Archive of Our Own ^beta

On Tuesday morning, the Merriam Courts apartment building sat square, stout, and silent; all the rent-payers within turned breadwinners for the working week. There was no loud music, no excessive vacuum cleaner nonsense, no stomping, no cursing, no laughing as various girls were brought home for the weekend. There was no skullduggery and no quiet genius. There was no one except him.

Birds twittered outside in songs of blue and yellow and red, and in the sky above, thick, soft clouds floated nonchalantly; as if they had somewhere to be, but weren’t going to be expected for a few hours. They were white: not bright white, but that Novemberish kind of grey-white, like the stuffing in a teddy bear he used to have when he was way little. And—

Uh-oh.

Steven lurched to the right and willed his stomach to knock it the fuck off and let him have his thirty seconds of peace. But his stomach clearly didn’t care about peace in any form, so as fast as he could, he forced himself upright and raced to the bathroom. After some fifteen minutes of retching and an even longer time spent cleaning up the breakfast he was sorry he’d eaten, he dragged himself back to the bedroom and collapsed on the carpet in front of the window, once more staring out at the sky and wishing desperately that his insides would soothe themselves. And then he started to itch. At first it was barely noticeable, just him twitching his nose, just him reminiscing on mosquito bites of summers past. But then it felt like a hoard of invisible spike-legged beetles had swarmed him, and it was all Steven could do to suck air through his clenched teeth, to rub his arms, and to try to will it away with the mere ounces of strength he had left.

Being sick was horrible. But to Steven, this was just another Tuesday, another normal-not-normal day of trying to quit the things that got him high and trying to impress and convince the idols and loves of his life that yes, really, he could function; that yes, really, he could play the drums on their next album; and yes, really, he could be the best roommate ever and could keep a room clean and be on his best behavior at all times. Oh, he was sick, alright. But this wasn’t a traditional sickness, not like the stomach flu, where people put you in bed and felt your forehead and wished you well with bunches of daisies and those corny little Hallmark cards. No. This was sick, like he needed something he definitely couldn’t have. Something he’d given up.

Curled in on himself, Steven groaned and shuddered and rubbed his arms again, wondering why the hell drugs went to all the trouble of being addictive if they were going to be so painful to quit. It just seemed like a dickish thing to do. It just seemed so unfair. But despite his lonely questionings, there was no answer for him—there were no words or pictures in the sweet cotton clouds, only shapeless things, remnants of what used to be, like memories he couldn’t quite recapture. It was better just to slide down and lay his aching back on the soft floor; to focus on not letting the first tear fall.

I am suffering, Steven thought miserably. I am suffering. I am suffering. I am—

—He coughed and sat upright for a moment, staring hard at the bathroom door and willing his stomach to settle down already, but he needn’t have worried—there was nothing left to come up anyway. So he laid back down, and resumed his spiral of fatalistic thought, drowning in between breaths, listening to the bluebird outside the window, wondering what it was like to be as free as all that; to see the clouds up close, to worry only about the choice between blackberry or birdseed. And then he closed his eyes, and thought about nothing.

The lock on the apartment door gave a sudden click and scratched its way open, and a great shuffling noise commenced as the other tenant of the unit dragged in the groceries for the week. Steven closed his eyes and listened to her put everything away in the order she always did: keys clanking on the counter, produce bags swishing and ka-thunking into the refrigerator, crinkly packages set on the kitchen island (Chips? Oh, chips, Steven thought longingly), and boxes rattling into the cupboards. There was a suspicious popping noise that rather sounded like one of those plastic confectionery containers, and then he heard her footsteps, already rid of her shoes, padding down the hall towards him. His bedroom door swung open.

“Whoa.”

“What?” Steven asked, opening one eye and languishing in the momentary peace his stomach and nerves afforded him. He didn’t like to be seen like this, but this was about all he had looked like for the past month, so at some point, he’d just have to get used to it. And that was alright with him; as long as she kept looking like that.

(Y/N) (L/N), the prettiest girl since forever, stood over him in the world’s softest pair of jeans, a plain tee shirt, a zip-up sweater, and her most lovely freshly-washed air-dried soft-as-a-kitten hair. Her eyes were bright and holy, like those stained-glass windows in Catholic churches, the ones with the bluest blues and the reddest reds—only her eyes were a brilliant bold (e/c), and framed by those fluttering lashes that Steven had never liked as much on anyone else as he liked them on her. She had the face of a doll carved from wood: smooth, and yet with fine-grain marks here and there; remembrances of nights spent dancing way too long, nitpicks and pockmarks from bug bites and zits, and these beautiful smile lines on her cheeks. And oh! She had just the right kind of cheek to cup your hand against, the kind of cheekbone you could stroke with your thumb while you admired her; the kind of jawline you could hold like an apple as you kissed her. Not that Steven thought about that a lot, or anything. Except… well. Maybe he did. Sometimes. But she wouldn’t have to know. Oh, gosh, she was just so pretty. Steven blinked in a fluttering, fawning sort of way as she stood in front of him, staring in concern, holding a supermarket container with what appeared to be brownie bites in it and munching away at her snack. The light coming into the room wasn’t focused on her, really, but the way Steven saw it, she might as well have been surrounded by a halo of white sun—what a vision, what a woman.

(Y/N) looked at him like he was the pinnacle of mortal suffering—which, at the moment, he certainly felt like—and knit her eyebrows in worry. “It’s that bad, huh?”

“No kidding.” Steven closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he opened them to look at her again. She’d taken two steps toward the adjoining bathroom and—

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” he said, and she made it to the doorway before turning exactly 180 degrees and wrinkling her nose as far as it could possibly go.

“Did you eat a fucking nuclear warhead for breakfast?” She asked, poking a last bite of brownie between her lips, disgusted but undeterred from her snack.

He laughed, and then winced, realizing that his insides may have been done emptying themselves, but they still really hurt. “No, I promise I didn’t raid Three Mile Island for any of the good stuff.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll take your word for it.” She clicked the brownie container shut and set it aside on the top of the dresser, striding toward Steven to begin her usual caretaking. He smiled as much as he could bear to and tried to sit up as she knelt in front of him and pressed her wrist to his forehead to check his temperature.

Because of this (and so much more), Steven thought (Y/N) (L/N) was the nicest girl he’d ever met. In any case, she was definitely the nicest roommate he’d ever had. Even if she was having the worst day of her life, she’d be there for him, making sure he was home, safe, and in bed at night—sometimes with a mug of hot cocoa and marshmallows and a delightful back scratch or two. He liked those nights the best, the ones where she was especially caring. The warmth of her wrist on his forehead now made him think even more about holding a mug of chocolate goodness, and oh, how nice that would be. Maybe she’d do that tonight—make some hot cocoa. They could put on a movie. They could curl up on the couch together, and she could put her arm around him, and Steven could think really hard about how his heart raced when he was around her and how he was sure he had never loved anybody more—but that was only if he could stand to drag his sorry self from the bedroom floor and manage to keep some actual food down. And unfortunately, right now, he thought that was maybe a little too much to expect.

After something like a minute or two—he hadn’t been paying attention, really, he’d just been admiring her and reveling in her touch—she took her wrist away from his forehead and chimed, “Hey, no fever—that’s good.”

Steven only had the energy to groan. “Yeah, right. I still feel like shit.” Which was true—and unfortunately, it was also a little more true than usual. He often got a lot of headaches, and his stomach pretty much always hurt, but usually a swig of tap water and an hour or two of drumming was a quick fix for both of those things. Steven sometimes liked to think he was his own doctor, writing recommendations for that, prescriptions for this; but as of late—well, as of the last few years, anyway—that kind of mindset had gotten him into trouble with a capital T. And besides, this was a lot, lot, LOT worse than before. This was because—

“Well, yeah, Steven, that’s what happens when you quit doing coke.” Ah, yes. She was nothing if not painfully factual. (Y/N) slapped her knees and got up from the floor, but not before he caught a glimpse of the look on her face, the mix of plain old sorrow and a faintness of something he couldn’t quite describe—something like nervousness, maybe. Or pity. At that, Steven really didn’t know how to feel. On the one hand, pity was like a disease, and if she caught it, he wasn’t going to be able to stand being in the same room with her—but on the other hand, he knew she understood his faults more than most people. So he guessed it was fine for her to feel a little bit bad for him. Mostly.

“Yeah, I know.” He whispered, bringing a hand up to rub his face, wishing his head would stop pounding so hard.

Her eyes flickered back to his, and she sighed, giving in. “It’s not that I don’t want you clean—don’t take my sarcasm the wrong way. It’s just… you’re gonna feel terrible. It’s a fact of the case. It’s… well, anyway, enough of that.” (Y/N) shook her head to rid it of the thought, kind of like an Etch-A-Sketch, and then went to retrieve the brownie container, which made Steven smile halfway. “You had anything to drink today?”

“Nah. If I did have anything to drink, I wouldn’t be able to keep it down.” Steven squeezed the bridge of his nose and didn’t feel the headache get any better.

She popped a bite-sized brownie in her mouth and munched for a moment, a single finger pressed gently to her lips; before saying,

“Well, I got something for you anyway, ‘cause I figured you could use it. It’s this stuff from the pharmacy, I found it on an endcap somewhere. I forget what it’s called but it’s this weird juice that’s supposed to keep you, like, extra hydrated, or something—and it’s easy on the stomach, so…”

“If it’s prune juice, (Y/N), I swear to god,” Steven called as she wandered back out of the room, clicking the brownie container shut on the way.

“That’ll only make you puke out the other end, goofball.” Her reply was filled with so many giggles that he thought he might be alright after all, if he could just listen to that sound all day. Steven smiled to himself, listening to her root around in the fridge and split the seal on the plastic top of a bottle. Hopefully, whatever it was wouldn’t be too bad. Hopefully, it would go down and stay down. Breathing shallowly so that his heart wouldn’t start its stupid racing and palpitating again, Steven waited and waited and got bored enough to twirl a golden lock or two around his index finger, wondering if the itching was going to be an underlying constant, or if it would leave him eventually. Some strands of hair stretched and stretched until they broke and floated down through the glowy light, victims of a too-tight nervous-energy hair pulling. Steven tried again, twirling gentler this time; and waited more patiently for her to return.

Thankfully, (Y/N) was back within minutes, with a shot glass of a curious pink brew in one hand and a sleeve of saltine crackers in the other. “Here’s lunch, sweetheart.”

“Yummm.” Admittedly, he could have tried to be at least somewhat enthusiastic about it, but she didn’t seem to mind, and stifled a laugh or two as he tried his best to sit up straight.

“Yum indeed, O Sarcastic One. At least try it, okay? Come on. It’s nice and pink and apparently strawberry flavored.” (Y/N) raised the glass as if to give a little ‘cheers’ and then held it out to him, and Steven took it from her with a tired-but-happy nod. Pursing his lips against the edge of the glass, he took the world’s tiniest sip. A drop, perhaps a drop and a half, rolled down his throat and soothed the burning ache of dehydration that had been plaguing him all morning. He braced himself, waiting for his stomach to inevitably grumble and harangue and squeeze itself silly trying to get rid of its contents, but there it stayed—a drop, maybe a drop and a half, of sustenance. Mmm.

“Yeah, I guess it does taste like strawberries,” Steven mused, taking another more generous sip, this time somewhere around twelve drops.

“Good?” She asked, and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him to lift him up some more so he wasn’t in as much of a sordid slumped-and-miserable position. Her hair fell forward from where she’d had it tucked behind her ears and it tickled his face a little, but he didn’t mind—not with her almost hugging him; not with the warmth of her chest so close he could feel love and care radiating off of her, beautiful and unwavering, like ultraviolet sunbeams spilling into the void of his mind.

“Yeah.” He murmured, lost in thought, a little preoccupied with the palpitations of his heart. Was it just because she was so close? Maybe. He thought a little too hard about how she smelled of clean laundry and warm brownies and the very sunshine that poured through the window, and felt sorry when she pulled away and straightened the edges of her tee shirt and looked uncomfortable. At first, he got worried, thinking it might have been his fault, but—but then, he wasn’t so sure. “Hey, are you okay?”

(Y/N) avoided his gaze for a second longer than usual, and he knew the next thing out of her mouth was going to be a lie, but he also didn’t know how to get the truth out of her. Her hand ghosted over her stomach, and she acted as if she were just smoothing down her shirt, but even Steven could tell something was wrong. Especially when she spoke lightly, as if nothing at all was happening, as if the day couldn’t be more perfect. “Yeah, my insides are just trying to commit mutiny, I think.”

“You too, huh?” He mumbled with his lips against the glass, downing another few sips. Hm. Drinking this was going well. Perhaps a little too well. Despite its presence in his mind, Steven disregarded the ominous feeling and set the glass down, and with the unmatched fervor of a man who hadn’t eaten since the night before, he tore open the package of saltine crackers. (Y/N) watched and gave a little sigh as she sat down next to him, tucking her knees up to her chest and pressing her back against the bed’s steel frame.

“Yup.” The curt pain in her voice made him pause and look at her and really start to worry; because she had her face all scrunched up and pressed into her knees, and was curled in on herself like a human soccer ball. Steven shoved a cracker in his mouth and crunched on it while he put his arm around her, patting her shoulder in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

“Thank you, Stevie.” (Y/N) said, and lifted her head to try to smile at him, but he made a noise of disapproval.

“Don’t do that. You look like a smiling bear.”

At this, she burst into laughter, but then shut right up and clutched her sides, wincing painfully. “Ah, Jesus, don’t make me laugh too much, please.”

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?” He asked, and then thought for a moment. “Did you eat too many brownies?”

“Ha-ha, Steven. Maybe. Probably. But hey, those suckers are bite-size for a reason.” (Y/N) said, daring to laugh a little more, and then cringing. “No, I’m not sick, I’m just cramping up bad. I’ve already taken, like, twice the recommended limit on Midol, and this bitch of a uterus just wants so badly to stab its way out of my torso that it’s resorted to—fuck.” She snapped her head back suddenly, clutching at her abdomen and gritting her teeth hard, and admittedly, Steven freaked out a little bit. He could deal with coke pre-crash, post-crash, itching, shaking, screaming, wailing, paranoia, frantics, and whatever else just fine. But this was a different beast, because it wasn’t his. It was (Y/N)’s. And there was only one thing worse than seeing her without a smile on her face: seeing her in pain.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” She tried to tell him as he dropped the saltine crackers to put both arms around her and pray. “Seriously—well, alright, it hurts like a motherfucker, but I’m fine. I am. Steven, I’m fine. Come on, sit up.” (Y/N) prodded his side as Steven hugged her tight and couldn’t help but feed what-if questions to the little terror whirlwind of anxiousness in his head. What if this wasn’t normal? What if she bled out? What if she had to go to the hospital? What if her muscles cramped up so much that she got stuck that way? What if they tore themselves apart? What if her uterus ruptured? What if she was going to die?!

