever missed school, especially if my parents weren't home, to make sure I was okay or if I needed anything. But all I got from you was you being bitchy and cold to me over it when I next saw you. As if it was my fault."

Nancy didn't respond, instead turning and leaving the room.

"So, these migraines." Dustin was the first to break the silence. "How can we help?"

In this, I believe that Steve's mom isn't great and is kinda distant most of the time, but she almost goes overboard with affection and care when Steve has a migraine because she blames herself for his suffering, as it was passed down through her family. Also, my characterisation of Nancy comes from how dismissive she was of Steve in s2, over his concerns about what could happen if Barb's parents found out the truth, and with the fight in the alley where she wouldn't take responsibility for what she said the night before. Also, the attitude she got over Steve wanting to cancel on dinner with Barb's parents. And her 'my way or the highway' attitude that comes across multiple times in the show. This was supposed to be a quick and easy fic to get out while I worked on my other fics, but I had a migraine flare-up that lasted nearly a week. And now we have hot weather in the UK which seems to be easing the symptoms of my other chronic illnesses, so writing is taking a little bit of a backseat while I take advantage of feeling the best I've felt in like a year and getting all the shit done that I've not had the energy to do for so long.

[medusapelagia]

We are not making sense at all

written for the Spicy Six Winter Fanworks Challenge by @thefreakandthehair

Rating: General Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Prompt: Warm Soup WT: Pre-relationship, sickfic, sick character(s), Christmas 1985 WC: 5108

Christmas was never Eddie's favorite holiday, it always reminded him how lonely he was: no family to spend the holiday with, only Wayne who usually worked at Christmas for the double pay. A few times Gareth parents have tried to invite him but he always declined the invitation and buried himself in his trailer, watching silly Christmas movies, eating chips, and drinking beer on the couch like his old man. What a legacy, right?

But this time is even worse: not only he is home alone, but he is also sick. The metalhead has done his best to hide it from Wayne but now that he is finally alone he can’t stop coughing and sneezing and the floor of the trailer is covered in crumpled tissues that he is too tired to throw in the bin, while his neighbors are celebrating playing some Christmas music so loud that the trailer is almost vibrating. He can’t really complain, after all, he is used to playing metal music so he assumes he can endure hearing Jingle Bells for the umpteenth time: what he really can’t stand is the phone that keeps ringing. It seems that every person who knows him has decided to call him to wish him a Merry Christmas, which is probably fair, it’s Christmas after all, but all Eddie would like to do is nap on the lumpy couch while watching some stupid movies about Santa Claus or any other Christmas Miracle. His favorite movie is Little Lord Fauntleroy: even if he is too old to still indulge in such fantasies, he still dreams that one day a rich parent will reach out to him, telling him that he searched for him for years and that he is actually super rich and he can leave Hawkins whenever he wants.

He will take Wayne with him, of course, and he will miss the Corroded Coffin and the Party, but the Corroded Coffin are destined to split up as soon as Gareth and Jeff go to college so he doesn’t feel too bad at the idea of abandoning them.

But that’s just a fantasy. 

Eddie coughs again, while the stupid phone keeps ringing; when he finally gathers the strength to stand up and get to the phone, Dustin’s happy voice wishes him Merry Christmas, asking him how is he going to spend it and telling him that if he wants he can still join him and his family.

Eddie sighs, Dustin doesn’t have a huge family either, it’s just him, his mum, and probably Steve Harrington, and not only he doesn’t want Dustin’s pity, but he is pretty sure he doesn’t want to spend Christmas with Harrington either. And he is sick, which is the perfect excuse to finally shut up the little shrimp.

“Thank you Dustin, but I’m feeling a little bit under the weather, I don't want you to catch any of my germs.” He says, coughing for good measure.

“Oh no! Being sick at Christmas is the worst! One year I got sick and I had to spend Christmas in bed, it was awful! Thankfully Santa still brought me some toys and I could play a little in the afternoon when I felt a little bit better, but waking up with a fever on Christmas day is no fun!” he tells him “Do you need anything? I could ask Steve to drive me to the trailer! I have a few comics that you haven’t read yet.”

“Don’t worry, I’m good, I just need to sleep a little and I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I’m sure Steve will not mind.”

In which world Harrington will not mind getting to the Freak’s trailer on Christmas to bring him some comics? 

Eddie chuckles, pretty sure that not only he would mind but he would be really pissed, even if probably he’ll do it if Dustin asks him to. It’s incredible how that little shrimp has both of them wrapped around his finger like two stupid puppets, but no, thanks, Eddie still has enough self-respect “I’m good, I swear. Thank you for offering.” 

“If you are sure…” Dustin finally agrees, even if he doesn’t sound one hundred percent sure about it.

After the call Eddie decides to unplug the phone and gets back to his couch, ready to spend the rest of the day napping and watching television.

***

He must have dozed off for longer than he thought because when he opens his eyes he doesn’t even know what he is watching on the television and the room is way darker than it was. For a moment he wonders if he woke up on his own, but then he hears the insistent knocking on the trailer door and finally gets up to open the door.

“Did you forget the keys, old man?” Eddie asks, convinced that Wayne is the one knocking, but he freezes when he sees that the person on the other side of the door is nothing less than Steve Harrington, fallen school king, ex-jock and richest boy in town.

