Stranger Things Oneshots

Déjà Vu Blues | Steve Harrington

Steve Harrington x Female!Reader

Summary: Past feelings about one of the worst nights of Steve's life has him reeling from the eerily similar scenario he finds himself in. And he really can't stomach a repeat especially when you hold his delicate heart in your hands.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, very tame and they are cry babies :)

A/N: I've been a leech to fanfics for far too long. Consider this my penance and my contribution.

Tumblr Link: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/retrobutterflies/691625579032821760?source=share

*****

This scenario was uncomfortably familiar. From the eerily similar playlist down to the repugnant bowl of punch whose dark red color stirred up a pit of anxiety in Steve's stomach. The cold pale ale in his hand that he miraculously found in the dredges of a cooler was becoming more of a toy than a beverage. The metal crinkled and bent every time his fingers clenched and by the time he realized he was nearly crushing it he set it down on the counter harshly, droplets littering the marble countertop.

His eyes roamed the living room, bouncing from face to face, head to head, looking for a glimpse of you. You had disappeared only twenty minutes ago with your friends to play beer pong or smoke or touch the grass or–Whatever. You went to do something without him and he was anxious. He knew he was being irrational. You had other friends. You were allowed to enjoy a party. You were allowed to have fun, something he, apparently, wasn't sure how to have anymore.

Maybe it was losing everyone he had called a friend for most of his teenage years. Maybe it was Nancy Wheeler ripping his heart out and stomping on it at its most vulnerable state. Or maybe it was the lasting effects of inter-dimensional trauma making him believe everyone he loved was going to die. He knew it was a vicious combination of the three. And, probably, the overarching theme of his unrequited, pathetic crush on his best friend.

He was the biggest fucking cliché imaginable. And here he was, eyeing the birthday decorations that overwhelmed Tina's (or was this Tasha's?) house, seeing everyone laughing and dancing and singing and he was moping in the corner glancing at the back door every other second in the hopes that you would stroll in and make his irrational, annoying anxiety go away.

Fuck.

He picked up his pale ale again, grimacing at it before touching the metal to his lips and tipping it back. The coolness was welcomed but he knew the alcohol wasn't going to help his mental state. In fact, it was probably going to make everything worse. But he pushed the warning bells to the back of his mind, squinted his eyes tight, and emptied the can moments later.

"Hell yeah, Harrington! Shotgun!" Some kid dressed in a toga Steve had never even seen before slapped him hard on the back before puncturing his own beer can and slamming it back at an alarming rate. Steve gave him a wince before digging back into that same cooler for his second of many.

By the time you had finished your long conversation with your friends about some drama you had been an unwilling witness to, it was an hour since you had last seen Steve. Your friends scattered off one by one and you made your way back inside hoping to find him somewhere amongst the chaos.

You had felt guilty leaving him earlier but the insistent tug from your friends and the reassuring smile Steve had sent your way made you acquiesce. And you hoped he was feeling better. You could tell the whole ride to Tina's house that he was agitated. Half a year ago at this same house he was having his heart broken and his world shattered. That had been a nightmare. And it took you a while to navigate the aftermath and help piece Steve back together. And even then, even after he had concluded that him and Nancy were better off as friends, something else had happened a few months ago that had left him bloody and scarred. Something he refused to tell you about despite your countless efforts.