Surrender // Steve Harrington x Reader

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄

A week later and you're already almost done with your books. You'd been harassing the pages constantly, siphoning any and every morsel of information you could gain from them. Even now, you had a book of poems perched between your fingers, brows creased in concentration as you use your other hand to eat an apple as you sit at the kitchen counter.

Steve had been working most of the time, which meant you could focus on ignoring the irritating scratch inside your ribs every time he was close. There was a fine line between like and utter disdain and you were tiptoeing along it, trying not to fall too far on one side for fear it might ruin everything you'd been working towards.

So you avoid him. You eat breakfast together and dinner, not saying much; you, too interested in your studies and him too tired from long shifts to want to break you away from it. He was content just being around you, so long as it meant having company other than his own. 

It had been just over a month since you'd been here now. Steve's parents occasionally came back for a day or two, in which instance you'd hide out in your forgotten corner of the house that they never went to, or up in the attic when they stayed any longer.

Steve was apologetic, but you assured him he had no need to be. It was their house after all, and you were simply the guest they didn't even know about. 

Besides. The attic reminded you of Henry's, though it was far better put together in comparison. It was more homely in your opinion. Steve's photos of when he was a child were up there and, after refusing for hours, you finally had given in and flicked through them. 

At first, they made you chuckle, but then you were overcome by a deep sadness. Watching the pages turn on a life that was so privileged in comparison to your own. Watching him grow up with not a care in the world, a family that - for the most part despite their absence as he got older - very obviously loved him dearly.

It brought fresh resentment into your heart for him, instilling once again that same reservation you held before towards him in your jealousy. You were grateful for the books to delve into, feigning focus so you didn't have to address him when it was back to just the two of you again.

Steve had left that morning without so much as a goodbye, crumpled under the weight of working so much and the chill you showed him when he was at home.

Your mind drifts as you read the poetry book; focused on a section of love poems. One in particular sticks out to you, plucking at that itch in your chest and tearing it open.

"If you feel like you're falling apart, 
fall into my arms.
I promise I will catch every little piece of you,
and I promise
I will always love your brokenness."

The words resonate in your mind and you read the lines over and over, a soft sigh escaping you as you close the book and put it down, fingertips rubbing stress from the bridge of your nose.

'Are you there, Henry?' You call out, voice weak even in your mind, like you weren't even really trying that hard. Your attempts had come less and less these days, the lack of an answer stopping you from feeling hope about it anymore. Lifting your hand, you turn your wrist and run your fingertips over the scarring skin, an angry rise of purple and pink that coated what was once your tattoo.

It was like all traces of your past were slowly being erased.

 Despite yourself, you find yourself looking to the book once more, fingers rising from your wrist as you will the book to open with powers that had sat unused for some time. 

The pages flicker and stop at the poem you'd just read, teeth chewing on your lower lip as you slam the book closed once more and head into the living room, where the television droned on. Though, it seemed, not even that could satisfy you. It was like you were irritated to your core, body not settling and mind clouding with anything and everything but what you really wanted to think about. Or, rather, who.