“Steven, I am not going to die.” Her voice, irate, snapped him out of it, and Steven looked at her in wonder.

“Did you just read my mind?”

“It’s all over your face.” Her expression softened, then, and she pressed her face back into her knees as she murmured, “And you said it out loud, too, dork.”

Well, now Steven was worrying twice as much. The cramps had apparently loosened their devilish claws on her for the minute, but now he was wondering, do I always think out loud? And suddenly, he was thinking of all the thoughts she could have heard from him. All of them. Which meant the stupid one about her pink sweater. And the depressing one about her photo collection. And the over-the-top wildly-inappropriate one about that kinky little magazine he’d found in her—

WILL YOU SHUT UP! His conscience took over, storming through his head as he began to feel sick again. She can’t hear it if you don’t think about it, so don’t THINK about it!

“Hey, Stevie? Are you okay?” (Y/N) asked as he sat back against the bed, knotting his hands together anxiously. Oh, God almighty, he was getting that look on his face. She took a deep breath, still grimacing a little, trying to ride out the waves of pain and nausea that crashed into the cavern of her hips. “...Steven? Oh, Steven. No. Don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up. Because if you throw up, then I’m going to throw up, and I don’t want to—”

But Steven couldn’t spare a single cell to think right now. All his energy was going into not turning green; not twitching his nose, not falling over as he got up to run to the bathroom; and not missing the toilet bowl.

“Goddammit, Steven,” (Y/N) groaned and sighed, and then grit her teeth hard and swore again as another overwhelming contortion made her waist feel like it was being torn apart. Steven retched in the background, which only made her screw her face up more. Of all the things she had wanted to do today, comforting a violently ill strung out 25-year-old boy wasn’t one of them. She hadn’t wanted to get out of bed, and hadn’t wanted to go shopping, and hadn’t wanted to have to deal with anyone at all today, not even the friendly clerk at the drugstore—really, what (Y/N) wanted was a morphine drip, something sweet and chocolate-flavored, and an endless marathon of sad movies playing inside a blanket fort where it was warm and cozy and without a single cramp to be found. But somebody had to do something. So when Steven was done spitting the last of it out and almost crying at the pain in his own abdomen, she sighed, uncurled herself, stood up with a quiet grunt, and strode over to where he was kneeling on the blue tile floor.

“Hey.” She said, combing his hair back from his face, wrinkling her nose slightly at a few strands that had clearly gotten caught at the corners of his mouth. Steven shuddered, wishing so much that she didn’t have to see him like this, like a wreck—and then he went right back to wishing she’d do more, more, more; until he was pain-free and resting safely, happily by her side, able to sleep, able to breathe again. He adored the feel of her fingertips just barely brushing his forehead, the look of concern in her beautiful stained-glass eyes, the way she bit her lip before speaking again. “I’m not gonna lie, Stevie, this is bad.”

“Yeah it is,” he said, and he almost broke down and cried right then and there. He held it in, though, long enough to struggle to his feet; long enough to watch her take a washcloth out of the cupboard, run it under the sink faucet, and try to clean his face and hair up as much as possible. The rag was cool, not cold, but cool, and felt wonderfully damp on his skin, so much so that he sighed in relief.

“Oh, sweet boy.” She clicked her tongue as she looked at him. Steven noticed that even now—even as she exuded her loving, tender ways over him, like the warmest ray of sun—she still brought a hand to her middle and pressed, as if that would alleviate her own pain. Steven’s own stomach made an angry noise, and he looked down at it and had half a mind to yell, because that stupid motherfucker had just gone and shoved its lunch aside and now it was still hungry.

“Stevie, you need to keep trying to eat, but if you can’t get anything down by tonight, I gotta bring you to the hospital. Okay? I’m sorry. I know you don’t like it there, but…” She shrugged helplessly, ages of worry in her eyes. Steven liked that she knew that; liked that she remembered he didn’t like the hospital. And she was right. He hated it. It was always too bright, always much too white and clean and sterile, and every time he was there, somebody always managed to stick a needle in him, which gave him the willies. IVs. Ugh. Disgusting. He could barely get a flu shot without getting grossed out, and being in the hospital was almost ten times worse.

But as much as she was right about him not liking it, she was also right about him needing to go there if he really couldn’t keep anything down. He’d been trying for hours, and nothing was working. And it was so goddamn infuriating—not only because it was paired with that creepy-crawly itchy feeling, or the shivers, or the sweats, or the mumblings, or the stabbing in his sides—but because he was hungry. He wanted food so badly, but it just wouldn’t stay where he told it to, and this was getting so—

“Shhh shhh shhh,” She whispered, and pulled him in for a hug as he began to cry tears of frustration. “Aw, hey. Hey, Stevie, hey. You’re gonna be okay. I promise I’ll take care of you.”

Steven buried his face in the fabric of her shirt and the collar of her zip-up, and sighed dramatically, already trying to calm down and stop crying. This was frustrating, but not that frustrating, he found himself thinking, wishing the waterworks would knock it off already—although, really, could he look any worse off in front of the girl he really loved? Probably not. And then it got insurmountably worse, because of course it did, of course it fucking did. Steven tried not to think about it—he swore he wouldn’t, swore up and down he was done with that—but his brain didn’t care. The craving bowled him over and cut into his every nerve. He felt it deep, like a loss, like a hunger, like a hole. He had to have it. He had to have it and he had to have it now.

“(Y/N), I gotta get out of here,” he said, and let go of her—but the trouble was, she didn’t let go of him, because she knew where this was going.

“Oh, no you don’t. I said I’d take care of you. That means all the way. You can’t see your dealer today.” She said, and he didn’t scowl, didn’t glare, didn’t yell, didn’t do anything but try to get out of her grasp.

“Let me go.” He said, trying to pry her fingers loose, trying to bend her arms of iron. “Let me go. Let me go. Let me go right now, (Y/N), please, please, don’t make me…”

“Steven, you’re sick. You’re on the floor and puking every five seconds. Coke is not going to help you right now. It’s only going to make me take you to the hospital even faster, so if that’s what you want…”

“But I need this.” He sobbed without tears, breathless and trapped, wriggling for freedom, wondering how the hell she had so much strength to hold on when he was struggling so hard. “I need this. Oh my God, I need this.”

“No, you don’t.” She said it so tonelessly and so plainly that it lit him on fire from the inside out, and the whirlwind of questions started all over, but angrier this time. Why didn’t she want him to be happy? Why didn’t she want him to feel good? Why didn’t she love him enough to do this? Everyone else did. Everyone else did! Everyone else…!

“Fuck off! Let me GO!” It brought his voice to a sharp tenor. He couldn’t see where he was, really. There was television static covering his field of vision and yet somehow he could still see her perfectly, with that look on her face, sad, pitying; God, God, God, he had to get away, he had to get some cocaine right-fucking-now or else he—or else he—

The crest of the wave suddenly passed in incoherent yells and more struggling, and when Steven collapsed against her shoulder, crying again, coughing like a maniac and whispering apologies and fears and nervousness into her ear, she thought nothing of it, and just hugged him again.

“It’s going to get worse. You should leave now. Go out on the town. Go buy yourself dinner. A blanket. More Midol. Anything. (Y/N), go. Go, go, go away.” Steven felt his mouth running at the speed of light and he cried so hard he almost choked on the air he was trying to take in. “You have to go. I don’t want to yell at you. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I mean, I know why, but I—(Y/N), just—”

“Shh.” She commanded in her ever-gentle tone, and surprisingly—even surprisingly to himself—Steven listened, resting his head on her shoulder, staring into the wood grain patterns on the open bathroom door and hearing the tones of her voice hum through her throat to his aching ears. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not going anywhere. We’re gonna get through this together, okay? I don’t care if you yell at me. I don’t care if you hit me. I don’t care if I have to hold you down. So help me God, you are getting clean, and I will be right here to help you. Okay? I’ll say it as many times as you need me to. I will be right here to help you.”

All of a sudden, Steven felt his knees buckle, and heard her gasp as she grabbed hold of him, asking aloud if he was alright. He was not alright. Not a single bit. He told her as much as she leaned over to set him down nice and easy by the edge of the bathtub; him, crying and shivering all over again, with wet eyes and a running nose, and her, worrying out loud, resting her hands on his shoulders and saying his name over and over again, asking, pleading. “Steven? Steven?”

“(Y/N), I don’t wanna do this anymore.” He sobbed and coughed so hard he shook. “I just want to feel good. I just want to feel good. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“I know you don’t, baby. But are you really happy when you’re high?” She asked, crouching in front of him and gently pushing his hair back again, tipping his chin up so she could look him in the eyes.

“Yes.” Steven nodded emphatically, and wondered when he would come back to himself, when that stupid little cocaine rat would stop running around and pressing buttons in his mind.

She sighed and took her hands away from him and stood up. Oh no no no no no, chimed the alarm bells in Steven’s mind, and he tried to reach out for her, but his hands wouldn’t obey the call. It was all he could do to sit and stare and listen to her disappointed voice. “Okay, when you’re high, yes. When you’re not high…”

“I’m miserable. I’m miserable when I’m not high.” He knew where this was going, and yet still let her take him there, because somewhere, deep down, Steven thought that that fuckup of an addict in the mirror really needed to hear this. He knotted his hands together as (Y/N) walked away from him, watching her go and praying she would be back again, praying she would be there to keep his brain on track and his stomach from flipping over and his nerves from being set on fire.

“And you can’t be high forever.” She said, going into the next room, picking up his saltines and still-intact shot glass of insidious pink juice and bringing them back. “So it’s better to quit now. You can’t be high forever, you can’t be happy forever. But you don’t have to be miserable forever. You’re doing good, Stevie. You’re doing good here.”

Well, if getting high enough killed me, then technically that would be forever… he started to think, but then rejected the notion, knowing that if she could really read thoughts; she’d bring him to the hospital for that one.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, in the world’s tiniest, most depressed voice, as she handed him the saltine crackers and the pink juice and then took a spot next to him on the floor of the bathroom. He clutched his food and drink to his chest and wished, wished, wished they could be his brain’s one true desire, but juice and crackers they remained. Steven sighed miserably. “I’m sorry, (Y/N). I’m sorry for being a wackjob. I know I’m out of it. I do. But it hurts so bad.” His voice turned to whining, almost. “If I could just—”

“But you can’t.” She grit her teeth again, and Steven flinched a little, thinking it was meant for him; but it wasn’t—she had her back pressed up against the bathtub, like she was struggling against some invisible force; her hand pressed over her gut as if she were stemming the blood from a bullet wound. “I’ll make sure you can’t. Okay? We’re gonna stay here—and—we’re gonna—fucking—make it.” Her voice constricted itself, raspy and seething with pain, and he watched her hold as still and breathe as shallowly as she possibly could, her face ashen; her hands digging into her waist, now. Steven wanted to do something. He wanted to do something. But he had no clue what he could do; what would help her, and before he could even try to calm the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind; she slackened a little and started to breathe normally again.

“Sweet Jesus.” She said, voice still raspy, but gentler now; and she leaned on his shoulder a little. Steven didn’t know what else to do but sit there and let her rest her head on him. As nice as it was, it didn’t calm his thoughts any. He was still panicking about how badly she must have been hurting. And how badly he must have hurt her. And his heart was racing with how close she was now; which was the same way she leaned on him when they were watching movies together, all snuggled up on the couch, except—well, duh, this was different. There they sat together, blinking and tired and in pain, both leaning on each other for reassurance, both wishing they could just go to bed and forget today ever happened.

“This sucks.” (Y/N) drew in a breath and blew it out in a hiss through her teeth.

“Yeah.” Steven mumbled in agreement, and was going to say more when his stomach made another angry noise, and a stabbing pain struck him so hard he yelped.

She jumped, just a little bit. “Are you gonna—?”

“No, no, no,” He tried to reassure her, setting the juice and crackers aside, tucking his arms against his sides, trying to wrestle the hunger pain back down where it had come from. “My stomach just hurts. Like, a lot.”

“Well, I know how that feels.” (Y/N) let out a breath that could have been considered a very, very dry laugh; and motioned for him to move, so he did, gingerly, even as the stabbing mellowed into a dull ache. “Here, lay back this way.”

Gently, she turned him so that he could lay down in her lap, and Steven obeyed, feeling his insides give a little flip-flop at her touch. He found comfort in nestling his cheek against the softness of her waist; feeling her muscles squeeze themselves every few minutes, and then relax again, almost unthinkingly, as if it were just an automatic response.

“God, you’re tense,” He muttered into the hem of her shirt, and she paused in her rearranging and getting-comfortable to look at him.

“What?”

“Nothing. What are you doing?” He asked, raising an eyebrow as she clapped her hands and began to rub them together. (Y/N) looked at him completely seriously, and said in a low, gravelly voice,

“I am now Mr. Miyagi. Close your eyes.”

He laughed, but did as told. After a moment in the quiet dark, he felt two hands, delicate and soft, sending a blooming warmth across his stomach that made the aching fade—and at that, Steven couldn’t help but open his eyes again. She was leaning over him, looking oh-so-serious, fixed in concentration on whatever technique was used to heal the Karate Kid in that movie they’d seen some time ago. He grinned, and that was when she noticed him peeking.

“Hey! It only works if you close your eyes, goof!” She said, laughing now, and Steven laughed with her.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry, Sensei. Wax on, wax off; I’ll close my eyes and you can do it again.”

“Good, good.” She adopted her low voice again, and Steven burst into giggles, hiding his face in her shirt. “You make a good student, Steven.”

“Yes, Sensei. Thank you, Sensei.” He grinned against the fabric of her t-shirt, closing his eyes and relishing in the deep blackish blue behind them as he heard her clap her hands again and send them into a little sizzle. That made him snicker, which made her burst into cackles all over again, and for a moment, for a joyous moment, they both felt alright.

“Okay.” She breathed, still laughing a little, as her hands came back down on him. Steven felt the blissful warmth return like sunshine from behind a cloud. “Better?”

