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Steve Harrington knows a lot of things about Nancy Wheeler.
He knows she takes her coffee way too hot, and then forgets to drink it until it's lukewarm. He knows she likes collecting cute little stickers and pasting them on her locker and the front of all her notebooks. He knows that when she’s deep in thought, she taps her pen against her teeth, hard enough to leave little marks. He knows her favorite lip gloss (he’s tasted it enough times to memorize the flavor: strawberry), favorite movie, and even her celebrity crushes.
They’ve been dating for three months. It’s hard not to keep track, to file away new little tidbits every chance he gets.
What he doesn’t know–what bothers him much more than it should–is her favorite color.
Every time he thinks he’s got it figured out, it seems to change.
She wears that cute pink sweater almost every day, so he assumed it could be pink. But she wears that blue skirt just as much. So maybe it could be blue? But all her notebooks are purple. Her lip gloss is red. Her favorite slippers are yellow.
Her bedroom, when he’s finally invited into it, doesn’t help at all.
It stumps him even more.
Sure, her walls are covered in cute pink stripes. But her curtains are light green. So are a couple of throw pillows placed on top of her comforter. Little pops of color spread across the length of the room, like she couldn’t commit herself to one.
Steve stands in the middle of her space, trying to pretend he isn’t taking in every inch of it. Nancy digs through a couple of drawers, rifling through the contents.
“You can sit, you know,” Nancy says over her shoulder, followed by one of her cute little giggles Steve has grown to love so much.
“Right, yeah. Sorry,” he mutters, sitting down on her mattress. It dips beneath his weight. He places his hands on his knees, breathing in the soft floral scent of her perfume. It’s like it's soaked into her pillows.
“Aha! Found it,” she says, spinning around and showing him a book.
“What’s that?”
“Pride and Prejudice,” She answers with a smile on her face.
Steve cocks his head, an eyebrow raising. “Isn’t that one of those sappy romance books?”
Quickly, she shakes her head, sitting down next to him. “Absolutely not. It’s much more complex than that.”
While Nancy drones on, Steve can’t help but stare at her mouth. At the red glistening on it.
Maybe red is her favorite color, then? It’s certainly his favorite.
“You don’t care,” she murmurs, giving him that little pout that always makes him melt.
“Yes, I do! I’m listening!”
“Steve,” Nancy whispers, unable to hide her smile. “You were looking at my lips!”
“Okay. Guilty. But can you blame me?”
“Yes! I wanted to read this with you,” she says, holding the book in front of her face shyly.
“We can. Just maybe in a few minutes?” He gives her his best puppy dog eyes, a pout falling onto his lips.
“A few minutes,” she whispers slowly, brushing his hair out of his eyes.
His head dips down, lips chasing hers. Nancy melts, almost immediately, just like he had hoped. Her arms wrap around his neck, head tilting to the side. Steve’s heart pounds in his chest once he feels her lips spread into a smile beneath his.
As his tongue slips out to taste that shiny gloss, all he can feel is pinks, lilacs, yellows. Warm, bright, and hers.
But when she curls into his side afterward, book propped against his chest, sweater brushing his arm, he notices the quiet blue of her sleeve instead.
And he thinks: Okay. Maybe I’m getting closer.
୨♡୧
Steve Harrington is stressing.
He’s standing in the middle of Melvald’s floral section–because apparently that’s a thing now–hands shoved in his jacket pockets, staring at rows and rows of flowers like they’ve personally wronged him. Well, at this point, it genuinely feels like they have. Like they’re sitting there, laughing in his face.
Red, like her lip gloss. It feels too safe.
Green, like her bedsheets. Not a thing, in this store at least. Unless you count the flower stems. Maybe he could paint them?
Blue, like her throw pillows. There are a few dyed roses, but would she like those? They seem too fake.
Yellow, like her slippers. Cheerful, sure. But maybe too much so.
Color matters. Color means things. And Nancy Wheeler is not someone you mess that up with.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, thinking, a low, sharp breath blowing through his nose.