“Hi.” He says, smiling, holding a Tupperware in his hands “Henderson said you are not feeling well.” But when Eddie doesn’t move he chuckles “Will you let me in or what?”.

Eddie moves from the door and lets the Harrington’s boy enter his trailer. As soon as he turns toward the living room he understands that there is no way he can hide how messy he is: there is a pile of tissues all over the floor, and the remains from his breakfast are still on the kitchen table.

“I… I…” he tries to come up with an excuse but Steve simply smiles.

“It’s ok. You are not feeling well.” He replies, getting closer to the kitchen “Can I have a pot, please?”

Eddie nods and gives him the only clean one that he finds and, even if it’s way bigger than needed, Steve takes it and pours the content of his Tupperware into the pot.

“Claudia made it?” Eddie asks, smelling the tasty soup that Steve is heating.

“Nope. It’s my nonna recipe. It’s a foolproof method against the cold.” He tells him.

“Your nonna made it?”

“Well, the recipe is her, but she died almost ten years ago so I’m the one who actually cooked it. I’m sorry it took a bit, but you can’t rush perfection, right?” Steve smirks and Eddie stares at him, astonished.

“That’s really kind but… why are you doing this?”

Steve shrugs “You know Dustin, right? He was worried about you and made me promise that I would check on you and I agreed.”

“And the soup?”

“It does wonder, you’ll see.” He promises, stirring the soup while Eddie sits on the chair, watching Steve move around with ease: the trailer’s kitchen is really small but Steve seems to find everything he needs even if he has never been there before.

“How can I help you?” Eddie finally asks, feeling like a guest in his own room.

“Can you give me a couple of bowls?” Steve asks, then turns, bushing “Sorry, I just assumed it was ok with you if I eat here but I just realized that I should have asked.”

“No… it’s fine. You cooked, so the least I can do is offer you a bowl and a spoon.”

If the smell isn’t enough, the taste is absolutely delicious, and Eddie is very vocal about how much he likes it, singing Steve’s praises.

“It’s just a warm soup.” He tells him, avoiding Eddie’s stare and preparing a bowl for Wayne to reheat in the microwave.

“It’s absolutely delicious!” Eddie insists. Wayne is a kind man but he is no cook and all they are used to eating are pre-made dinners that he heats in the microwave, so eating a magical soup that will nurse him back to health is something really special to Eddie.

“I’m glad you liked it.” Steve says, cleaning the bowls and what was left from breakfast before Eddie can stop him.

“Would you like to watch a movie with me?” Eddie proposes, then he suddenly feels ashamed “Sorry, I’m sure you have better things to do than staying here with me. You already brought me the soup… and I don’t want you to catch whatever my illness so please ignore me… I don’t know why I asked you…”

“It’s fine. I have a very strong immune system and I don’t have anywhere to be, to be honest: Robin is at his Uncle’s home and I told Dustin that I was coming here so my choices are watching a movie with you or at my place.”

“No date for King Steve?”

Steve chuckles “No, no date Eddie.”

It’s the first time Steve calls him Eddie and it sounds nice.

They sit together on Eddie’s little couch, their knees bump when they sit and Eddie laughs awkwardly, embarrassed to be so close to King Steve “All the movies I have are either western or horror movies, I fear.” He says, kneeling on the floor to look at the pile of VHS.

“It’s fine, I work in a video store, and I’m used to watching every kind of movie.” Stevee replies, making himself comfortable.

They are halfway through an old western when Eddie turns toward Steve, his profile is lit up by the black-and-white movie on the screen.

“Hey, Steve.”

“Mmh?”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

***

Somewhere between the second half of the movie, Eddie must have fallen asleep, because when he opens his eyes he is lying on the couch and there is no trace of Harrington anywhere. 

For a moment he wonders if he might have dreamed of him, but his Tupperware is still on the kitchen counter and Wayne is eating the soup.

“Nice boy.”

“Uh?”

“Steve, I think? Chestnut hair and kind smile?”

“Oh, yeah. He came because he knew I was sick.”

Wayne nods “As I said. Nice guy. And good cook.” He concludes, eating his soup.

Eddie nods, getting up and going to sit next to Wayne.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“Much better, actually. Steve said it’s the soup. It has some magical properties.”

“Bet it does.” The old man replies, ruffling Eddie’s hair “You know you can tell me anything, right boy?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Wayne nods and turns to clean his bowl.

“What? What are you implying?” Eddie asks, confused.

“Nothing. I’m going to bed, do you want to keep watching the television?”

Eddie shakes his head and goes to bed, still wondering how was it possible that King Steve came to his rescue.

***

Two days later Dustin is at Eddie’s door.

“What?” Eddie asks annoyed, he is not used to waking up so early when he doesn’t have to go to school, that’s what holidays are for: sleep. 

The boy gives him a very serious look before saying “It’s Steve.”

“What about him?”

“I called him and he didn’t answer.”

Eddie sighs “Dustin, he is a young boy, he is probably dating someone and he slept at their place, that’s what older boys do. Now go home and don’t bother me again.”

“No. Not Steve.”

Eddie snorts “If there is someone who is going on dates is definitely your friend Harrington.”

“You don’t get it, Steve always answers. Always. Especially if I call him on the walkie! But he didn’t! Neither yesterday nor today.”

Eddie sighs, pinching his nose “And what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to go to Steve’s house: you can pick a lock, right?”