“Yeah. But if you could just move a little to the right—um, I mean, my right,” he said, and felt her hands slip over his stomach. Oh. Oh, what a feeling. The aching went away almost entirely as she pressed her palms in just that little bit, and began to rub tiny circles into him, to try to release whatever it was that had him feeling like he’d eaten a bunch of thorns. For a while, that was how they stayed; her gently rubbing his stomach like he was a puppy, and him laying strewn across the floor with his head in her lap, pressing his face to her shirt, sighing happily, and inhaling her scent like there was nothing better.

“That still okay?” She asked softly, after something like fifteen minutes had passed, and Steven got this sort of idea in his head. In some ways, it was a good idea. A dangerously good and delicious idea. It distracted him from every other craving in existence; distracted him from the pain entirely; and even made some of the itching subside—which was great. Except it was really a bad idea, and if he fucked this up, well—she might just hate him forever. But he wouldn’t know unless he tried, right? And really, when else would he be this close to her? When else would she be so willing to…?

“Um,” he said, shyly. “A little—a little lower would be nice.”

“Okay.” Oh, she didn’t even know, Steven thought despairingly, and then thought the same thing giddily, and then felt ashamed for it all over again. She didn’t even know. He bit his lip as he felt her hands slide lower; just barely below his navel, warm as smoldering red coals, a heat so good he almost made a sound. She frowned a little. “You know, Stevie, if you’re getting cramps this far down, maybe you oughta see somebody.”

“Mhm,” he hummed in dreamy agreement, just hoping she wouldn’t stop now. His hands began to tremble again, this time in delight, and he brought them up to his face, grasping at the fabric of her shirt and praying she would forgive him. But God, it felt so good. Between his conscience yelling at him to have some decency and between his confidence egging him on, he didn’t know what to think, and decided to just let her have him, because what else could he do? He was just there, in her lap; she was the one with her hands on him, after all. She was the one whose fingertips were inches shy of his waistband, who could just as easily slip them under, and—

Steven inhaled sharply as she accidentally brushed her hand over the button of his jeans, and she snapped her hands up and away.

“Sorry,” she spluttered, wringing her hands anxiously. “I’m really sorry. Did that hurt? Did I press too hard?”

“No, no, no, you’re fine.” He took her hands and guided them some place less conspicuous, more to the right of his stomach than anything else; and sighed internally, wishing she would just catch on already—and then feeling worse than ever, because maybe she knew what he was doing, and was trying not to go along with it. But then again, her hands were already sneaking a little lower than where he’d put them, so…

“Are you okay, Steven? You don’t look so good.” She said, slipping the curve of her palm back and forth, back and forth; soft enough to put him in a trance. He swallowed and said,

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“You look like you have a fever now.” (Y/N) paused to put her wrist to his forehead again, and Steven begged her quietly to please, please continue with her other hand; to please just let him feel loved, even if it was something a hundred other groupies had done, please just let him feel loved—

“A low-grade one, anyway. Your face is bright pink.” She looked serious; sounded serious, and Steven felt bad all over again for thinking of her that way, as if she would ever think to do that kind of thing when she was busy taking care of his sorry self. “You sure you’re okay, honey?”

He wiggled around under her touch, trying to get some movement, some friction, anything. She patted his stomach reassuringly, and he faltered, fighting the urge to arch upwards. You shouldn’t, his conscience berated. You SHOULD! his desire shouted back. And all Steven could do was lay there and stare up at her with wide blue eyes, hoping, praying, wishing. But she kept looking at him like she expected a real answer.

“I’m fine,” Steven said, feeling his breath shudder out of him as his conscience tried to rein in his wild thoughts. Great. How was he supposed to get himself out of this mess? Oh, God. Did she notice? He hoped she wouldn’t. Well, half of him sort of hoped she did, hoped she would bend over him and let her hair tickle his face and put her sweet, soft lips on his as her hand went lower and lower, and—no! His conscience gained the upper hand and jolted him out of it as (Y/N) took her hand away from his stomach and instead smoothed down his hair. Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare ruin this! He swallowed again, heavier this time, and she gave him another look.

“Steven, seriously, if you’re going to puke, you’d better not do it in my lap,” she said, and he just shook his head.

“No, that’s not it.” His voice was so small. And he hated it. Where had all this come from? Where had his confidence gone? And why the fuck didn’t he have this strong of a conscience around anyone else? For Pete’s sake, he thought, and tried to sit back up, suddenly becoming a lot more aware of how warm and flushed his face felt, now that his abdomen was cold and empty of her hands. I just want you to love me, that’s all. I just want you to love me.

“Well, what, then?” Good. She didn’t seem to know. Steven could feel guilty about it all he wanted; but that was nothing compared to the guilt he would have felt if she knew. “Are you hungry? Need some water, or something?”

“Um…” He thought for a moment, curling his knees up to his chest and sitting upright beside her again, trying not to meet her eyes as his face burned fire truck red. “Uh… more juice?”

“Okay, sounds good. Polish that glass off first, I’ll be back.” She smiled kindly, still looking a little bit confused, but looked more relieved than anything when Steven nodded and smiled at her, nice and wide, like he was used to faking. Once she was out of the room, he waited a moment, knocked back the rest of the pink juice in the shot glass (only a half a sip, really), and lurched upward, grabbing hold of the sink ledge and turning on the tap, so he could splash cold water in his face while his conscience continued to berate him.

“Why is it you can do this with literally everyone else?” He asked himself quietly, scowling, mopping up rivulets of water from his slightly-less-red face with a nearby towel. The reflection stared back at him, sullenly. “Seriously? You can run around and fuck any and every other girl in a heartbeat, but you can’t even breathe when she’s right there—?”

“Did you say something?” (Y/N) said, coming back into the room with a big carton of juice with a PEDIALYTE label on it and about a bazillion little strawberry decorations.

Steven shut his mouth and whirled to face her. “No, uh—nope. Nothing.” He shrugged, smiling innocently, and then took a closer look at the carton in her hand. “Wow. That looks intense.”

She laughed. “Yeah, I don’t know why I thought it was strawberry-flavored, I really don’t think it says anywhere on the bottle, I just… Well, I just get the feeling…” She looked down at the carton that was positively covered in strawberries, and just that alone made Steven smile and feel a tiny bit better.

“Well, there’s one right there, see,” he said, pointing to the littlest one he could find. “So I guess it has to be strawberry. I mean, they wouldn’t put that there if it was cherry. Or bubblegum.”

She just shook her head and laughed silently to herself, and Steven felt his heart swell in joy at the way her face lit up.

“This is so dumb,” she said, giggling.

“Yeah, and? Dumb things are fun. And strawberry-flavored. Now pour me a shooter, barkeep.” He wiggled the shot glass in front of him and loved the sight of her laughing so hard she could barely pour straight.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said as she watched him knock it back like a real shooter; and Steven was pleasantly surprised when it didn’t threaten to come back up right away.

“Me neither. (Y/N)... thank you. Thank you for… well. For taking care of me.” He tried to smile, tried to look her in the eye, but didn’t know if he could do it. He set the glass aside on the bathroom counter where she’d put the juice carton, and tried to keep calm as she reached out to him and gave a gentle touch to his arm.

“Of course. I’ll always be here if you need me.” She said, smiling sweetly, and before Steven could even think she had pulled him in for another hug, another side-swaying, press-tight, heart-to-heart hug, where he felt nervous enough to faint, but okay enough to stay put. And then she spoke again, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “And while I’m doing that, I’ll make you feel better the old fashioned way.”

Steven could only let his wildest thoughts run so far with that one before he cut them off and asked, “What?”

She pulled back and looked at him. “What’s that look for? Chicken noodle soup, Stevie, c’mon. I can hear your stomach growling, you must be starving.”

“Ughhh.” He threw his head back and groaned, silently wishing she would have said—well, something else, anyway. “Why that soup? It always reminds me of being sick.”

“Really?” She looked at him, arching an eyebrow, a silent well, what are you now, then?. He sighed.

“Okay, fine. Chicken noodle soup it is.”

“Attaboy, Steven.” She grinned, then, soft lips curling up at the edges like petals on a tulip, and Steven just barely registered her lightly patting his cheek. “It’ll be good for you, y’know. And you can just drink the broth if the food’s too much. Think you can keep a lid on while I make it?”

Slowly, he nodded, and felt exhaustion flood his every pore as his conscience beat the last of his desire out of him; and he returned to feeling mildly helpless in her presence as her chest rose and fell and she blinked at him with those pretty eyelashes. “Yeah, yeah, I can.”

“Great. Okay. I’ll be back in a few, Stevie. Don’t you go anywhere.” And she ducked out of sight again, this time leaving him to listen to her rummage around the kitchen once more, cussing softly like cooks do when they can’t find the right thing where it’s supposed to be.

Finally, he heard the electric can opener going, the splash of soup in a pot, and the clik-clik-FWOOM of the gas stove’s front burner—after which he zoned out and started paying more attention to the aches and pains in his own mind and body than what was going on around him. It wasn’t too hard of a thing to do, especially not with his headache returning. God. He needed some water. The pink juice would have to suffice, though—so he poured some more of that and drank it, sending his thanks up to the ceiling as it stayed down. At some point, he got so tired of standing while waiting for her that he slid to the floor, holding his blood-drumming head in his hands and curling up on his side, wishing he were nothing but the space between tiles, wishing he were a dust bunny, wishing he were a dead bug without a single dirty thought in existence. And as he lay there feeling terrible about himself; Steven realized that hey, the floor was good. It was nice and solid and cold. Everything opposite of (Y/N), really—which, at the moment, was just what he needed to calm down and get his conscience to shut up. He stretched out and rolled onto his front, sighing with relief at the cool touch of the tile on his aching stomach.

Oh man, that felt nice. Something about the way gravity pressed down on him and pushed him closer to the cold aqua-blue tile was just so soothing, as if his insides merely needed something to lean against; something to shove them back in place while he focused on getting better. Maybe this was what starfish felt like on the ocean floor. Steven imagined it as he turned his face to the side, seeing the expanse of blue before him; just before it turned into the dark wood base of the bathroom sink cabinet. Yes, yes, yes, this most certainly had to be why starfish acted the way they did. Starfish, and sea urchins, and scallops, and... Steven felt his eyes slip closed as he entered another dreamish state, taking joy in the way his insides finally felt no pain.

The only drawback to this kind of relaxation, he found, was that it scared the living daylights out of (Y/N) when she walked in on him sprawled out on the floor like a drive-by victim.

“Jesus—!” She gasped, but then Steven looked up, and she sighed a deep breath of relief, plunking herself down next to him with a bowl of 10-minute cook-it-up-from-the-can soup. “Steven, you scared the shit out of me. Don’t do that.”

“I’m just laying here. Jeez, lady.” Steven mumbled with his cheek still pressed against the tile floor, but he sat up to receive the soup, smacking his lips, willing to try to eat again for this stupid organ that insisted on horking everything back up. “Shall I?”

“Yes please. And if it’s too hot, blow on it, okay?” She said, nudging a dark green ceramic bowl full of chicken noodle soup towards him and handing him a spoon as he straightened up and mourned the loss of the cool feeling on his stomach. Steven managed a smile even as his inner voice told him not to say it.

“That’s what she said.”

“...What?” She looked confused for a second until he took the spoon and enthusiastically scooped up some soup, blowing on it and wiggling his eyebrows dramatically. (Y/N) groaned. “Oh, don’t tell me you do that in bed. Those poor girls…”

“Hey, you wanna find out?” He couldn’t help the grin that spread over his face as she blushed and smacked him lightly on the shoulder.

“Gro-oss. No thanks, Stevie. At this rate, I think my ovaries would shatter.” She rolled her eyes dramatically and scooted back against the bathtub so she could watch carefully as he ate, bit by bit, making sure he was eating slowly enough to keep it down. “That, or I’d enter a self-destruct sequence and blow up like the Death Star.”

“Mm-mm-mmm. You’re so attractive.” He laughed to himself and admired the red-as-a-rose color slowly making its way up to the heights of her ears and the tip of her nose, and then he took another bite of chicken soup, relishing in the saltiness of the stock. It was fun to tease her, sometimes, even if he felt a little bad about her not knowing how truthful he was being. And, really, he was being truthful. Aside from just now, of course, there were a number of times he’d thought about her in bed with him; and there were a number of times where he’d thought about blowing on her to cool her down, and—God, Steven, if she can read your mind, you’re fucked, his brain warned, and he stuck another spoonful of soup in his mouth, praying she wouldn’t notice the way he’d looked at her just now. Quickly, he changed the subject. “Cramps are that bad, huh? And you can’t take any more meds?”

“Yep. And nope. So I am, in a word, fucked.” Her blush seemed to fade as she crossed her arms and leaned on her bent knees, resting her head on its side so she could look at him while kind-of laying down. Steven slurped loudly on the broth as she continued to speak. “But I made some raspberry tea and drank it while I was cooking, so maybe that’ll help. It’s supposed to, anyway.”

“(Y/N)! I’m shocked! Drinking on the job? You’ll never make it anywhere doing that kind of thing.” He joked, trying to get a laugh out of her, which—thankfully—succeeded.

“I’ll never make it anywhere with an organ that hates me.” She said, giggling.

“Neither will I,” Steven said, in the epitome of commiseration, crossing one leg over the other and reclining against the side of the tub with another slurp of soup and a crunch of celery and carrot. And then he looked at her with such emotion in his heart, there was no way she couldn’t see it on his face—he just hoped, desperately, that she’d recognize it. “So we’ll stay home together, and bitch at each other, and cook food for each other, and snuggle to make the pain go away. Like penguins.”

“Stevie, penguins snuggle to keep the cold out.” She said, lips curved up in the beautiful smile he so loved to see. Steven ducked his head and felt his heart speed up again; and then focused on finishing the other half of the bowl of soup, taking a few bites of chicken before his stomach said “now, wait a minute” and made him really think before he put that next spoonful in his mouth. Instead, he gently set the spoon back down, and spoke again.

“Well, why wouldn’t it keep the pain out, either? I’m sure we could work it out somehow.” Please just hug me again, Steven thought. Please just keep me close. And tell me you love me. That would be a nice touch.

“Yeah, I think we could,” (Y/N) said softly, and Steven watched her lean in, almost imperceptibly, her eyelids fluttering down so low she looked like a lioness squinting in the summer sun, gazing at her mate, ready for the moment, ready to capture his lips in hers, and Steven was ready for it, he was shaking with excitement, this beautiful girl, this wonderful—

—and the next thing he knew she had grabbed him by the waist and pulled him up and over the side of the bathtub, so he could puke to his heart’s content in there, and not everywhere else.