“You look like you’re choosing a car over there,” a raspy voice echoes from across the store.
“Oh- Hi, Ms. Byers,” he says quickly, straightening.
He knows the woman. Heard plenty of stories about her before. Knows her son, too; the kid has always freaked him out a little bit, though he’d never admit that. But it slipped his mind that she works here.
“Harrington, right? Valentine’s Day crisis?” She questions, a name tag pinned to her sweater, a tired but kind smile on her face.
“Yeah. You could say that,” Steve huffs out, dragging his fingers through his wind-tousled hair. “I don’t know what color to get for my girlfriend.”
“I’m sure she’d be happy with anything. I thought teenage boys didn’t buy flowers anymore,” Joyce says with a laugh.
At that, Steve just chuckles. “I think I have an idea.”
୨♡୧
Steve fixes his hair on her front porch, a bouquet in his hand. Colors erupt from the wrinkled paper in his hand: pinks, blues, purples, yellows, greens, whites. Some of them are roses. Some are carnations, poppies, and daisies. He even spent some extra money on sunflowers, which he spent even more time trimming the stems.
Nerves buzz through his body, his breath shallow in his chest. It feels ridiculous to be so nervous over something so trivial. They’re just flowers. It’s just a color. Or maybe a few.
Steve has never been the type to get like this around girls. Him and Tommy would mock boys who got all gooey over their girls.
His crown is surely rusting.
Before he can think any more about it, the front door swings open.
And fuck, if he were more religious, he’d get onto his knees and praise god for sending down the angel standing before him.
Her hair is in loose, flowy curls–soft, mousey silk shining under the warm lights of her living room. A pink blouse sits on her shoulders, sleeves flowing down her arms and brushing her wrists. A white floral skirt covers her thighs, stopping right above her knee. Her toenails are painted the same color as her blouse, strappy heels winding around her ankles.
He literally can’t breathe. All the air is squeezed out of his lungs, his heart hammering so hard in his chest he’s ready to faint.
“Wow- Nance,” he breathes out. “You look beautiful.”
Nancy giggles shyly, her cheeks pinkening under his gaze. “Are those for me?” She whispers, eyes falling on the bouquet in his hand.
He suddenly feels stupid. Insanely stupid. “Oh- Uh, yeah. Sorry, I didn’t know what your favorite color was, so I got them… Um, all.”
The tips of his ears redden to match the color of her lip gloss.
“Steve, they’re perfect,” she whispers, taking the bouquet from his hands. “I love them,” she says, eyes fluttering as she inhales their scent.
Carefully, she places the bouquet down and wraps her arms around his middle, pressing her forehead against his chest. His own arms wrap around her shoulders, pressing his lips into her hair, inhaling the lavender scent of her shampoo.
“It’s pink,” she murmurs into his jacket.
“Oh,” he whispers, pulling back and looking into the swirling oceans of her irises. “You want me to take the rest of the flowers back?”
“No!” she says with a chuckle, shaking her head quickly. “I also like yellow, like the flicks in your eyes when the sun hits them just right. And blue, your favorite jeans that you always insist are clean when they’re obviously not.”
Steve scoffs, trying not to let his voice break. “They are clean.”
“Sure, Harrington. I like green, because you always can’t keep your eyes off of me when I wear it. Red, too. That colors you when you get all flustered. Your cheeks turn so red, and you always pretend they don’t, but I can see it.”
His throat tightens.
“I like purple and pink because they’re me. I like the rest of them because they remind me of you. So, I like them all, I guess. I like you. And everything you make me feel.”
Steve exhales a shaky laugh, pulling her closer. “Wheeler, don’t make me cry on your porch like an idiot.”
“Well, you are an idiot, Steve Harrington.”
“And you’re beautiful, Nancy Wheeler. And you look really good in pink,” he whispers, pulling her lips towards his.
As he kisses her, slow and sure, every color finally makes sense to him.