FIXATION

SIX

SIX: BUT FIRST IT WILL PISS YOU OFF.
(part two)
november 2nd, 1984.

"Ow..!"

"Stop being such a baby. That barely even hurt."

Rosalie dabbed off Steve's split knuckles with peroxide for the third time. Resulting in yet another wince from him. When she first applied the sharp smelling liquid and he cried out, she pitied his pain, maybe even felt for him. But now, she simply rolled her eyes at his whining. He slapped her helping hands away from his cuts and bruises. He kept shaking his head.

"You wouldn't know how my body reacts to pain," he squinted his eyes at her before tipping his head back and drinking his beer once again. Rosalie had watched him down three beers now as he sighed her name. "You're not me, Rosie." He giggled, then burped, calling her by the nickname.

"Steve. You're drunk, you shouldn't even be feeling any pain." She told him, handing his ice pack back to him and standing up from the couch, taking the bloody cotton balls in her hands. He smirked a small laugh, watching her walk off.

"I am not drunk, Rose." Steve yelled to her when she entered the kitchen. She reached under the sink's cabinet and tossed the trash away in the hidden bin. Her eyes scanned the clean room. The smell of lavender and faint spices filled her lungs. The kitchen felt too big to her, still. Even being in it for the third time now, the room was oddly large. Maybe if she yelled 'hello' an echo would shout back 'hello' at her.

Rosalie snickered at her thoughts, then turned away from the kitchen. When she walked back into the living room, she eyed the three empty beer cans by Steve's bare feet then smirked at him. "Sure you aren't drunk." She agreed with him then sat beside him again and tapped his leg as if supporting his ludicrous thoughts.

"I swear," he sighed, setting his hands on his forehead. "Believe me, Rose."

"I'm going to go take a shower," she paused, watching as he rolled his head from side to side on the back of the couch. "Are you gonna be okay down here on your own?"

"Yes," he rolled his eyes sarcastically. "God, Rose, you act like I can't take care of myself without you or something."

She stood once again and eyed him skeptically before making her way to the stairs, "because you can't." There was no way Steve heard her, and if he did he didn't say anything. And Steve Harrington always said something. But this time he just started playing an imaginary drum with his fingers as drumsticks.

Rosalie padded her way up the stairs and went into Steve's room. Even with the lights out, she could almost make her way to his closet in search for comfy clothes to snag from him. His room was a mess. Messier than hers, cleaner than Ivy's. Shoes peppered the floor, one shoe poked out from under his bed. There were a few pens she spied, and she tried not to step over the nails that were, for some reason, on the carpet of his bedroom. She was almost successful in not falling, her feet didn't step on any odd item, but somehow she had tripped over his shoe and fell right beside his bed.

Why does he have so many damn shoes?

"Are you okay!?" Steve screamed bloody murder from down stairs. She tried not to laugh at his reaction.

"I'm fine!"

The two had been at his house for almost over an hour now. So far Steve had showered and changed his clothes while Rosalie rummaged through his house in search of a first aid kit. Every time she came at him with a bandage or an ice pack he pushed her away. They made a deal that if she could clean his cuts he could drink up to five beers that night. Now that she thought about it, with her upstairs rummaging through his drawers for an old t-shirt, he could drink as much as he wanted and lie about it once she asked. She made a mental note to take a quick shower.