“Oh, God...” He heard her mutter over and over, as she rubbed his back and he just kept retching, even after all the soup had come back up, perfectly untainted by his body’s destructive functions. Even the carrots looked about the same, which made him laugh, and then wheeze and retch some more. Eventually nothing but acid was coming up, and it burned, so he tried to quell the sick feeling and wrangle it back down where it belonged—which worked. But, right on time, about a minute after he’d just spewed his lunch again, he heard the telltale noise of a big fat fucking ingrate:

His own stomach growling. Again.

He was so glad for (Y/N). So glad. Because if she hadn’t been there with her arms around him, and if she hadn’t been so uncaring about whether or not he accidentally left marks on her shirt while burying his face in her shoulder; if she hadn’t been there to lift him halfway into her lap and hold him close like he was her sick little boyfriend, he would have gone straight to the kitchen and taken a knife and cut that stupid motherfucker of a stomach out. Are you hungry now? Are you hungry now?! He imagined asking it, when it was outside of him; when he was gushing blood with relief. Even just the thought itself gave him catharsis as he sat there and listened to her voice, felt her hands rubbing up and down his spine, trying to soothe him.

“—but we gotta stop for now, okay? Give that sucker a break. I know you’re hungry. I know. But it’s just going to hurt you more if you eat and it comes right back up.” She said it so matter-of-factly as she turned the bathtub faucet on and let it all drain away as he leaned his head on her shoulder and thanked God for putting her here with him. “You can try again in a couple of hours, okay? Maybe at four. Four o’clock in the afternoon, and then we’ll see what’s what. Did you want to go back to your room?”

Steven shook his head slowly, dazedly, as he hiccuped and then gagged just from the taste and the burning sensation. She didn’t even flinch with him sitting in her lap, still leaning heavily on her shoulder; she just reached up to the sink countertop for the washrag and sponged off his face again, which felt pretty good, but not as good as it had before. And she took the little empty shot glass, filled it with water and made him rinse his mouth out and spit into the bathtub again. He did it all, just for her; just to feel better. And when his mouth was reasonably clean and he was feeling tired and she was rubbing his back again, smooth and slow and soft; Steven fell limp in her grasp and sighed miserably.

“Aw, hey, it’s gonna be okay.” She said and smiled gently, and he looked up at her; a star so close, and yet so far. “It’s a good thing your stomach decided to capitulate on my day off. I’ve got all the time in the world now to take care of you.”

“Until tomorrow,” he pointed out, but even then, she shrugged and pressed her cheek to the top of his head, pulling him close.

“That’s if I don’t take another day off to take care of you.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Steven was saying, but she was busy lifting him up, and he was surprised and a little despairing at how easy it was for her. He couldn’t have weighed much less than her, he thought; but the relative ease with which she tucked him to her hip like a small child really had him wondering.

“Hey, here’s something for you to do. Be my hands.” Okay, so he wasn’t as light as he thought. Thank God. She sounded a little strained from carrying him out to his room already. “Grab a blanket off your bed.”

“What, are we bedding down in the bathroom?” He asked, but she just gave him a look.

“So what if we are? Grab one.”

He acquiesced and leaned over in her arms, almost tipping out of them completely until she huffed and adjusted her balance, and he grabbed a blue fleece blanket from the bed before straightening up. “What’s next, Sensei?”

She smiled at that as she walked him over to his dresser and made him pick out a new set of pajamas, despite him giving her a look, like Really? More clothes to vomit on?. “C’mon, Stevie, you’ll feel at least a little better in some fresh digs. I’d make you take a nice hot shower, too, but I don’t think I want you standing up right now.”

“I’m sick, not anemic,” Steven said irately, and (Y/N) nodded.

“I know. But with you not being able to eat—I don’t know, I wouldn’t trust my own blood sugar like that. Sometimes I almost fall over in the shower if I’m just tired enough.”

“Wait… was that what that noise was the other night?” He said, wondering aloud, and the color of red that flushed across her face was just too adorable to bear. Steven let out an “aww” as she tried to protest.

“Well, no, it was—no, I accidentally knocked over a shampoo bottle, and—”

“And you fell over and started cussing loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood…” He continued, grinning as she threatened to drop him while she marched down the hall to her room.

“I did not! I said sometimes I almost fall over.”

“Oh, you definitely fell. Hey, now what?” He asked as she dumped him unceremoniously on her bed before striding over to her own dresser and picking out her own outfit.

“Now I’m going to change into my pajamas, get a blanket of my own, grab a stack of magazines, and keep you company in your hovel.” She said, plain as day, as if he was supposed to just guess that. Well, no harm done. Steven grinned.

“Do I get to watch?” Again, he wiggled his eyebrows; gathering his blanket and clothes in his lap and getting good and comfortable for the show. (Y/N) turned to him and scowled.

“No, you don’t get to watch me change. Boohoo for you. Yeah, yeah, yeah, stop complaining. Even if you had the stomach flu, I wouldn’t let you—Steven, stay on the bed.” She had been walking toward her own adjoining bathroom, listening to Steven whine and plead as he snuck along behind her, but her sixth sense told her to wise up. And as any loyal friend does, Steven did what he was told and returned to the bed as she gave a satisfied hum and closed the door behind her.

Clothes dropped to the floor where he couldn’t see them. Steven sighed wistfully, shoving his conscience in a box and thinking of the soft lines of her body, the curves he’d had the pleasure of knowing only when fully covered. (Y/N) was such a nice girl. She really was. Even if she didn’t want to get down and seriously dirty with him like every other girl seemed to; she was still so pretty, and still so sweet, and still everything he ever thought he could wish for. Even if he never got to know her like that, well, at least he got to know her, right? Right. At least he had that. Steven flopped back on her bed and sighed again, looking around the room, swinging his legs back and forth, kicking the mattress as he took it all in; all the things that made (Y/N) who she was. Like the drapes hanging down from the window, thick and heavy with that kind of cross-hatched fabric; hanging open just enough to let the sunlight through. And the brown shag carpet that could hide a million and one stains, but that she always kept clean anyway. And the stars taped to the ceiling—Steven especially liked those, because they glowed in the dark, and every once in a while, she’d let him lay down on the floor and stare at them while she got ready for bed with the lights off. All around, on every horizontal surface she managed to find, she had books and magazines and record albums stacked to the nines; and in the corners of the room, she kept a few flowering plants that, once bloomed and faded, only ever gave green leaves.

Steven rolled over onto his stomach to look right-side-up at the opposite wall, where she had her photographs. He loved looking at those, because she would put anything—and that meant anything—in a frame. There were lots of them, all awkwardly hung in a jagged up-and-down line across the wall in wood and iron frames, such loves of her life as her parents, her old pet; a magazine clipping of David Coverdale, a glass pane of dried yellow daffodils; a verse of poetry, some sort of ink painting; a photograph of her best friend from high school. And at the end, right at the edge of the sunlight, above a small table where she kept a kettle of red anthuriums, there was a picture of him.

Steven remembered exactly when it had been taken. Last June they’d been driving up the coast in her car, a ‘68 DeVille that ran like a charm. They’d stopped over in one of the viewing lots somewhere, just to chat and watch the surf. Normally Steven didn’t go anywhere with a girl he wasn’t sure he was going to score with; but from the moment he’d first spoken to (Y/N), she just seemed like such an easygoing girl that he had no problem with it— if she wanted to drive up and down the coast with him until the car ran out of gas, so be it. If she wanted to talk and laugh and enjoy his company without so much as leaning in for a kiss, that was fine. He liked her, that was all he knew—so when she asked if he’d let her take his photo, he’d said yes.

Out of the thirty-or-so pictures (Y/N) had taken that day, the one on the wall was her favorite—the second she saw it after developing the film, she got this look on her face that Steven had been trying to recapture ever since. It was a look of pure admiration and love, and the thing that made it all so perfect was the little smile she had, this goofy little smile that just said “yeah, that one’s mine!” as she gazed at the photo of him lying across the back of her car. He was smiling, too—the biggest smile in the world, with one hand propping his head up and the other on his hip, posing like a French girl. Waves crashed in the background, a silent swath of blue-green beauty; and the sun had shone so brightly that day that he’d had to squint as the shutter clicked.

God, did she love that picture. She put it in a frame the second she got a chance and added it to her wall without another word. He’d admired it, at first, thinking wow, for me? But over time, the feeling mellowed into a quiet discomfort. Steven had never felt so alone in his entire life, looking at that picture. And although it was a relatively new addition to her wall and wasn’t likely to be moved anytime soon, he sometimes went over to look at it when she wasn’t at home—just to make sure it was still him, that someone else hadn’t won her affections as deeply. Sometimes, when he’d taken a good hit of whatever he’d last been offered at a party, he’d just stand there and stare at it. He remembered crying, once. Standing in front of that picture frame, thinking about how bright the paint on her car was, and how healthy he’d looked then. He had been crying because he wanted it back. He wanted to feel that way again.

He wanted to be happy.

Steven barely heard the sound of (Y/N)’s bathroom door opening, and only registered her presence again when she came over to him and asked, “Stevie, are you okay?”

“Huh?” He asked, blinked, and swallowed, finding his eyes too glossy, his throat too tight. “Um. Yeah. I mean, no, uh… my… my stomach still hurts.”

“Oh. Well… do you need help getting changed, then?” Her voice was shy, and that was what made Steven finally look at her. And boy, did it make him feel better. Her pajamas were always the best. Today she’d picked out a soft pair of faded blue drawstring pants with white star-spangled print, and a red camisole that hugged her just perfectly. It made her look like an angel in the quiet sun, an ethereal being among green plants and stacks of records—some kind of house-nymph, with a beautiful gaze.

“What do you mean?” He asked, and then gave her another once over, feeling his heart skip a beat or two as he realized she was blushing a little. “And nice pajamas, by the way. Very Americana of you.”

She looked down at herself, then made a disgusted expression. “Well, great. Didn’t even realize…”

“Aw, come on, (Y/N), you make a cute flag.” He laughed as she pretended to rummage around in her dresser drawer again, and she just turned to give him a look, which made him shut his mouth, but only for a moment. “I’d salute you any day.”

“You are a menace. An absolute menace.” She muttered as she shooed him towards the bathroom and handed him the clothes he had picked out for himself. Steven laughed again in spite of himself and retreated into her bathroom, tossing his stuff on the counter; and then he closed the door just as she wandered back over to the wall of pictures to begin her wait for him, arms crossed, face tinged that adorable red.

Now, Steven didn’t take long at all to change. This wasn’t a problem at all. It took maybe thirty seconds tops for him to shed his miserable clothing—which, if he was being entirely honest, he couldn’t be sure when he’d actually started wearing—and pull on his grey shirt and green flannel pants. That was all fine. But then he got distracted again, because he was surrounded by things that reminded him of her; like the little glass turtle dish she kept her floss and toothbrush in, and the way all the bath towels were the same color. And if he was being completely honest, that was fine too—he liked all her little decorations, and had fun losing himself among the cross-stitch patterns in the hand towels and frames of dried cana lilies and carnations on the far wall. But then he turned and saw himself in the mirror.

Steven knew he was suffering. He did. He just didn’t know it was that bad. Was that really who she saw? Could it really be? He thought the tears had left him—and they had, this was true—but the devastation he felt looking at himself in the mirror was too much to handle, so much so that even if he tried, he didn’t think he could have cried about it. It was something beyond sadness. It was something beyond desperation. He saw himself there, that scrawny collar bone poking out from grey fabric, those hollow blue eyes, the startling rat’s-nest of gold hair; and he just couldn’t take it. It overwhelmed him. Steven looked in the mirror and saw somebody who was the antithesis to the boy in the picture laying across the trunk of the DeVille; he looked in the mirror and didn’t know who he saw, and it was freaking him the fuck out. He stood there for what seemed like forever, pinned against the wall, wanting to get away from the reflection, but not quite remembering how. It felt like his brain was all wrapped up in bloody cellophane, like he was thinking through telephone wires, channeling himself into pure untamed anxiety. That was him. It couldn’t be! That was him. It couldn’t be! He howled silently, but the man staring back did not move nor listen. That was him. It couldn’t be. This is you. It can’t be. This is YOU.

Steven really only meant to take a little while, really, thirty seconds to change should have been enough, with maybe a little nod to the glass turtle; but now he was going to take longer. Longer, longer, longer. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Steven sobbed without a tear in his eyes as he sank to the floor and listened to the voice berate him for being a scarecrow, for being sick, for trying to get better, for trying at all, for being a wretch, a coward, a junkie, a drunkard, a—

“Steven?”

Oh shit. Like a snap freeze in the middle of March, he blinked himself out of it. Where was he? Where was he—? Oh, right. Right here. Steven curled in on himself and shielded his eyes from the mirror and felt his heart skip three beats before he responded.

“Yeah?” Oh, God, what a voice crack. He winced and cleared his throat. “I mean, um, yeah, (Y/N)?”

“You okay?” She sounded worried. Steven dragged himself to his feet again, still holding a hand up so he wouldn’t see the mirror, wouldn’t see the liar in the reflection; and opened the door.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He said, and gave her the most hollow-feeling grin he had in his entire life.

She just looked at him for a minute, brow furrowed in focus, like she was analyzing him, reading his mind; letting herself know what had gone wrong. Steven swallowed silently and hoped she wouldn’t be able to tell. But of course, (Y/N) was (Y/N).

“Don’t do that,” she said, softly. “You look like a smiling bear.”

She was too good to him. Steven blinked hard, and tried to drop the smile gently, like it was a genuine one, like he really regretted letting it go. She was just too good to him, he thought. What would he ever do without her? What would he do? If she ever went away, he would simply cease to exist. Steven couldn’t do it, he couldn’t let go of her without his heart breaking into infinite pieces. It was horrifying and beautiful all at once, and he wanted her to reach out and hug him, because she looked like she might; she still had that calculating look like she was figuring out what was wrong with him. He wanted to cry, that was what was wrong. He wanted to cry. He wanted to die. But he wouldn’t let her know that. He couldn’t. He made himself stop thinking about it, too, and instead tried to make a real joke that would get both of them out of this strange situation. So he grinned again, this time, for real. “Still wearing Reagan’s favorite striptease outfit, I see.”

She snorted in amusement. “You are so lucky I like you, Steven. So lucky.”

“I know.” He was still smiling, but it was fading fast, and he’d already been distracted by that godforsaken picture again; the timeless capture of old Stevie’s bright young face and Cheshire grin. “Hey, (Y/N)?”

