steve harrington imagines

let's hear it for the boy

"Let's hear it for the boy!"

You shriek with laughter as Steve spins you out of his arms, grip still tight on your hand as he holds you at arm's length before you spin back in, pulling another peal of laughter from you. You're not quite sure how cleaning the kitchen after breakfast with Steve has devolved into dancing and singing — equally as bad — together, but you can't say you mind. He's wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants low on his hips, and you're still only in a t-shirt and underwear. You know that you probably look a bit crazy, but it's just the two of you in your small apartment, singing your hearts out in the soft morning light filtering in through the kitchen window.

Steve has a tight grip on you now that you're back in his arms, and he dips you down, leaving you scrambling to grasp his shoulders. You know he won't drop you. Probably. But you still don't particularly like feeling like you could slip at any moment. He's grinning down at you, soft hair falling into his face as he leans down to press a quick kiss to your lips — so quick you almost think you imagined it — before he's pulling you back up, singing along with the song loudly, "Let's hear it for my baby!"

Pressing a sloppy kiss to Steve's cheek, you pull back so you can jump around your cramped kitchen to the beat of the song. You spot a clean spatula on the counter and grab it quickly as you walk by so it can be your microphone for the time being, singing dramatically as you turn to face your boyfriend again, "My baby may not be rich, he's watchin' every dime."

Having followed you the short distance, Steve is up on you again, hands on your hips, pulling your body into his as you dance together, absolutely beaming at each order. One of the chairs at the tiny table tucked into the corner of your kitchen is still pulled out, and you seem to have the same thought at the same time. You jump slightly, Steve's strong hands on your hips lifting you up and guiding you so the seat of the chair is under your feet. You're at least a foot taller than him now, and his hands linger against your bare thighs, staring up at you in what you can only describe as utter adoration, his hazel eyes wide behind the frames of his glasses, lips quirking up at the corner.

Clutching the spatula in your hand, you bring it back up to your mouth as your microphone, your other hand resting over your heart, eyes closing and hips swaying as you sing, "But he loves me, loves me, loves me," you quickly open your eyes, pointing at Steve with a grin as you sing the next part, "we always have a real good time."

You give Steve a knowing look at the next part and are barely able to hold it together, giggling through the line, "And maybe he sings off key, but that's alright by me."

He can't even pretend to be annoyed; he now has his own spatula in his hand and shoves his free hand into his hair to get it out of his face as he also props one foot up on your chair to lean up towards you. You lean down to meet him halfway, nose brushing his as the fingers of your free hand caress his jaw. Both of you are still singing loudly, even this close, "'Cause what he does, he does so well, makes me wanna yell—" You give him an over-exaggerated wink at this, and stand up straight on the chair, throwing one arm in the air and nearly hitting the light hanging above the table near you as you bounce on your toes in the chair, "Let's hear it for the boy!"

Steve keels over with wild laughter, a sound you want to hear for the rest of your life. A sound you hope you'll hear every day from now on. Because of your friends, and stupid jokes, or funny stories, and impromptu dance parties, or even nothing in particular. If this was life with Steve, you wanted nothing more.

He finally pulls himself together enough to look up at you, eyes crinkling with pure happiness in the way you adore as you wiggle your eyebrows dramatically and point to him again, "Maybe he's no Romeo, but he's my lovin' one-man show! Let's hear it for the boy!"

As you start singing the next line, something about him pulling you near, Steve wraps himself around your torso, one arm firmly around your waist the other hooked under one of your thighs. Before you can even ask what he's doing or process what's happening, Steve whisks you off of the chair. You let out a another shriek, clinging to Steve's shoulders with one hand in his messy hair as he spins you off of the chair until your feet are on the ground again, "Steve!"

There's an unapologetic look on his face as he giggles, planting another kiss to the corner of your mouth. You're unsure if that was his intended target, but you don't mind either way, breaking out into a grin. The smile you're giving him is blinding, brighter than the morning sun, and he returns the grin, shouting over the music, "I love you!"

"Love you too!" you reply, even though he can't hear you over the loud song. You're quickly back to singing, jumping up and down, moving your body to the rhythm however it wants. Steve wishes more than anything that he had a video camera with him to capture this moment. A moment he'd consider one of the best of his life thus far.

The song is winding down but you're still going, and you turn to Steve, eyes and hair wild as you point to him from across the kitchen, "Let's hear it for my man!" Something about you draws him in until you're meeting halfway, "Let's hear it for the boy! Let's hear it for my baby!"

A laugh is caught in your throat as the next song starts, but you're out of breath, cheek pressed into Steve's bare chest with his arms around you. His own chest heaves under your touch as he tries to catch his breath, his hands pressing to the small of your back to keep you close as you both dissolve into another fit of giggles.

When you finally catch your breath and look up at Steve, he's already staring at you, and the light coming in through the kitchen window is making him glow. His hand smooths over your hairline before sliding down to cup your jaw, "You killed that, baby."

You huff out a laugh at that, leaning up so you can rest your elbows on his shoulders, fingers sliding into his hair, "Pretty easy to get into it when I'm singing about my boy."

Soft pink crawls up Steve's neck, dusting over his cheeks and coloring the tips of his ears at your statement, though he's smiling again. He pulls away to look through your shared collection of tapes, calling behind him, "Okay, round two. Gotta find a song to sing to you this time!"