“What?! I’m not going to risk two years for break and enter because Harrington fell asleep after fucking someone!” Eddie protests, crossing his arms and glaring at the kid.

“It’s not like that! We just have to be sure he is fine! Robin is not here or I would have asked her! Steve doesn’t have anyone else: just the two of us.” He says seriously and Eddie can’t suppress a smile.

“You are serious, aren’t you?”

“I definitely am.”

Eddie sighs “Ok, I’ll go check on your babysitter, but I want you to go back home, ok?”

“What if he needs help? He had two concussions in the past, I know how to help him and…”

“If he needs that kind of help I’ll drag him to the hospital, but I’m sure he’ll be out with some pretty girl and if you really want me to pick the lock of the richest house in town I don’t want any kid around, is that clear?”

“But…”

“Is that clear?”

Dustin nods, unconvinced, and then glares at Eddie “You call me the moment you find him, ok?”

“I’m telling you he won’t be there.”

“I’m telling you he will be, I checked and his car was parked in front of his house!”

Eddie raises his arms with a sigh “Ok, fine, I’ll call you, ok? Now go, and don’t bike here again! It’s dangerous.”

Dustin nods and gets back to his bike yelling “Call me, Eddie!” one more time before biking back toward his home.

Eddie sighs, gets back inside, puts on his leather jacket, and takes the van keys before driving toward Harrington’s house.

When he gets to Loch Nora he sees Steve’s BWM parked right in front of the house, as Dustin said.

Eddie rings the bell and knocks on the door until his knuckles hurt but none comes open.

“Harrington?” he calls, moving around the house to find an easy way to get in without breaking a window or picking a lock in the middle of the day. He tries every window until he sees that one window on the second floor is ajar. Cursing himself for his poor gymnastic skill, somehow he manages to climb toward the window and get inside, landing on the floor with a loud thump.

The room he is in is definitely Steve’s, even if the boy is nowhere to be seen and the bed is still perfectly made. Eddie moves around the other rooms but Steve is nowhere to be seen, so he gets to the living room to call Dustin to tell him that Steve is probably outside, having the time of his life, when he sees a figure wrapped in so many blankets that looks like a cocoon.

“Harrington?” he calls, and a pitiful voice answers him back.

Eddie runs down the stairs and gets closer to the boy “Hey, Harrington, are you ok?” he asks, but he can feel how hot Steve is even under all the blankets.

“Fuck. I think you got my virus.” Eddie curses, and Steve sneezes as a confirmation “Ok, don’t worry, I’m going to take care of you, ok big boy? Do you have some fever medicine somewhere?”

“Bathroom…” Steve murmurs in a small voice, and Eddie runs upstairs to the bathroom and comes back with a few medicines and a thermometer.

He takes Steve’s temperature, which is way too high, and tries to suggest calling a doctor, but Steve is adamant he doesn’t want to, so all that Eddie can do is help him sip some water and take a few pills.

When Steve falls asleep the older boy calls Dustin, informing him that Steve is sick but that he doesn’t have to worry because he will take care of him and he does, the metalhead helps him drink some hot tea, go to the bathroom and finally convince him to go to sleep in his bed and not on the couch.

“Can I call your parents?” Eddie asks, changing the wet towel on Steve’s forehead.

“They are in Paris. Or Rome. Don’t remember.”

“I can’t leave you alone like that.” 

“I’m fine.”

“No, you are not. Tell me who I can call to keep an eye on you or I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

Steve murmurs something that sounds like “Hopper” but Eddie knows that the chief died in the fire at the mall a few months before “I’m serious, Steve. You can’t be left alone like this.”

But the boy is already asleep, so he sighs and goes back to the living room to call Wayne.

“Hey, Wayne.”

“Kid? You ok?”

“Yeah. I’m at Harrington. I think he got my virus but much worse. Do you mind if I keep an eye on him? He is home alone.”

“Not at all, just pay attention.”

“I got sick before, I’m not going to get sick again.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Wayne whispers and Eddie frowns, confused, but doesn’t comment.

When he gets in the kitchen to make himself a sandwich he sees Steve’s nonna recipe on the kitchen table and decides to try to make it.

Eddie has never cooked before in his life, but the instructions are pretty easy: he follows them step by step, and an hour later the same smell of warm soup fills the air. He takes a couple of bowls and gets back to Steve’s room.

“Steve? Wake up. Stevie, come on. You have to eat something.” He tells him while he gently shakes Steve to wake him.

“Mum?” the boy asks with feverish eyes.

“Just me, Eddie.”

“Oh. Eddie. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, you were probably dreaming, am I right?”

The younger boy nods, then looks at the bowl that the metal head is offering him “Is it…?”

“It is. Or at least I think it is. I followed the instructions step by step.” He replies, helping Steve sit up and giving him the spoon, but the boy is shaking so much that Eddie quickly resolves to spoon-feed him, slowly.

“So much for your strong immune system, uh?” the metalhead mocks him, cleaning Steve’s lips with a napkin.

“I’m sorry…”

“Stop saying you are sorry. You are sick and you need a little bit of help, it’s ok to need help sometimes, you know that, right?”

“Shouldn’t. I’m a Harrington.” He replies, covering his eyes with an arm.

“What the hell does that mean? Sorry to break it to you, but you are human, like everyone else.” Eddie tells him, tucking his blankets.