“Mhm?” She said, and turned to him, waiting, expecting.

He really didn’t know what to say, and swallowed again before asking quietly, “Can we go back now?”

“Of course, hon.” Finally, (Y/N) held out her arms for him, and he practically ran to her, throwing his arms over her shoulders and burying his face in the sweet skin of her neck that always smelled like summer. She whispered something to him and lifted him up again, and it was all Steven could do to cling to her like a monkey to its tree as she picked up his blue blanket and then went to get a stack of magazines from her bedside table.

“Do you feel like Rolling Stone or TMZ today?” She murmured into his ear, and Steven scoffed, feeling a bit more like himself for a moment.

“Is that even a question?”

“Rolling Stone it is.” He could hear the smile in her voice, and she bent down to pick up something else, too, which had Steven tightening his grip on her, afraid she would let him fall. But she didn’t. She had a strong arm, that one; even if she did let out a little huff of air as she straightened back up and carried him back to the bathroom that would soon become their hidey-hole.

“Alright,” she said, half to herself, as she set him down on the ledge of the bathtub and shook out the blanket, folding it in two, and then folding it again, so it would fit nicely on the stretch of tile floor between the tub and toilet. Steven wrinkled his nose, wondering the last time the floor had been cleaned—something which, he now supposed, had been his responsibility. Whoops. Oh well. His floor, his blanket—what did it matter? All that mattered now was the way she looked at him, kneeling down on the soft blue surface, patting the spot next to her. He sank to his knees, and she brought out the stack of magazines from beside her, which had an electric heating blanket resting on top.

“Here.” She said, handing it to him. “I was going to use it, but since your stomach hurts, I figure it’ll serve you better.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, feeling kind of guilty about lying about his stomach earlier when really, he’d just been too far deep in painful nostalgia—but he watched without another word as she plugged it into the outlet and turned the dial on the corner switch. The blanket grew warm in his hands and he thought about the little electric coils within as he sighed, laid down beside her, and pressed the warming fabric to his stomach.

(Y/N) sat there for a moment, tapping her fingers to her lips as he looked at her, and then gave a quiet “one minute…”, after which she got up and cleared the dishes and strawberry juice from the sink counter. There was a clinking and settling in the kitchen, and he listened carefully for her footsteps as she walked across the apartment, dipping into one room and coming back, and then grabbing something else and walking back over to where he was resting, quietly, feeling like his abdomen had suddenly become someone’s Christmas hearth.

“Here, lift your head.” She looked so funny upside down. Steven smiled faintly and did as told, and she gently slid a pillow beneath him, which was a welcome comfort compared to the hard tile of the bathroom floor under the thin blanket—and then she put her own pillow next to his, laid down with him, and opened a magazine. The snap of the papers was sharp on his ears as he snuggled up to her shoulder and began to read silently with her. It was an older Rolling Stone issue, at least a few years old, maybe from May, or April—he didn’t know why she kept them around for so long, or why she liked them better than she liked any other story she could be bothered to read, but, well, whatever floats the maiden’s boat, right? And he didn’t mind half as much, now that she’d let him have the electric blanket—it was almost as nice as having her lying on top of him. Not that he would know anything about that, of course, but—it was almost as good as he imagined. Quiet. Serene. Oh-so-warm. And above everything, above all else, he felt… safe. He didn’t have to hide from himself here, and he could have cried from the relief, but he was tired, so tired of crying and being sick and everything else that had been a burden that day, so instead of doing all that, Steven just curled up closer to her.

He didn’t know how long it was before he dozed off. It could have been an hour, it could have been a day—he had no idea. One minute, he was in the middle of an article about Keith Richards, and the next, he was floating in the middle of nowhere, watching the darkness behind his eyelids, feeling the calm warmth on his abdomen and thinking hey, maybe I will be alright. And then he heard a noise.

At first, he shrugged it off, and fell a little deeper into sleep, cheek still pressed against (Y/N)’s shoulder—but then he heard it again. A kind of keening. A pained sound. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, and he shook himself awake, sitting up and kind of spilling sideways in his dizzy state, trying to figure out where the noise was coming from. It didn’t take long, once he looked at her. She had dropped the magazine to her chest and was clutching onto it with both hands, head pressing back into the blue blanket, eyes squeezed shut like she was being stabbed. And for all he knew, she could have been. “(Y/N)?” He asked, quietly at first, and then louder when she made a low groaning sound that scared him a little. “(Y/N)? (Y/N)?”

“I’m fine,” she said, but the way her face had lost its color, she was definitely not fine. She wasn’t breathing normally, either, just sucking in these kind of half-breaths of air; gasping in and wheezing out.

“No you’re not.” He said, completely ready to argue with her if necessary, but she just screwed her eyes shut even tighter and let out another louder gasp.

“Okay, you’re right, you’re right, I’m not. I’m cramping myself to death here. I can’t—Jesus. I can’t—fucking—”

Steven, daring as he was, and having seen her seize up as she spoke, put a hand over her stomach and found her muscles so taut it was like she was made of rock. “Jesus Christ, (Y/N), loosen up, no wonder you’re in pain.”

“I would if I fucking could, you—” She snapped her teeth shut and tried to breathe as he looked at her with wide eyes. “I—Steven, I didn’t mean that, I just—I really can’t. I’m trying, and I can’t.”

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” he said, thinking of all the times he’d cussed her out already, and all the times she’d been so nice to him, and figured that if she was sorry for just that little outburst, it was about as even as they were ever going to get. “Now take your blanket back.”

She flinched as he held it out to her, could barely even move to put her arm up in protest. Her voice was weak even as she tried to reprimand him. “Steven, if your stomach still hurts, then you should—”

“Just take it, (Y/N).” He said, and didn’t wait for her face to scrunch up any more before he pressed it to her, and watched her gasp and bolt upright.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” she yelped, and Steven jumped up and away, holding his hands up, too scared to touch her anymore. But the cramp seemed to undo itself. She relaxed back into her laying-down position—kind of, anyway; still seizing up and almost sitting completely upright at times—but eventually she laid down all the way and let her head fall back with a quiet thud as she sucked in a deep breath and tried to calm herself.

“There. Was that so hard?” He asked, scorning her; and she just whispered, “Shut up.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re too selfless, (Y/N). You forget I’m here for you too.” A thought occurred to him, then, and his conscience didn’t immediately throw red flags at it, which was a good sign. Still, he found his face growing warm as he carefully swung a leg over her, settling down and lying on top of her so they could share the electric blanket, and so the weight of him—much like the weight of gravity had done to him earlier—would help settle things, and squish all the pain out of her.

“Steven, what are you doing?” She asked, tiredly, as he closed the magazine and set it aside, laying his head on her chest and snuggling ever closer.

“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m sharing.” He prayed she couldn’t see how red his face was from this angle. “Since you want me to have the heating blanket so bad, and since you need the heating blanket so bad...”

She sighed again, but this time it sounded more like a laugh than anything, and he felt her run her fingers through his hair as he closed his eyes and fell past the momentary anxiousness back into that dozing, dreamy state. He would never know for sure whether he imagined it, but for a second, he could have sworn he heard her whisper, “Stevie, you’re an angel, you know that?”

“So ’re you,” he murmured, and then he was out like a light.

-

When Steven woke up, he was still tired—but his body wouldn’t let him go back to sleep. He was, as far as everything was concerned, the happiest man alive: safe and warm and tucked up to the bosom of the woman he loved so dearly, without her even knowing. But his head felt like it had when he’d fallen off his skateboard that one time and absolutely bit it on the concrete, and he was so thirsty he felt like he would die if he didn’t get a drink of water. So that was the first thing he did when he got up—careful, of course, not to disturb (Y/N), who was still sleeping with her head canted back and her mouth slightly open, eyes closed as gently as two resting butterfly wings. After sneaking quietly out of the bathroom and stealing down the hall to the kitchen, he drank straight from the tap and pulled cold water into his body with the ferocity of a man lapping up a lake after 40 days in the desert. When he finally got enough to feel satisfied, Steven looked up and around, and noticed it was later in the evening, almost six o’clock. So they’d slept for quite some time. And more importantly than that, it was now dinnertime. After not having eaten all day, exhaustion was really starting to catch up with him—his body ached, his stomach growled, and he knew he needed sustenance, immediately. But what could he eat?

Well, something easy on the stomach. Probably nothing that took too long to cook. Steven thought about microwaving a hot dog, but then thought that maybe that wasn’t such a good idea; because he didn’t think he could stand to eat a hot dog ever again if he had to see it come back up later. So, something easy on the stomach, something that didn’t take too long to make, and something that he would, within reason, be able to eat again if his body decided to reject it. Hmm. A tough question.

Eventually, Steven decided on a good old peanut butter sandwich. After getting another glass of water from the tap and drinking all of it, humming to himself at the ecstasy that cold water brought him; he took down the peanut butter jar from the cupboard, got out two slices of bread, and slapped together a peanut butter sandwich in record time. He ate every last little bit of it, marveling at the feel of honey wheat on the roof of his mouth; the thick peanut butter satisfying almost every craving; and when he was licking his fingertips clean of crumbs, he heard some shuffling down the hall, and then heard (Y/N)’s own bedroom door click shut.

Steven stayed in the kitchen for a moment to look out the window and observe some birds that were chittering along and flying off into the sunset, but soon got bored and wandered back to the blanket-hovel to sit down and read some more of the magazines she’d brought with her. Although most of them were Rolling Stone issues from the past year, he found one she’d snuck in that was a home-and-gardening-type one, and he opened that to read quietly to himself as he finally felt satisfied for being able to keep something down.

Across the house, he could hear her singing lightly to herself. Steven smiled as he turned the page, skimming over some articles about house plants. One of them had a cool pattern on its leaves, like a zebra. Hm. He shifted, just slightly, and decided he’d better lay down on the blanket. Maybe that would help him feel better.

The next page had some advice on how to get birds to visit your feeder—something about wild birdseed, and not feeding them bread, because that was actually rather harmful for small birds, who weren’t able to digest it easily. Ugh. Bread. Thinking about bread didn’t make Steven feel very good, so he hurried onto the next page, where some lady was writing a column about hummingbirds and how to attract them with sugar water.

When (Y/N) came back to him, he was doubled over and crying again, feeling useless as ever, spitting the taste of peanut butter into the bathtub and hating himself out loud.

“Steven,” she said.

“Goddamn… fucking…” he sobbed.

“Steven.” She said again, and bent down next to him to rub his back. “You need to go to the hospital. This isn’t normal.”

“Of course it’s not normal. Of course it’s not normal.” He said, trying to wipe his tears away to clear his vision; but only really succeeding in making everything blurrier, which made him more frustrated. “I’m off the shit is what I am, and it’s fucking me up.”

“I can see that. Get your shoes on, we’re going.”

Steven stopped mid-cry to watch as she left the bathroom, walked down to the kitchen for her own shoes and car keys, and then came back to him. He sniffed.

“(Y/N), I don’t want to.”

“Tough shit. You’re sick and I’m not going to be the one who lets you suffer.” She said, coming towards him and scooping him up in one swift attack. Steven felt his world turn head-over-heels as she heaved him over her shoulder like a helpless potato sack, and turned to leave the bathroom. Now he was positively frantic.

“(Y/N), no, no, no, I’m not going to the hospital. I’m not! I won’t! I won’t let them put needles in me!”

“Steven, they’re only going to do that if they think it’s going to help you. You might need an IV to get fluids, at this point. I—” Well, that was the wrong thing to say. (Y/N) jolted to a halt and turned to see Steven clinging onto the doorway of the bathroom, still crying, still hiccupping.

“Please, please, please,” he begged, voice high pitched and desperate, like he was strung up on some wire with no way to get down. “Please, (Y/N), no, I don’t need to, no, please, no, just put me down, please—I only threw up because I ate too fast, I drank too much water, it was everything at once, and—please just don’t take me there, I don’t want to—”

“Steven,” she said, quietly, and the tone of her voice made him clamp his mouth shut instantly. (Y/N) took a moment to think, and then sighed. “If you can’t get anything to stay down by nine o’clock tonight, I’m taking you to the hospital, and that’s final. Three more hours. Three more hours to get some water and some food, and for God’s sake, don’t rush anything.” She turned and gently slid him off of her shoulder, letting him down softly so he could sit on the blue blanket and wheeze and cry into his hands, and avoid her stare, at all costs. She watched him there for a moment, her heart hurting, wondering if she was doing the right thing. “Okay, Stevie? Three hours. Nod if you can hear me.”

He nodded, still gulping for air between sobs, and at that, she couldn’t help but whisper, “oh, sweet boy,” and kneel down beside him, wrapping her arms around him and rocking him back and forth as gently as she could.

“Does your stomach still hurt?” She asked.

“No.” He mumbled with a sniff.

“Does anything else hurt?”

Another loud sniff. “My head,” he whispered.

“And that’s it?”

He took his face away from his hands and looked at her, and it was all she could do to keep from crying herself. Poor boy, she thought as she stared into those beautiful bloodshot blue eyes, feeling his pain as his dark brow knitted itself together. Poor boy.

“I want it so, so bad,” he whispered, so softly she almost couldn’t hear, but for noticing his mouth move.

“I know, baby. I know.” She hugged him tight again, and then an idea occurred to her. She pulled back. “Hey, I think I know what’ll get your mind off that. And maybe help you get some water, too.”

He just looked at her, sorrowful, hoping, wishing.

“You wanna come with me, or you wanna stay here?” (Y/N) asked tiredly, wondering if she could even stand to carry him to the kitchen at this point. The Midol had worn off forever ago and yet she couldn’t take it again for at least another hour, since she didn’t want to be explaining to an ER nurse why she’d overdosed on pain medication, of all things—but an aching fire still burned low in the muscles that had cramped themselves up over and over again that day; and she practically had to fight to keep herself upright. It was so very hard to not just say “fuck it” and go to bed, curl up in a ball, and fall asleep. But she’d promised Steven she’d be there for him, and she was nothing if not a loyal person, so despite the knives in her gut and the splitting headache she’d had for most of the day, she stuck around and took care of him like she figured he deserved. It was hard, yes. And a little gross. But he couldn’t help it, and neither could she. Whenever he looked at her like that, all helpless and alone, frustrated, scared, and depressed; she couldn’t help but feel a soft kinship with him, a plucking of the heartstrings. (Y/N) did love him, after all, even if he didn’t know it. She was a sucker for that boy; blond blue-eyed beauty with a cheeky smile and a laugh twice as big. She loved him dearly and promised both him and herself that she would help him through this, no matter what it took—but even now she could feel the air wearing thin, like neither one of them was sure exactly how much more they could take. And it hurt her. Really, it did. She was exhausted, and tired, and heartbroken, and in pain, but she listened to Steven as he said “I’ll stay here,” and she got up and made her way to the kitchen, where she took an ice tray from the freezer and popped a few ice cubes into a glass on the counter.

