Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

EIGHTY-SIX
— with or without you

HE'S MAKING SOUNDS RIGHT UP AGAINST HER EAR THAT SHE CAN'T IGNORE.

It's like winter of eighty-four when they would tell Jim he had to say at the cabin because it was snowing like crazy, and the roads were iced . . . some lame excuse for Steve to sleepover. When they would huddle under the duvet, under her knitted blanket, when they were so cold they could feel it in their bones. When he would kiss her soft-and-hard at the same time, slip his hands under her shirt and up her torso because, wow, his hands are always so warm, and she's still frigid. When she would squirm against him, groan silently into the base of his neck because these walls . . . these walls are so thin. When she would clamp a tight hand around his mouth and go, "dude, Steve, my dad will hear you," and he has to chomp down on his bottom-lip because silence is near impossible. When he was just a mess of, "sorry, sorry," and, "can't help it". He sounds like that.

Well, that's the first thing she thinks of. But it's starting to grow a bit worrying, honestly.

Low groans and pitched whines turn to helpless breaths. She squats there, under Skull Rock — the Upside Down version of it — and she's huffing and puffing like someone's asthmatic grandpa. Her knees shake, her palms sweat, and she's just staring into the darkness, looking for any of those bats . . . she's pretty-sure they lost them, though.

         But in all honesty, it's incredibly hard to focus when he's doing that. Breathing all shallow, grunting and accidentally pressing his body to the curve of her spine. She starts to turn, just a little, at first, like she's scared to look. He moves, so she decides to just get it over with and stare at him — Steve is hunched over, palm pressed flat to his stomach, the boulder as his only support, "holy shit," he grunts.

This feels like fucking deja vu, all the times she's seen him bloodied and injured and doubled-over in pain. Her brow twitches when she says his name, "Steve," all saccharine and full-of concern. She rolls her sleeves up, before even reaching him, "what's wrong?"

He winces, "'m fine," Steve grits his teeth. He covers his eyes with one hand to avoid looking at her, because he knows he'll crumble under her gaze. He repeats himself, "I'm fine."

         She scoffs at him, "don't be hard-headed, 'kay?" Lucy lifts both brows. He sort-of peeks at her from under his palm, looks with one squinted-eye — he gets a glimpse, and his shoulders immediately fall. She grabs his wrist, first, tugs on it and makes him look at her. And when he is, fully, all hesitant and anxious, she grabs his waist. She lets her fingers sit on the soft-part of his back, twists his body so she can get a good look at the wound . . . her lips part, "oh, Steve."

         He groans out, "said I'm fine," Steve exhales, "promise."

         "You're literally . . . you're literally bleeding out," she murmurs, not finding a better way to put it, "is that really how you wanna go? All — all shirtless, hair fucked-up, smelling like dirty lake-water, inhaling Upside Down mucus?"

         Silence. A sniffle.

         She cocks her head, "didn't think so. Come on."