“It’s just a cold.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so, but even if it was you have the right to feel like shit and have someone take care of you.” Eddie insists, giving him some water and a couple of pills to lower his fever “And if by tomorrow you are not feeling any better I’m going to call a doctor, even if you don’t like it.”

“I had the soup. I’ll be alright.” Steve replies convinced, his eyes half closed, and Eddie lets him fall asleep, he is not sure Steve will feel better in the morning, but even if he doesn’t he is not going to let him be alone in that big house, he will probably call Dustin’s mum, or Wayne, or some other adult that really knows how to take care of a sick person, for the moment he sits on the floor of Steve’s bedroom, watching his chest rise and fall like and hawk.

***

Maybe it was the soup, as Steve insists, or maybe Steve’s fever just broke on his own with the help of a few pills, but the next day the rich boy looks way better than the night before.

“Told you. That soup is magic. Thank you for  cooking it for me.”

“I guessed your mum cooked it for you every time you got sick, uh?” Eddie asks, giving him the cup of tea he already prepared for him. No coffee or milk after you have been unwell, it’s a core part of Munson’s doctrine.

“Nah. Just my nonna. But she was Italian, so she wasn’t around often.” Steve replies, thanking him for the tea, and sipping it slowly.

“Well, my mum wasn’t around either, but Wayne did his best to make up for it.” Eddie replies, eating some eggs.

“He seems like a good man. We had a little chat when you were feeling under the weather.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t try to scare you away with his rifle.” Eddie snorts.

“He actually did. Or at least he threatened me that he would have taken the rifle if I didn’t leave, but after I clarified that I wasn’t a thief and that there was some soup for him he became really nice.” Steve sips some more tea and then he asks “How did you know I was feeling unwell?”

“Henderson. He can be really annoying, or persuasive, it depends, in any case he insisted that someone had to check on you. He actually asked me to break into your house! Luckily for me, there was a window ajar in your bedroom and I got in from there.”

Steve smiles “Yeah, Dustin can be annoying but I love him, and don’t laugh at me, I know he is just a kid, but he is like a little brother to me.”

“Yeah. I get it, I think I feel the same, even if I must confess that I was fucking jealous of Steve Harrington. You have no idea how many times he mentions you every day! Steve did that, Steve said this, Steve is going to drive me here and there… Every day he talks about you! You are his fucking hero!”

Steve scoffs, blushing so softly and Eddie can’t avoid wondering if he would blush so sweetly even under the sheets “Dustin and I have some history. I helped him with some… projects. That’s all. I’m not the super cool Dungeon Master that plays his stupid game.”

“Hey! That’s not a stupid game! It’s really hard to be a good DM!” Eddie complains, crunching another cookie and letting the crumbles fall everywhere.

Steve’s hands twitch, getting a towel to clean the table, but in the end, he desists and keeps drinking his tea.

“I don’t doubt it. Dustin tried to explain it to me but I’m too stupid to understand it.” Steve says, avoiding Eddie’s stare, but the metalhead reaches for his hand.

“Hey, you are not stupid. The game it’s complicated, but if you want I can teach you.”

Steve chuckles “Thanks but if I couldn’t understand it on a good day I doubt I’ll understand it today.”

“Still feeling shitty?”

“Not too bad but, yeah, I think I have been better.”

Eddie clicks his tongue “Do you think you’ll be alright if I get back to the trailer? I can be back in the evening but I don’t want Wayne to worry.”

“There is no need for you to come back tonight, I’m feeling so much better.”

“And renounce the opportunity to see cable television on such a huge screen?” Eddie smirks and Steve nods.

“Ok, you can hang out at my place for the holidays if that’s what you were thinking, but I’ll have to go back to work tomorrow or Keith will definitely fire me.”

Eddie agrees, but before leaving he reminds Steve that he is going to get back in the evening “Do you think you’ll feel good enough to have some pizza tonight? There is a new pizza place, Garreth says is sick but I have never been.”

Steve smiles and Eddie can’t help but smile back at him “Pizza sounds good, but no beer for me.”

“Got it!” Eddie replies, getting in the van and driving home.

***

In the evening Eddie goes back to Steve’s house with a couple of pizzas and a six-pack.

“Thank you Eddie but I told you that I wasn’t going to drink beer.”

“Oh, that’s for me.”

“All of them?”

“Yeah, are you judging me, Harrington?”

Steve shakes his head while they sit at the table.

“How was your day?” Eddie asks, taking a slice of pizza from the box with his hands and starting to eat it straight away.

“I dozed off on the couch and watched some old movies.” Steve replies, taking a plate to eat his pizza and Eddie feels immediately ashamed for his manners.

“Sorry…” he mumbles with his mouth still full but Steve just smiles.

“You are just like Dustin. I like that.”

“You like my lack of manners?” 

“I like your freedom.” He replies, cutting the pizza with fork and knife, before eating a little piece “My mum was really fond of etiquette, I learned what was the right fork for each food before I was tall enough to get to the table on my own. I would have loved to eat some pizza with my hands, getting my face dirty with tomato sauce or whatever.”

“Oh… we can fix that.” Eddie replies, taking another piece and offering it to Steve “Come on, take it. Take and eat it: with your hands, as a huge fuck you to your family. How does it sound?”