She brought them back to him, shuffling along the hall like a zombie in pajamas, but felt better when he looked up from his place on the blanket and seemed relieved to see her, as if being without her for even a minute had been awful. That was really sweet of him. She found herself smiling softly as she handed over the glass.

“Just put one in your mouth and let it melt, okay, Stevie-babe?” She said, and he nodded.

“Okay.”

“It’ll help with the cravings too. It’ll distract you. If it’s anything like a normal craving, I mean.” (Y/N) knew there was some sort of psychological occurrence behind it, but honestly couldn’t say how it worked. All she knew was that when she woke up craving chocolate for breakfast that morning, popping an ice cube into her mouth had done the trick, and after a minute or two of brain-freezing coldness, she was able to move on and eat some plain old Cheerios. Surprise, surprise—tasteless frozen things are mood killers. And while she hadn’t had any ice cubes handy when she saw the brownie bites at the store; well, by that point it was noon, and she had forgiven herself.

Steven put an ice cube in his mouth and instantly puckered at how cold it was.

“If it’s too cold, you can spit it out,” (Y/N) started, but he shook his head, and mouthed around the ice cube,

“I think it’th working.”

“Oh. Good.” (Y/N) tucked her arms around herself, watching him slide the ice cube around in his mouth, sometimes making faces, but mostly staring off into nothing with those bright blue eyes. She always wondered where he went when he did that. Most of the time, Steven was the happiest guy she ever could have met; always going somewhere, always doing something, always partying, always living the high life. But occasionally, there were these times where he just seemed kind of… vacant. Like when she’d come home after a long shift at work, only to find him sitting, alone, without anything in front of him at the dining room table, zoning out into the space before him and thinking about… well, whatever it was that went on inside that head. Sometimes it was kind of hard to keep him out of it. She’d call his name, and he’d look at her curiously, grin as she told him something, respond quickly, and then go back to whatever he was pondering. Sometimes she wondered if he was merely daydreaming, but other times the emotion in his eyes told her definitely not. Now was one of those other times. Though he’d just been panicking over going to the emergency room, and those tear tracks were definitely remnants of his fear then and not his emotional state now, (Y/N) couldn’t help but notice that it seemed like Steven’s heart was breaking from the inside out. How long would she have him, this time? She wondered. How long until he went to another party and went off the rails and, God forbid, overdosed? How long until he would come back as a completely different person? How long until her Steven was lost forever under a mountain of cravings for the thing he relied on that would someday kill him?

“(Y/N)?” His voice was quiet and soft and innocent, and she looked at him without meaning to; without hiding her emotion first.

“Yeah, what? Need more ice cubes? I’ll get you some if you—”

“No, I still have some.” He popped a second one into his mouth and spoke around it, still looking worried, the feather-blue in his eyes seeming to deepen as he stared at her. She looked away. “(Y/N), are you upset?”

“No, I’m—” She fought the urge to wipe her eyes; she knew they were watering, but she hadn’t cried yet, and wasn’t about to break her resolve. Goddammit, why was she getting emotional now? She couldn’t do that, not when Steven was so… so… fragile. He didn’t need to see that. She breathed normally, focusing on the ins and outs, and spoke quietly. “I’m hungry, and I’m just worried that if—well, I don’t want to eat in front of you, for one thing, because that’d be rude, and I really just—”

“Oh. (Y/N), don’t worry about that. If you’re hungry, go eat.” He waved his hand in the general direction of the door, encouraging her as he crunched down slightly on the ice cube and swallowed. “Don’t worry. As long as you don’t drag me to the hospital I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I can wait. I mean, I—”

“(Y/N),” he said, so gently she stopped right in her tracks, looking at him, her heart and tears threatening to spill over. “I’m calm now. I’m okay. I’ll stay right here. Why don’t you be a good girl, and go order a pizza or something? You can just eat in the kitchen, I won’t bother you.” He put the third ice cube from the glass in his mouth and swallowed again. She wanted so badly to press her hands to his lovely ruddy cheeks and kiss him on his button nose, to tell him thank you, to tell him she loved him; but all she could do was nod quickly and get the hell out of dodge before she burst into tears.

Funnily enough, she was hungry, even after sleeping the day away. And maybe that was why everything was so muddled and frustrating and depressing now. (Y/N) bit the inside of her cheek as she picked up the phone in the hall, dialed, and walked with it as far as she could, stretching the cord around the corner and a few paces into the kitchen, just so he wouldn’t be able to hear her wobbling voice. The pizza guy took forever to answer the phone, but that didn’t matter, because she was too busy focusing on the world outside, and how sad it looked at sunset. It didn’t really make sense. She knew that. But even so, she felt her chest overflowing with emotion at the sight of the orange light decorating all the buildings and houses in the hills, giving a reddish lining to the palm trees, as if the plants themselves were blushing against the purplish-blue evening sky. A bird sang somewhere, a happy little tune that made her heart shatter into pieces, and she remembered countless other sunsets with beauty like this one, but couldn’t for the life of her figure out what it was that made this one so sad. If anything, she thought to herself, daring to laugh through a sheen of tears on her cheeks; if anything, this is just my hormones fucking with me again. But still. The bluebird outside sang its chirruping little sunset tune, probably in pursuit of a mate; and it made (Y/N) feel as if she were the loneliest person on earth.

“Thanks for calling Toni’s Pizza, this is Michael, what can I getcha today?”

“Um, hi,” (Y/N) spoke, wincing at how nasally her voice sounded, and again, fought the urge to sniffle. “Yeah, I’d, uh, I’d like a medium pepperoni pizza, please. Uh-huh. If you guys could deliver… yeah, that’d be great. Oh, and a grape soda, too. Mhm. Thank you. And… yup, it’s (Y/N) (L/N), at the Merriam Courts, right by—oh, you know where that is? Oh, good. Good. Yeah, we’re on the fifth floor, room 507, so… yep, I’ll ring you in. Okay. …How long? …Okay. Thank you. Goodbye.” And then she hung up, hands shaking with the weight of the phone as she walked it back to its cradle in the hall.

“Steven? I’m gonna go lay down, okay?” She called, standing just a few feet away from the bathroom door, keeping out of sight and pulling the hem of her shirt up to scrub the tearstains out of her face.

“Okay. You’re sure you’re not upset?” He called back, seeming a little concerned on her behalf, but Lord, she couldn’t stand it any longer. She couldn’t be around him without breaking into tears again, thinking about it all; and she couldn’t do that in front of him, because he’d just feel worse. So instead, she replied in as strong of a voice as she could muster, “Yeah, I just—I just need to lay down.”

“Okay,” he repeated, quieter this time, and she pressed her shirt to her face, almost suffocating herself for fear of letting out an audible sob. “Feel better soon. I’ll tell you when the pizza’s here.”

“You do that, honey,” she replied quietly, and forced herself to walk at a normal pace back to her bedroom, despite wanting nothing more than to run and fling herself face down on her bed and cry with all the contemplation of the horrors of the world. Why? Why? Why? The question reverberated around her skull as she sniffled and swung the door to her room halfway shut and let the overwhelming grief encompass her again. Why was it so hard to just be happy? Why was it so hard to just pretend? Why did every venture come with some expense? Who had invented drugs? And why did they make you feel the way they did, if they were just going to tear you apart bit by bit until you were nothing but the drug itself, wandering aimlessly into the night as the people beside you shook their heads and gave up? Why was there anything beautiful, blissed out, sky-high in the world at all, if it had to be this way? Why did the world make such beautiful boys, and then ruin them? Why did the world make stupid girls, and then make them fall in love? Why? Why? Why?

(Y/N) cried and cried into her pillow until she had nothing more to give; and, like with the cramps that had come rolling in and out all day long, the wave of drama subsided and she was left with watery eyes and a damp face thinking, “well, that was fucking stupid.” But even if she was being a little bit hormonal and dramatic—even if she didn’t really believe it was all that bad—she still felt like her heart had been torn open. Her mind kept replaying the sound of Steven asking her if she was upset, that quiet concern, that sweetness she’d left there on his own side of the house. And when he was sick, too. That, she felt guilty for, and was about to get up and grab some more ice cubes and maybe some more crackers for him when the doorbell from outside the apartment buzzed.

“(Y/N)!” She heard Steven holler, and she yelled back, “I got it!” and went to the switchboard on the side of the apartment to open the door downstairs, waiting a moment or two for the pizza guy to climb up to the fifth floor—well, more like several moments, actually—before letting him in.

“Hi, I’ve got your—oh, wow.” The pizza guy, who really was just a pizza boy, barely over sixteen; looked at her like she’d grown an extra head. “Um. Wow. Okay. I know it’s none of my business, but… are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Oh, God, she must have looked awful. She tried to laugh, but winced at how choking and broken it sounded. “Kinda. Yeah, I’m fine. Just not having the best day. But, uh, thanks for bringing the pizza. Here.” She turned to the side of the door for a moment, dug around in the pocket of her coat for her wallet, and produced two bills; a ten for the pizza and soda and a twenty for a tip. He gawked at her as she gently took the pizza box and the grape soda from him, placing the money in his palm.

“Are you okay?” She laughed a little as he stammered out a shocked thank-you.

“No, yeah, no, I… thank you. I, uh, I hope your day goes better. Or something. Um. Have a good one.” He tipped his cap to her awkwardly, and then turned and started back down the stairs, whistling to himself in a decidedly happier tune. Well, that made (Y/N) feel a tiny bit better. If she could do absolutely nothing else, she had at least put a significant amount of money towards this kid’s new-car fund. Or his smoking fund. Or his gambling fund. Or… oh, whatever. She didn’t care at this point—the look on his face had given her enough of a good feeling to survive by for the rest of the night, as sad as she might have been.

Well. So she thought, anyway.

In truth, she felt completely alone again once she closed the door; the insignificant woman in the big white kitchen; standing at the island with a quietly aching heart and looking out at the fading dusk of gold and pink. And perhaps it was this that made her tear up again. That, or those stupid fucking hormones. She seethed to herself as she snapped her gaze away and got a plate from the cupboard, slamming it angrily on the counter, upset with her own body for being this way. Why couldn’t she just stop? Was it really so incredibly necessary to be in this much pain for so long? Why couldn’t it just be one or the other; the abdominal stabbing or the mental breakdown? Why did it have to be both? She resisted the urge to knot her hands in her hair and pull and instead sniffled to herself, trying very, very hard not to cry any more as she took her first bite of pepperoni pizza—but then she felt the ache below her waist start to pull itself into a stabbing iron coil again, and then set the pizza down to crack the seal on her grape soda instead. And even then, sipping on her grape soda only made her think of the other bottle; the strawberry-flavored juice, and how she was supposed to be helping Steven; and then she just couldn’t help herself anymore.

Stop it, she berated herself as the tears streamed down her face for the millionth time that hour. Stop it. STOP IT! But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. It was like a muscle that just couldn’t relax; all she could do was squeeze her eyes shut harder and cry because the world was awful and because Steven was sick and because she didn’t want to have to drag him to the emergency room, but if she didn’t bring him in, something awful might happen. And besides that, this bitch of a uterus was still trying to murder her from inside out. So wouldn’t it be good to go to the emergency room after all? Couldn’t she get herself set up with a nice paper bed and a morphine drip? Oh, God, make it stop. Oh God, make it stop, she prayed, still crying, searching blindly for her keys on the countertop, not even bothering to think, just weeping like a little girl again.

Steven, who had been listening anxiously to every sound of the household since (Y/N)’s suspicious dash to the hallway to order pizza, had now run to her and was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, terrified and also entirely confused by what he saw. (Y/N) was bent over the kitchen island; beside a slice of pizza and an opened bottle of grape soda, sobbing openly into the countertop. He’d known she was upset—she never was very good at lying, which he supposed was a miracle in his book—but he hadn’t known it was as bad as all this. And he should have figured. He really should have. Especially when she went into the kitchen to place the call, especially when she wouldn’t come back to him—he almost let the self-derision consume him again, but Steven knew he couldn’t. Not with her this way. Not when she needed him.

Quietly, worriedly, he approached her, doing his best to whisper kind things to her, things that upset girls might like to hear.

“Hey, it’s okay,” He repeated, softer and softer each time, reaching out to her collapsed form on the kitchen counter, the heaving bare shoulders cut into by red camisole straps, the fluffy mess of (h/c) hair that concealed her weeping face. “It’s okay, (Y/N), I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Well, okay, he thought that was what girls liked to hear when they were upset about something, but she just sank into herself and cried harder. So this time, though nervous butterflies were beginning to nibble at his insides, Steven gently laid a hand on her back, and stroked along her spine as softly as he could, as if she were one of those neighborhood cats that might go running at any time. And while he did that, he kept talking to her—not because he had anything he really wanted to say; but because he knew she at least sort of liked being called pet names, and—well, maybe that would help calm her down. She had about a million and one nicknames for him, anyway, so he tried to think of half as many for her.

“Aww, honey, it’s okay.” Another soft stroke. Her red cami felt like goose down, it was so worn out and soft. “It really is, baby girl. You’re just fine. We’ll get along together. We’ll make it, sweetheart, okay?…”

She sniffed loudly into the countertop, and a mildly sarcastic voice arose from within the cloud of (h/c) hair. “Is there any reason you’re calling me everything on Earth but my name?”

If Steven hadn’t known he was blushing, he would have guessed his face was actually on fire. “I-I—uh… okay, (Y/N). (Y/N), we’re gonna make it out of this day alive. Okay? Both of us. We’ll be alright.”

She pulled herself away from the counter, agonizingly slowly, and wiped her eyes, and then turned to look at him. And Steven knew he wasn’t supposed to make any untoward expressions—but damn. He didn’t know somebody could look so sad. At the very least, he had to raise his eyebrows, which (Y/N) definitely noticed, because she bowed her head and let her hair come forward to shield the edges of her face. Steven wouldn’t let her hide from him again, though, and without a second thought, he reached forward and gently tipped her chin up so he could stare into those beautiful, tragedy-struck stained glass eyes. But then he didn’t know what to say. Any word that might have made its way out of his throat smoothly to comfort her was now locked inside with a choking feeling, and the butterflies in his stomach turning their fluttering into ravaging.

Fortunately for him, he didn’t have to worry about that for very long, because (Y/N) gave a little sigh and rested her head in his palm. “You know… I don’t mind ‘baby girl’.”

“Aww.” Steven smiled, and inwardly breathed a huge sigh of relief, bringing her in for a hug. “That’s good, baby girl. Glad you like it. You know what I like?”

“What’s that?” She asked tiredly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, feeling utterly exhausted, and wanting to slip down through the floor, out of her body, just so she could escape this goddamn pain.

“I like when you tell me what’s bothering you so I can help fix it.” Steven said, resuming his stroking of her back, occasionally reaching up to smooth down her hair. “Do you need more Midol? The heating blanket? Some more raspberry tea? A hot bath? Name it, (Y/N), and you’ve got it.” He really wanted to kiss the top of her head right now. Would that be weird? Could he pass that off as a friendly gesture in case she thought he was trying to make a move? Oh, Steven had no clue. So instead of following his heart’s desire down to the bone, he waited for her answer.

She mumbled it into his shoulder. “Steven, you’re sick, you’ve barely eaten all day, I can’t be asking anything of you. Especially when I can take care of myself. Especially when I should really be taking care of you. And—”

“Respectfully, (Y/N), you’re so dead wrong it’s not even funny.” He pressed her a little tighter to him and again deflected the thought of kissing the top of her head. Weird, Steven, it would be weird, he reminded himself, and still wanted so badly to do it, but just rested his chin atop her head instead, feeling flyaway strands tickle his jaw. “We’re stuck in this godforsaken hole together so I think we can at least be less holier-than-thou about it.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” (Y/N) protested indignantly, but before she could finish, he let go of her and began fishing around in the nearest cupboard for the painkillers she’d been complaining about all day.

“I know, (Y/N), but you can’t really help what it sounds like.” Aha! He’d found them. Steven quickly skimmed the instructions on the bottle—blah, blah, blah, headaches something something cramps something something blah blah—oh! Two caplets. Okay. He shook out two caplets into his hand, came back to her side, put the pill bottle down and handed her the open bottle of still-sort-of-cold grape soda on the counter.

She just looked at him, some kind of emotion in her eyes, half misery, half gratitude. Steven didn’t dare look any further, in case he found something that made him want to kiss her—and held both hands out even further. “C’mon, (Y/N), let me take care of you for once. Okay?”

(Y/N) pursed her lips, but even with as strong headed as she could be sometimes, she sighed and acquiesced. With fingertips lighter than air, she plucked the pills out of his palm, and downed them with a sip and a half of grape soda. And then she let out a little yelp as Steven stepped forward and lifted her up.

“Now grab your plate. We’re going on an adventure.” He said, hoping she wouldn’t notice how badly his arms were shaking. It wasn’t like she was particularly heavy—or like he was particularly weak—but more like he hadn’t eaten in something like 25 hours, and this really was the last of his strength. For a moment, he felt like he was going to faint—but he steadied himself and focused on moving forward with (Y/N) in his arms, toward the couch in the open living room space, near the window where the sun had finally set and left the apartment lit by only lamplight and a dim violet glow from the outdoors.

Even though he had to summon all of his strength and then pray for the rest, Steven brought her over to the couch and made her put her food and drink on the coffee table before her gently laid her down across the cushions. Just then, he felt a little bit like a prince, laying Aurora down in her bed—only (Y/N) was definitely awake. And there was no way she didn’t notice how her little red camisole had slid up while he was carrying her; how he was now holding her bare waist. There was also no way that that wasn’t a complete accident—but even then, Steven found himself reveling in her touch, and the way her back arched beneath his fingertips as he laid her there. He could have sworn she held onto him for a little bit longer than she meant to, just then. She’d had her arms around his neck while he was carrying her over, but then when he laid her down, she grasped onto his shoulders with both hands and dug her nails in just slightly—and she let go, she definitely let go—but boy, what a feeling. Steven reprimanded himself for every single thought that crossed his mind in the next few minutes, and focused on helping her sit up just slightly so she could sip at her grape soda and try to nibble on her pizza.

Though Steven was still shaking with the exhaustion of moving a whole person from one place to another; he knew she didn’t notice, because her eyes were closed in a grimace most of the time. As wonderful as Midol might have been, its effects were definitely not instantaneous; and this was all the reason he provided himself for his next course of action, which was to kneel next to her and try to do for her what she had done for him. Trying his best to control the trembling, Steven laid both hands on her belly, and slowly began to rub gentle circles into her stomach.

She let out a quiet hum of appreciation as she set her soda down and stretched out. Steven wanted to look up at her, but didn’t, because he knew he would blush—but all the same, that didn’t stop him from imagining how her eyes must be closed, her head must be canted back over the arm of the couch, she must have been enjoying it at least a little, because she just sounded like it. He panicked for a second when she moved to take hold of his hands, but all she did then was move them a little lower, to the low, soft expanse between her hips, where she must have been feeling the most pain. Delicately, Steven pressed his palms to her, feeling the warmth radiate through the waistband of her faded blue pajama pants, and he listened with enamor as she sighed in relief.

“There you go,” she murmured, “that feels good.”

Man oh man oh man, what a way to find out you like something, Steven thought as her words rang over and over in his mind, a shiver running up and down his spine—and yet, he told himself no, told himself to hurry up and focus on making her feel better, which was going well already, so well he didn’t want to ruin it. That was where they remained for a while—(Y/N) lying on the couch, in quickly-fading pain and wells of gratitude for her blond-haired kind-hearted friend; and Steven kneeling on the floor, thinking about how soft she was, noticing her every movement, her winces at some, the arch of her back at others. There came a point where he, having moved both hands in opposite directions across the plain of her abdomen, felt the knobs of her hips and couldn’t resist grabbing them, just gently, squeezing them a little, just to… okay, there wasn’t really any reason, besides him not being able to help it. But the way she lifted herself toward him with a small gasp was everything. It sent his heart spiraling out of control, knocking around in his ribcage like a rabbit gone wild, and she grabbed his hands, but she didn’t tear them away from her—he wanted to take them away, but she wouldn’t let him, she just pressed him closer, asking him silently for something he was telling himself repeatedly he would not be able to give her, no; not when she’d just been so mentally torn up, not when she was like this; not when she looked so hopeless and lost, and—but there was emotion in her face, she was begging him, she—

Steven didn’t want to think about it anymore and slid his hands out from under hers to quickly offer her another sip of soda and a bite of pizza.

“No, honey, I’m okay.” She said—a little breathless, Steven noticed—and she laid her head back on the arm of the couch.

Well, that was no big deal. Not really, anyway. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t hungry all of a sudden. It wasn’t like Steven was hungry or anything. No siree, not at all. It wasn’t like that slice of pizza was staring at him with a rainbow aura, calling out to him, Eat me! Eat me!, a sentiment Steven’s brain answered with a Fuck off! Fuck off! But (Y/N) wasn’t paying attention anymore, she was in her own world, closing her eyes to it all and breathing through her nose to try to calm the rest of the way down. So really, she was too busy to notice if, say, somebody were to take a nibble off of her slice of pizza. And… perhaps another nibble. And another.

What was funny about it was that Steven didn’t feel sick at all. Aside from the butterflies in his stomach at the thought of her writhing under his fingertips, there was nothing to be worried about. And he had to eat slowly, incredibly slowly, otherwise (Y/N) would snap out of it and notice the wide-eyed boy sitting at her side, slowly chewing on cheese-and-tomato-bread like he was savoring manna from heaven. He got all the way up until the last little bit of cheese at the crust, and then he saw the flicker of her eyelashes as she opened her eyes, and he threw the crust back down on the plate and wiped his mouth quickly.

She turned her head to look at him, and Steven tried so hard not to glance out of the corner of his eye at the plate on the coffee table, because he knew if he looked, then she would look, and she’d notice, and get all worried again. But she just stared at him, blinking, blushing a little, and then asked, “Could you…?” and laid a hand over her belly again.

Falling back into normalcy for a second, utterly relieved she hadn’t noticed his dinner-snatching, he grinned. “You know, (Y/N), if you want me to touch you, you can just say so.”

If she’d been blushing before, well, now, it looked like all the blood in her had gone straight to her cheeks. She slapped his hand lightly as he went for her waist again, but didn’t try to stop him as he rolled his palms over her aching muscles, instead sighing with relief. “You are so dirty.”

He bent over her, laughing so hard he could barely get a word out edgewise. “You’re the one asking for it.”

“Ah, yes, forgive me. Ahem.” (Y/N) tossed her head back and put a hand to her forehead, adopting the most sarcastic, high-pitched, breathy voice he’d ever heard in his life. “Oh, Steven, you scoundrel, you have me positively aching for your touch… oh, do it, darling, stroke me senseless—”

“I don’t know what kind of fifties housewife you’re trying to sound like, but—”

“Do not say it’s hot. Don’t.” Her normal voice sounded so much deeper, so much richer, and Steven couldn’t help but have a flash of memory at a dream he had where her voice was just as low and beautiful, where she was really underneath him.

“Oh, it’s hot, alright.” He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows, and she stuck out her tongue at him, which just made him laugh harder. “Did the Midol kick in yet?”

“Yeah, Steven, I just want you to play with the waistband of my pajama pants for no reason. No, the Midol hasn't kicked in yet.” She crossed her arms over her chest, but couldn’t help shivering when he slid a flat palm up over her stomach, just barely pressing down, tickling her more than anything else. “God, you’re such a fucking tease.”

“Tease for what?” He asked innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just doing what you did to me earlier. Just a nice belly rub. Like a golden retriever.” He paused, and gave her the most angelic smile he could possibly muster. “...you know. Doggie-style.”

She very nearly sat upright with a gasp as Steven fell into laughter again. He pressed his face to her stomach and giggled as she said “Steven!” in her real breathy voice, the taken-aback one, the shy-girl voice, and she was about to say something more when she suddenly got quiet.

“Steven.”

“Huh?” He asked, lifting his head, still giggling once or twice every few minutes. But—oh, shit. She’d noticed the missing pizza.

“Did you eat that?”

“No, (Y/N), the ghost ate it.” Steven said, and laughed again, but she didn’t even crack a smile, so he quit. “Yeah, I… I did. I was really hungry. And I didn’t feel sick. So… yeah.” He shrugged. “I still don’t feel sick, by the way. My stomach hasn’t even done so much as turn over. So I think that’s a good sign. …Right?” Steven looked to her for reassurance, resting his chin in her lap, staring up at her. She kept staring at the plate, for one minute, maybe two minutes, maybe a thousand—and then she looked at him with such emotion in her eyes that he wasn’t sure whether he should run far away or whether he should pick her up and hug her again.

Ultimately, (Y/N) decided for him. She put her hands on either side of his face and began to speak, slow and soft.

“Steven, I need to tell you something, and I need you to take me seriously. Okay?”

“Is it about the pizza?” He asked, one final attempt at a joke, but her expression quieted him.

“I really need you to take me seriously.” She implored. “Please.”

Steven nodded. She nodded slowly in return.

“Okay, good. I really do need you to listen.” (Y/N) took a deep breath, and then sighed. “I’m glad you’re okay. I mean, it hasn’t been too long, and—never mind, I won’t jinx you. I don’t know how the rest of tonight’s going to go. But I hope it’s true, and that you’re really alright.” She sniffed a little, and Steven wondered if the waterworks were going to spontaneously make their return. “You know, for such a young guy, I can’t believe the shit you’ve gone through. I mean… I don’t even know how many times you’ve come home upset and drunk or otherwise, about how you don’t like this and how you don’t wanna do it anymore; or how you think the guys don’t like you or how you miss your parents and your brothers, and—and if nothing else, well, I just want you to see the good end of it. You know? Steven, I’m trying to—I’m trying to say I want to see you happy again. And I don’t mean the happy you have to put on every morning. I want to see you smile in your sleep. I want you to have those—those stars in your eyes again. I wish this for you. I do.” Steven felt her sweep her thumb over his cheekbone as her eyes grew glassier by the minute. “And I know this sounds fatalistic and cynical and selfish and whatever else, but I can’t come home to an empty apartment again. I don’t want to. I never want to. I need you here. I need you and your bright smile and your beautiful face and your sweet voice and all the things you tell me, when you think I’m listening, and when you think I’m not. And—” She was crying now, still holding his face, still stroking his cheekbone with the soft pad of her thumb, and he stared up at her, feeling as if his heart was pulling at strings. “And I don’t care if you’re angry with me, I just—you can’t keep doing this, you’re wrecking this beautiful person you are and I know I need to help you now before it’s—Steven, I can’t be lonely again. I can’t live without you. I love you.” Her lip wobbled and Steven’s heart broke free of its restraints, finally. “I love you. So if I have to take you to the hospital, or if I have to take you to a halfway house, or if I have to take you to a psychiatrist, or if I—just—I don’t know. Whatever I have to do to keep you alive, please, please don’t hate me for it. I just need you here. Okay? That’s all I need.” She sniffed and finally took her hands away from his face so she could wipe her own.

“Wh…” Steven was at a loss for words, but eventually shook himself out of it, blue eyes wide and blinking, and asked, “What was that last part?”

“Th… that’s all I need?” (Y/N) sniffled again, seeming all tired-out from crying, now, like all her tears had finally been exhausted.

“No, no, the—the other part.”

“Um… please don’t hate me?”

“No, the—”

“I love you?” She asked, shyly, quietly, (e/c) eyes glimmering as church windows after a rainstorm, and Steven threw his arms around her and hugged her tight.

“You love me?” He said into the fabric of her red camisole and felt her pat his shoulders gently.

“I love you, Steven.” She said, softly.

“Like… love-love me?” He asked, peeling himself away from her to look at her again, still unbelieving.

She let out a laugh. “Are we back in kindergarten?”

“Do you love me, or do you just like having me around?” Why was he doubting this? Why was he doubting this at all? Do NOT look a gift horse in the mouth, his mind chimed over and over, and he told it to knock it off.

“Steven.” She said, and put her hands on his cheeks again. “I love you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You just happen to be very fun to have around.”

What Steven wanted to do and what he actually did were two very different things in this moment. What he wanted to do was jump up and scoop her into his arms and kiss her until she was laughing herself silly, and he wanted to twirl her around the room like the little ballerina she was, and wanted to kiss her again, and again, and again; until she told him to stop it or until they both could breathe no more. And what Steven actually did was bury his face in her chest and say, “I love you too, (Y/N). Boy, it took you forever to figure that out.”