Steve stares at the piece of pizza for a long time and finally takes it from Eddie’s hand, giving a tentative bite, and immediately covering his mouth with the other hand “It tastes better if you don’t cover your mouth.” Eddie winks and Steve lowers his hand, showing a little smudge of tomato sauce on the side of his lips that Eddie cleans with his thumb, before licking it without even thinking about it.

It’s only when he feels Steve freeze that he realizes what he has done and whitens “Fuck. I’m sorry. Wayne used to do it with me and…”

“It’s… it’s ok.” Steve replies, blushing, then he changes the argument “The pizza it’s tastier like this.” He confirms and Eddie beams.

“Told you. That’s part of the sacred Munson’s doctrine.”

“Tell me more about this doctrine.” Steve asks, while he takes another piece of pizza with his hands and Eddie talks about everything: about the game he loves so much, about the Theatre Room where they play, about his opinion on jocks and laundry baskets players “Present company excluded, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

The more Eddie talks with Steve, the more he finds out that the other boy is not half bad. They spend the day chatting and when it’s time for Eddie to get back to the trailer Steve offers him one of the guest rooms “It’s not safe letting you drive after all the beers you drunk.”

“That’s nothing, weren’t you the Keg King?”

“Once, now I’m a big brother and I worry. It’s part of the job description.”

“I’m older than you.” Eddie points out but Steve shrugs and guides him toward the guest room.

“Choose whatever you want.”

Eddie nods and chooses the first room he sees, but when Steve comes into the room to give him towels and toiletries, Eddie grins “Hey, Steve?”

“Uh?”

“What do you think Dustin would say if we became friends?”

“He will be happy, I think?”

“Maybe at the beginning… but I’m sure you know a lot of embarrassing stories about him, and I know a few too, so… what do you say if we exchange intel and we gang upon him?”

Steve smirks “Are you suggesting we torture the little shrimp? Together?”

“He deserves it!”

“He definitely does. He keeps mocking me for my beauty routine.”

Eddie snorts “Do you have a beauty routine?”

“Fuck you, Munson. I don’t want to exchange anything with you.”

“Sorry. Sorry. My fault. I will not mock you, pinkie promise.”

They share a look and then they shake hands.

“Come, sit here. I have so many stories to tell you.” Eddie says, scooting over to make space for Steve on the bed and the chestnut boys lies with him, exchanging stories about how Dustin lost his cat and somehow convinced him to search for it in the woods, while Eddie recalls the first time he saw him in the cafeteria with his signature thinking cap.

“That boy is something, isn’t he?” Eddie asks, and when he doesn’t hear a reply he turns toward Steve, only to find him asleep and gently snoring. He brushes some hair away from his face, covers them both with the blanket and falls asleep in Steve’s comfy bed.

***

One week later none expect it when, on the first day of school after the holidays, Steve goes to pick up Robin and Dustin, and the the jock and the metalhead hug in the parking lot as if they were best friends who haven’t seen each other in years.

“What the hell is happening?” Dustin asks, darting his eyes between the two of them.

Eddie puts an arm around Steve’s shoulder with ease “You wanted us to get closer, didn’t you, Dustin?”

“Yeah but…”

“Well, we did.” Steve concludes “Now get in the car before Robin and I lose another job!”

They are halfway toward Dustin’s house when Steve asks “So: is it true that you farted during the last campaign and you tried to pretend it was the chair?”

Robin snorts and Dustin freezes “It was the chair! And how do you know… oh no… oh no!” Dustin exclaims, his eyes wide with terror “Please, tell me that’s not true! Why did you have to talk about me!”

“You are the only thing Eddie and I have in common, we bonded thanks to you. Aren’t you happy?” Steve winks and Dustin is still grumbling something when Steve leaves him at his house, before driving Robin toward Family Video.

“So. You and Munson, uh?” the girl asks in a cautious way.

“Yeah. It’s nice to have a friend my age, you know?”

She punches Steve’s shoulder “I’m your age, dingus!”

“But you are a girl! He is a boy! It’s different.”

Robin glowers at him “Steven Joseph Harrington, did you replace me with Eddie the Freak Munson?”

“Never! You are my best friend. Eddie is just… different. It’s easy to talk with him, you know? And he is very funny, he makes me laugh a lot and we have a great time together.”

“Talking, uh? And what about Heidi?”

“Oh, we were supposed to go out on a date but Eddie wanted to hang out and… what? Don’t look at me like that!” Steve complains, turning into the Family Video parking lot.

Robin sighs, gets their uniforms from the back and sighs“I’m glad you finally found a special friend.”

“Come on. I just made him my nonna’s soup when he was sick. It’s not like it means something.”

Robin takes her uniform, but before closing herself in the bathroom to change she turns to say to him “If you are going to be kissed by a boy before I get kissed by a girl I’m going to be super pissed!”

And Steve stares at the bathroom door, confused, that’s not what it is! It’s just a friendship! Right?

[butyoumakemesohot]

A Steve x reader where both are sick and Steve is making tea for himself and reader 🥲 I could def see him accidentally sneezing and not being able to cover so he spills and/or gets the cups in spray but they’re both sick so it doesn’t matter LMFAO

i actually really like how this turned out!! i hope you enjoy, i always love your requests <3 sorry i got a bit carried away LOL (1.4k words)

"Soup?"

You shake your head, your voice barely above a whisper. "Not hungry."