“Who said I took forever to figure it out? I’ve loved you since you first made yourself at home.” (Y/N) said while poking his shoulder, and he stifled a laugh.

“Okay, okay. Boy, it took you forever to work up the courage to get it out. There.”

“Thanks.” She said, and he heard the laughter in her voice, the sweetness there. Oh, he loved her. He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. And she loved him. And it shone on him through his skin, this emotion that poured between them, this warmth, this closeness, this beauty. It was almost too much to fathom, and so he stayed there for a little while, just holding her close, the woman of his forever-affections, in awe that she cared so much about him.

But then he had to beg the question—the other thing her tangent had put on his mind. Steven blinked and took a quiet breath before asking. “(Y/N), do you think I’m going to die?”

“Oh, God, Steven.” She trembled at the thought—literally trembled, he felt it—and stammered. “Don’t make me—well, there’s—there’s all these people doing a myriad of whatever’s at the parties you go to, and every so often I hear from one of the girls at work about somebody overdosing, and there was that one kid who almost died but then got resuscitated and—and—I’m just scared. That’s all. I’m scared.” She wrapped her arms around him in the world’s most protective hug, and, even though he was leaning into her embrace in a rather odd position—still kneeling on the floor, and all—he wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else.

“Aw, (Y/N).” He whispered against the softness of her chest. “Don’t be scared. I’m here for you. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

Her grip on him tightened a little, then, and Steven sensed she was about to say something, when the world’s most earth-shattering growl echoed through the room. There was a moment where they laid in silence, (Y/N) blushing, and Steven trying to fight back laughter, and then he said,

“Gee, (Y/N), if you were hungry, you could've just said something.”

“Shut up,” She muttered as he leaned back to let her sit up, “I didn’t want to ruin the moment.”

“Yeah, well.” He grinned. “Moment’s over. Now it’s pizza time.”

She laughed as he made a show of waltzing over to the pizza box, picking out another plate, and microwaving her a couple of slices. And when he waltzed back over to her, about a minute later; she looked more alive than she had all day.

(Y/N) smiled up at him, the blond boy she loved so dearly, and the steaming-hot, slightly-bubbling pizza he held out to her. “Why don’t you have another slice, too? Seems like the first one didn’t do you any harm.”

“Oh, man, I’m so glad you said that.” Steven said, and bounded back over to the kitchen island where the pizza box lay, helpless to the cheese-and-tomato-loving predators of the household. “I could eat this entire thing if I really wanted to. And I really want to, but—you know. I figure I gotta go easy, right?” He smiled back at her, and she nodded, chewing on a bite of her own delicious slice. The microwave beeped indignantly when he punched in the time, and beeped again when his pizza was ready, and then beeped again after he shut it, to which he stuck out his tongue, and made (Y/N) laugh. And then, in another singular leap, he was back by her side, walking around the coffee table and sitting next to her on the couch.

The next few moments passed by in a blur, as if it were all a dream—and though Steven found himself worrying about whether or not it was indeed a dream, if he had really woken up at all that afternoon; he also found himself at home in her presence, perfectly content to watch her munch happily on her pizza while South Park played on the TV. They ate together, mocked Cartman in nasally, high-pitched voices together, laughed together, and when she offered him a sip of grape soda—well, they drank together, too. Steven couldn’t help but think about how her lips puckered so delicately against the edge of the bottle, a kiss to the glass; and sort of an indirect one to him when he sipped from the same spot, trying to be as delicate as her. At some point—in the middle of the fourth episode, maybe—(Y/N) leaned back on the couch with a sigh. And slowly, without looking at her to give himself away, Steven snuck closer and closer and finally laid down on top of her, snuggling up to the crux of her neck and breathing in the warm air around her that still smelled like sunshine and cocoa and all things good in life.

“You really like it there, don’t you?” She asked, a giggle hidden underneath her sing-songing tone, and Steven just had to reply honestly.

“Yeah! Of course I do. You’re so comfy, (Y/N).” He pushed himself impossibly closer, smiling against her skin and closing his eyes to the world as she hummed in intrigue and shuffled a little to be able to put her arms around him. There was nowhere safer than this, Steven thought. Nowhere safer than in her arms. Because she’d carried him through the day, as miserable as it was, and he had tried his best to do the same for her, and—and it had turned out so magnificently. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling more and more, until his cheeks hurt; at the thought of it all. She loved him. Enough to stay with him, enough to take care of him. Enough to know the things he liked and didn’t like and enough to tell him the truth. Enough to confide in him. Enough to cherish him. Enough to value him as part of her life. Enough to… the list went on and on and on, and Steven thought about it all up until she moved to curl a leg over his hip, the feeling of which just about made his heart stop, because—well, because—now their hips were just about pressed together and Steven really couldn’t think with that kind of thing happening, and—

—and it didn’t matter anyway, because then she started to comb through his hair with her fingers. She liked to twirl it, too. He felt the familiar soft tug as she spun a lock of pure gold around her fingertip and then let it gently slide down, only to pick it up and twirl it again. Steven was putty in her hands, absolutely, completely and totally, and she knew it. He knew it too. And he was pretty sure she loved it as much as he did, because just then, he felt her bend down and press a kiss to the top of his head, which made him open his eyes and pull back to look at her.

“You okay?” (Y/N) whispered, eyes shining brighter than the television set in the dim of night.

Steven nodded, even though he knew that on the inside, the butterflies had returned and were now wreaking havoc on his internal organs, fluttering and beating him with their little wings. His heart was in his throat as he watched her, the way she began to lean towards him, and he knew what she wanted. He really did. But all of a sudden, the events of the entire day flashed through his head again, and he knew he had to do something before she kissed him.

“Uh—um—one second!” He got up as quick as he could, and bolted off down the hallway, stumbling slightly on the way up.

(Y/N) was left there on the couch in confusion, but only for a moment. Oh, God, he was probably going to be sick again. She felt the cold pit in her stomach come back as she jumped off the couch and raced to find him, almost tripping a few times in the relative darkness of the apartment now that the sun had gone down; and she heard water running from the tap in his bathroom—not a good sign. And when she reached the doorway of the bathroom, her worst fears were… actually… not confirmed.

Steven was brushing his teeth like a madman, in the middle of an intense spit-and-rinse when he caught sight of her.

“(Y/N),” he whined, “You were supposed to stay there.”

(Y/N) couldn’t say anything in response at first. She was too busy doubling over in laughter, holding her stomach, the side of the doorway; anything to keep her upright as the laughs just tumbled out. “Steven—oh my God—ahahahahaha!—Steven, you…”

“Oh, knock it off.” His face began to glow pink again as he scrubbed his teeth with the brush one more time and spat out more minty suds. “There are a few things you wouldn’t want to taste…”

She just laughed harder and held up a pointer finger as if to say, one second, and then she straightened up, still giggling, still trying to breathe normally, and retreated down the hall. In a moment or two, she returned with her own toothbrush, the cute little (f/c) one, and gestured for him to hand her the toothpaste.

“It’s only fair.” She said, and then pressed her lips tight to keep more laughter from spilling out. Steven could have kissed her right then and there, but instead watched as she brushed her teeth with the biggest smile ever on her face, and then as she rinsed and spat and dried her toothbrush and set it down on the countertop next to his. And funnily enough, that was one of the gestures of her love that he would remember about her forever. How she always arranged her things neatly alongside his. Steven longed to think more about that; to wonder what other things of hers she would soon put alongside his own (they could make a kickass record collection in the living room, he thought; if she was willing to organize all of hers…), but then she took his hand and beamed and raced back over to the couch with him in tow, giggling all the while.

“Now, where were we?” She asked as she swung herself onto the couch and he climbed on top of her.

“Mmm, I don’t know. Right about here?” Steven got as close as he dared to, feeling the soft puffs of warm air from between her lips like peppermint-scented breaths of a chimney in the wintertime, and heard her laugh quiet, rich, and deep as she leaned in to close the distance between them.

“Riiight here,” she mumbled, and kissed him.

Steven felt like his heart was screaming and bouncing around in his chest, and there was this beautiful sensation, this white-gold, this pure pleasure, this sweet sanguine thing that dripped down through his veins like life itself as he held her close and she kissed him and he kissed her. The world could have ended, and he wouldn’t have known it. He was the happiest man alive. He knew it. He did. Steven Adler was the happiest goddamn man alive, and all he wanted to do was lie there with her and kiss her until dawn, until next dusk, until forever came to rest.

That was what he wanted to do, at least, until he decided he wanted to do more; partially because it was what he had been fantasizing about all day; and also because (Y/N) had slid her hands down to his waist again and was smoothing over the grey fabric of his pajama shirt, soft and slow, like she knew what she was doing. He sighed against her lips and let all his thoughts fly across his brain, thinking of how sweet she was, how playful; how soft her lips, how nice her hair—and how beautiful she was, even in one layer too many of clothing. Steven wanted to touch her too, but he had no clue where to put his hands first. Eventually, she decided for him by guiding his hands to her sides, and they took a moment to break the kiss and breathe a little, to stare at each other and take it all in.

“I love you,” Steven sighed again, and before she could say anything in reply, he kissed her again, deeper this time, caressing her as gently as if she were a glass figurine. His fingertips danced lower and lower as she squeezed his hips and ran her hands along the outside of his thighs, which, though a natural movement, made him shiver and kiss her harder, pulling her closer to him, reaching for the waistband of her faded blue pants, and—

She broke away from him for the second time, biting her lip, her eyes half-lidded and full of dreams, but with a twinge of nervousness. “Oh, let’s just kiss, sugar. Let’s just kiss.”

“You’re such a tease,” Steven whined jokingly, but obliged, despite feeling like a can of shaken soda. His heart was still jumping every which way as she laughed.

“And you’re a turn-on.” She grinned shyly and shook her head. “I’d love to, but—you know. It’s Red Tuesday and you don’t want any of that mess. So we can just kiss.”

“Well, yeah. Okay.” Steven said, and then he smiled like an angel and snapped her waistband lightly, making her gasp and jump. “It might help your cramps, though.”

“Oh, be quiet.” (Y/N) wriggled around beneath him, fighting off her smile, turning bright rose-red all the way up to the tips of her ears and the crests of her cheekbones.

“Make me?” Steven asked, and she smiled even wider before leaning in all the way to put her beautiful lips on his again, all mint-and-sugar, all soft and warm. It was so good that he found himself closing his eyes without even noticing, falling through halls of air as she wrapped her arms around him and ravished him; the most natural high he had ever felt. He was high as a kite, really. He was drowning in her sweetness. No, actually—he thought to himself, even as he felt like losing all coherent thought—he wasn’t drowning in her sweetness. Not at all. He was alive in it. Swimming in it. Diving into it. And all of a sudden, the space in his mind was eclipsed with beautiful imagery; of blue swimming pools and the California waves, of a Cadillac DeVille with a boy and a girl lying across the back, and the idea of them together, spending every waking moment like—like—well. Like this.

“Can we do this all the time? Please?” Steven found himself asking; unsure of who had broken it off this time, but wanting to know, begging to know. He rested his forehead on hers for the moment, in wonder at how delicate and loving of a gesture it really was. It was like a cat. Wasn’t that how cats said ‘I love you’? Steven didn’t know for sure; but if he had been a cat, and if she had been a cat, that was how he would have said it. He nuzzled her gently, bumping their noses together, and the soft noise she made before she spoke melted his heart all over again.

“Yeah, Stevie, we can. Anytime you want.”

“Awesome,” he mumbled, eyes still closed, still nervous that he might be dreaming. “(Y/N), I love you so much.”

“So I’ve heard.” She laughed. “I love you too, Steven.”

If you’d asked Steven to tell you what happened after that, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you much. He knew the television kept going in the background, the screen turning all warm and fuzzy, and he knew her embrace only got warmer and softer as the night went on and they kept their arms secure around each other. There was a shadow of a conversation they had when she picked him up and began the slow walk of carrying him to bed. Steven didn't know what they'd talked about, nor what had really happened once she laid him down to bed and climbed in with him, but he did remember the feeling—kind of like a furnace, kind of like a fireplace, rings of gold happiness twirling around him like he was Saturn and she was a brilliant moon; the love of his life, the queen of his heart.

Then there was a quiet yawn or two. He fell asleep smiling, with her arms around him and the pain all gone.

-

And for once, Steven woke up feeling pretty okay.

Well, he was still hungry. Of course he was. But his head was a lot clearer. He didn’t have this burning feeling, he didn’t have any cravings—not yet, anyway—and he didn’t feel sick at all; no upside-down stomach, no throbbing head, nothing. It was wonderful. And with all this newfound clarity, the next thing he noticed was that they were in (Y/N)’s room. This explained quite a few things—like why the blankets were all so soft and heavy, and why the pillows smelled just like her shampoo, and why the sunlight was poking gently between the two barely-closed drapes across the room—but most of all, it explained why she was curled up behind him, with her arm reaching over him in the same way a little spoon tries so very hard to be a big spoon. He didn’t mind, though. He didn’t mind at all.

The sunshine began to deepen from pale yellow into gold, and Steven, still listening to (Y/N)’s occasional snore, was tiring of looking at the same side of the room. Slowly, carefully, he turned over, making sure to keep (Y/N) as still as possible, and he snuggled closer to her, resting his chin atop her head as she murmured something and then let out another snore. He couldn’t help but smile, then, as his eyes danced over the wall of pictures behind them. Her parents. Her pet. Her beloved daffodils. Her favorite singer. And…

…Him.

“We made it,” Steven whispered to the blond boy laying across the back of the DeVille, with those bright, worldly blue eyes, that grin that seemed bigger than life itself. “Hey. We made it.”

Any sooner and he might have started crying again. But at that moment, (Y/N) let out the loudest snore Steven had ever heard in his life, and he burst into laughter instead, which startled her awake.

“Wha—who?! What?! Where?!” Still in a daze, and still with her hair mussed up, she bolted upright from the bed, scattering blankets and pillows as Steven fell backwards, hooting with laughter.

“(Y/N),” he giggled, and once he could get a breath in, he said, “you’re the best.”

At this, (Y/N) paused, and then sighed and held out her hands to him with a smile. “Come here, you.” And that was how they spent the rest of the morning ensconced in each other’s loving embraces, trading kisses back and forth in the glow of dawn—well, until breakfast time, that is.