"You sure? You n'deed to eat." Steve traces a hand absently along your arm, squeezing your skin in a comforting rhythm. "Crackers? *snrff!*"

"Too dry."

Steve heaves a sympathetic sigh, letting his hand fall to your thigh. You feel guilty for worrying him, especially when you remember that he's feeling just as sick as you are. You tiredly lift yourself off the couch, using his shoulder as leverage.

"Where are you goi'g?"

There's a concerned pinch in his brow. You smile down at him, hoping to ease some of his anxiety. "Come with me, Harrington."

He trudges close behind you, making sure to grab the box of tissues as he goes. While this mystery illness has primarily settled in your throat and chest, it's only served to make Steve terribly sneezy and congested. He plucks a couple of tissues out of the box as soon once you make it to the kitchen, cupping them over his tender red nose.

"Hih'IHSCHHH! Hh'TSCHHHEW!" He sniffles wetly, eyes screwed shut as he gears up for another itchy-sounding sneeze. "Huhh'ISCHHhhEW!"

"Bless you, honey."

"Thadk you." He folds the tissues over and blows his nose softly. "Did you chadge your mide about eati'g? 'Cause I cad mbake you sombethi'g. *snff!*"

You reach for two mugs and a container of tea leaves from a nearby cabinet, placing them on the counter.

"I'm making us tea," you explain in a small voice, clearing your throat after. God, does it hurt to talk. "I'm hoping the steam will clear you out. I can barely understand a word you say."

"Ditto," he says with a grin. "Why dod't you let mbe do it?"

"Steve, no offense, but no."

"Why dot? Hehhh... Hih-! Hih'TTSCHHh! *snrrff* Hp'SCHHHHh!"

You can't help but giggle hoarsely. "Do I really need to answer that?"

"Pffft. Your germbs are mby germbs, baby, whether you like it or dot."

If you weren't so exhausted, you'd have the strength to come up with a counterargument. However, between your aching throat and the determined set of Steve's jaw, you never had much of a chance to begin with. You perch yourself on the nearest countertop in resignation, silently allowing him to begin boiling the water and preparing the tea leaves.

"Have you done this before?" you ask after a few minutes.

"Doe," he admits. "I, uh - *snffg!* - mbay deed your help... Hh'ESSCHHHEW!"

You quietly bless him again, reaching out to prepare the strainers in each mug before the water starts to boil. He's already sniffling more frequently, thick tendrils of steam coating the air in front of him as he hovers near the stove.

"Wow," you remark as Steve pours the hot water into the mugs. "Great technique, babe."

"I speak sarcasmb, you kndow. Dod't mbake mbe spill this od you."

You start to laugh once again, but laughing quickly turns to coughing, which quickly forces Steve to spread a warm hand across your back, wincing at the faint sound of congestion rattling in your chest. He tucks back the hair that's fallen into your face once you're finished, continuing to rub your back until your labored breathing has subsided.

"That didn't sou'd good." He sniffles again, swiping roughly at his nose. "Tibe for mbore cough syrup?"

"No thanks." You're already wrinkling your nose at the memory of its sour taste. "I'll wait for tea. Should be finished soon."

Your voice is much more scratchy now; you're also speaking in fragments rather than the proper sentences Steve's used to. He sighs, looking practically heartbroken as he slots himself between your legs, dropping his hands so they're resting against your thighs.

"Hate seei'g you like this," he pouts.

"Ditto," you croak, happy to see the small smile it brings to his face.

It isn't very long before his nose is twitching again. He turns away from you, swinging the crook of his elbow up to his face. "Hh'TSSCHHH! Sorry - Heh'ESCHHHIEW! God. Fuck. Sorry. *snrrff!*"

You laugh weakly at his string of curses. It hurts. "Quit making me laugh, idiot."

"What, is mby paid and sufferi'g fuddy to you?"

He drops his mouth open, feigning offense. You shrug innocently, leaning forward until the tip of your nose bumps against his, pressing a sorrowful kiss to it after. "Maybe a little."

"Typical."

He smirks, pressing a proper kiss to your upper lip before reaching for your tea mugs and removing the strainers. He places yours into your eager hands, careful not to let its sides burn your fingertips. It's not the best tasting tea you've ever had, but you can't help but moan with pleasure at the way it instantly quells the dry, pinching pain in your throat. Steve's smile grows wider.

"Good?" he asks.

You nod - it's not technically a lie - before taking another steaming hot mouthful. "Try it."

He does. He shrugs once he's swallowed, setting his mug back down on the counter. "Dot bad, I guess. *snurff!*"

"You did good, kid," you tell him, patting him on the arm. "Accept the compliment."

"Yeah, yeah, thangks. Oh, God." He sniffles a few more times, reaching for the box of tissues sitting next to you on the counter. "You were right about the steamb. It's - Hhhhh... tickli'g mby - Hah-! Hh'ASCHHHEW!"

He manages to cover his face before the second half of the sneeze comes barreling out of him, but not before accidentally sending a bit of spray into your mug. His breath is still hitching, his body frozen in place between your legs as another powerful itch enters his nose.

"Hh'TSCHHHH! *snngk* Huhh'ISCHHHh! Ugh, I'mb sorry..." He blindly reaches for another tissue, his watery eyes still pinched shut. You grab one for him and place it into his hand, but not before he lets out another powerful, uncovered sneeze. "Hhehhh... Heh'ETTCHHHEW!"

"Wow. Bless you, Stevie."

"God, excuse mbe. *snrrf!* *snuurff!* Oh, gross."

You grimace at the sound of his soupy sniffles, infinitely more concerned over his poor nose than the newly contaminated mug of tea he's apologizing over. You set it against the counter, grabbing him a couple more tissues for good measure.

"Blow your nose, okay?" you insist, squeezing his shoulder as he fruitlessly wipes the damp underside of his nose. "It'll help. Promise."

Steve wordlessly obliges, slipping out of your grasp and unleashing more than a few gurgling blows into the tissues. You know he can get self conscious about these things; it seems like a personal win that he hasn't fled the room out of sheer embarrassment. He repositions himself back between your legs when he's finished, lifting his mug back up to his lips.

"Better?" you ask.

He nods gratefully, cheeks puffing out as he fills his mouth with some more tea.

"Your nose still all tickly?"

"Definitely." He sniffles, pinching the bridge of his nose. At least he doesn't sound so plugged up anymore. "What the hell are in those tea leaves?"

"Couldn't tell you," you admit, causing him to laugh. "I'm just glad it helped."

A few moments of silence, then Steve's quietly working his arms around your waist, pulling you in close. The lower half of his face presses into the crook of your neck. You smooth down some hair at the nape of his neck as you hug him back, reveling in the warmth of his embrace.

"Want me to make you some more tea?" he mutters, words vibrating against your skin. "Since I... you know..."

"S'okay. Your germs are my germs, remember?"

He pulls back just enough for you to get a glimpse of the fond look in his eyes, relief evident in the way he gives you another kiss. You regretfully pull away at the feeling of another cough bubbling in your throat, reaching for your tea and taking a swig so that the dryness dissipates.

"Wanna go lay down again?" you ask.

He nods, the movement fatigued. With both your tummies warm from tea and the wall of congestion in his nose finally broken, this is going to be the nap of the century. You can almost guarantee it.

[beth--b]

The only place you’re going is to the pharmacy

Cold and flu season had hit the town of Hawkins hard this Winter.

Steve felt like all he had done for the past three weeks was babysit sick kids. Robin included, although he'd never have referred to her as a kid in front of her. He liked his head on his shoulders thank you very much.

Dustin had been hit first, his Mom being a nurse meant he had been exposed to the horrid flu making the rounds through her patients at work.

Dustin had of course passed it onto the rest of the party.

First Lucas, quickly followed by Will and El, then Max and finally Mike.

Then both Joyce and Hopper had fallen ill and Steve had spent as much time as possible helping the kids out while the adults rested.

He'd run to the store or the pharmacy as needed, cleaned up, cooked soup and made tea.

Read it here on ao3

Mike of course passed it onto Nancy, and Jonathan had gotten sick from either Will or Nancy. It was hard to tell really with so many of their group sick, they could probably both have been given some of the blame.

Robin had gone down hard after Nancy, and finally she had passed it onto Eddie.

Between Robin and Eddie, Steve was exhausted.

Since Vecna's defeat, and high school graduation, the trio had been living together at Steve's house. His parents had sent him the deeds to the house and then cut all ties. It was like they had decided that they had done their duty as parents in giving him a house and now they were done. Truthfully he was quite content in the knowledge that they wouldn’t be back in Hawkins judging his every move.

With Robin sick she had been coughing and sneezing all night long for days. Steve felt for her, he truly did, but he was already on week two of running himself ragged trying to take care of the rest of their mismatched little family. Despite that he made sure to buy her cold medicine and kept the fridge stocked with orange juice for vitamin C, and he'd made a batch of chicken soup. He had sat with her to watch movies on the couch when she'd felt up to it and made sure she drank plenty of water to stay hydrated.

When Eddie had fallen ill as well, Steve might have gone out to the beemer and taken a moment to himself so he didn't burst into exhausted tears.

Momentary breakdown done, he came back inside and became the doting boyfriend that Eddie deserved.

By now Steve had the routine down pat, he had tea, tissues, soup and cough medicine ready for Eddie whenever he needed. Eddie had offered to sleep somewhere else so Steve could get some rest and try to avoid the flu as well but Steve had brushed his concerns off.

"Honestly Eddie, if three weeks of taking care of all you sick people hasn't taken me down then I'm sure I'll be fine," Steve had told him.

"But Steve, none of those other sick people were sleeping in your bed," Eddie explained, sniffling and wiping his red nose with a tissue.

Steve made a mental note to try and get some softer tissues for Eddie in the morning.

"It's fine. Unless you really want to sleep in the guest room, it’s next to Robin’s room and she is snoring like a chainsaw with her blocked nose," Steve quirked an eyebrow and Eddie threw his hands up in defeat.

"Fine! I'll stay. But if you get sick I will be saying 'I told you so' mark my words!" The effect was ruined by Eddie breaking into a coughing fit.

"Yeah, yeah. Now get to bed Eddie."

The pair got ready for bed, Eddie out like a light in minutes and Steve not far behind.

Steve woke several hours later to the sound of coughing.

He rubbed Eddie’s back as he shook with the force of his coughs. Steve slipped from the bed, bleary eyed and half asleep, and made his way to the bathroom for some more cough medicine. Pouring the correct dose into the little measuring cup he took it back to Eddie and helped him sit upright enough to take the medicine. He made a mental note to buy more along with the tissues the next day.

It was another hour before Eddie got into a proper deep sleep again and even longer for Steve who had stayed up, rubbing Eddie’s back and getting him water when he needed his glass refilled.

It felt all too soon when morning came, Steve cracked his eyes open and immediately closed them with a wince. His head was killing him and his eyes were burning. Despite that he dragged himself out of bed, pressing a hand to a sleeping Eddie’s forehead to check for fever, it was blessedly cool, and then made his way to the bathroom.

Bladder taken care of, Steve went downstairs ready to make tea for the two sick occupants of the house. He got a tray and made tea for Robin and Eddie as well as getting them both some orange juice and toast.

Breakfast sorted, he slowly climbed the stairs to take the food to Robin and Eddie.

He pushed Robin's door open with his foot, she slept with the door ajar so it was easy enough. Robin was seemingly just waking up and she smiled sleepily at Steve as he entered.

"Morning dingus. Ohh breakfast for little old me? Gimme!" Robin sat up and made grabby hands towards the food.

"You're obviously doing better then," Steve said, handing Robin a plate and a glass. The tea set aside on the bedside table.

"So much better. Fucking finally."

"Fingers crossed Eddie's turned the corner as well then," still holding the tray Steve turned and left the room leaving Robin to eat.

Steve had almost made it back to his and Eddie's room when he felt a sneeze building in his sinuses. He hurried to the door and practically threw the tray on the floor as he let out a quite frankly, ridiculously loud sneeze.

"Bless you Stevie," came Eddie's voice, muffled by the blanket that was over his head.

Steve rubbed at his nose before picking the tray up again and depositing it on the bed.

With the bed shifting as Steve set the tray down, Eddie finally moved the blanket off his face and sat up.

"You finally getting sick?" Eddie asked, sniffing and rubbing his eyes.

"You sound like you want me to get sick," Steve said, crossing his arms and looking down at Eddie.

"Not want, it's more like I'm just waiting for the inevitable to happen at this point."

"Gee thanks, that's so much better," Steve huffed before dropping down to sit beside Eddie on the bed.

"Seriously though Stevie, you've been taking care of everyone. Make sure you take care of yourself too."

"Alright, alright. I'm sure I'm fine though. Now drink up and get some more rest," Steve stood backup and dropped a kiss to Eddie's forehead before leaving the room.

Logically he knew he should listen to Eddie and take it easy. The thought of a nap was almost too tempting despite the fact it was still relatively early. Logic was set aside though as the pile of dishes in the sink and neglected laundry that was starting to overflow and fallout of the hamper were waiting so he put a load of laundry on and then began to fill the sink.

A little over an hour later Steve was regretting his choice to do housework.

He was stuffy, his head was killing him and his throat was beginning to feel a little like he had been swallowing glass.

Robin, who was finally feeling better came downstairs as he finished washing up and took one look at him before she sighed in frustration.

"Steve you look like I've felt the last few days. What are you even doing up if you're sick?"

"House stuff, we needed clean clothes, clean dishes. I should run to the store, Eddie needs cough syrup, we need to get some groceries," Steve paused and began to cough, once the coughing fit ended he followed it up with three rather explosive sneezes.

"Ah ah, no groceries for you. Only place you are going to is the pharmacy. Better yet, go to bed and I'll get Nancy to drive me to the pharmacy. You just run along and snuggle with Eddie!"

Steve wanted to protest, really he did. But before he could even get a word out Robin had grabbed his hand and started tugging him out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.

"Go!" Robin said with one last push to his back to get him moving up the staircase.

Too tired to argue, Steve just kept walking up the stairs and to his bedroom.

When he opened the bedroom door Eddie was laying in bed reading, he glanced up at Steve and frowned when he took in Steve's too pale complexion, red nose and flushed cheeks.

"Shit baby, you really are sick. I hope you are planning on coming to bed and getting some rest?"

Instead of answering, Steve just collapsed onto the bed beside Eddie.

"I'll take that as a yes then."

With a low groan Steve shuffled across the bed so he could bury his head against Eddie's side. The musician's long fingers quickly went to work massaging Steve's head and the back of his neck until Steve had practically melted into Eddie's side.

"Get some rest sweetheart. You've taken care of everyone, now we'll take care of you."

[devondespresso]

Chicken Noodle Oops

G | 126 words | ao3 link??? (do lil drabbles go on ao3??) | cw: just swearing

STWG Prompt: noodle with a word limit of 100 but let's not worry about that

• divider by me this time!! wahoo!! •

Steve nearly missed the trilling doorbell, covered by the echo of own damn coughing.

"M'coming!"

The door opened and slammed shut, and footsteps led to the kitchen.

"Said I'm coming."

"Oh, sorry-- fuck!"

Steve bolted to the kitchen to find Dustin cradling a few fingers like they'd been burned. He darted to the sink to flick it on, and Dustin stuck his hand under the icy water.

Steve looked over to find no visible marks, and deflated onto the counter.

"What're you doing here, man?"

"We're having chicken noodle."

Steve looked at him, then back towards the thermoses on the counter, one still sitting in the sunflower tote bag, the other partially spilled on the counter.

"You can have the unspilled one."

Steve huffed a congested laugh.