Heart's Done Time (Aerosmith Fanfiction)

Chapter twenty

Sesame's POV
From the time the tickle war ended in a bout of coughing on Steven's side of the battle, he was slightly reserved.
Not too reserved, of course, since we'd long lost track of the number of vodka drinks we'd taken and were thoroughly and satisfactorily drunk, but reserved enough that he seemed worried to let me see any sign that he was still sick.
He always hid his face when he coughed, and told me that he felt fine and I shouldn't bother putting the thermometer in his mouth when he was surely on the mend, but I felt too drunk to push right now, and so I left him alone for the most part.
Or, at least, avoided the topic of illness. I hardly felt like leaving him alone when I was so drunk, in love, and downright horny, and it was obvious he felt the same.
I was hesitant, though, to let anything happen when he was not only sick, but injured as well, and I was forced to tell him so every time our kisses grew just a bit too passionate or our general skin-on-skin interactions went a little too far to brush off. It was shitty (to say the least) but it felt necessary, especially when he exhausted himself by simply walking to the bathroom and back. Yes, sex was definitely not a good idea just yet.
That didn't stop us from enjoying each other's company, though; we spent the majority of the time talking and listening to the Yardbirds, and the rest of the time kissing and cuddling, his head pressed to my collarbones and my fingers tangling themselves in his curls. It felt a lot like how I'd imagined Heaven would be.
"Hey, Pink?" he asked after spending some time of silence in the aforementioned cuddling position. It was comfy, intimate, and warm, and I found myself dozing a little under the effects of the alcohol. His voice woke me right up, though.
"Hm?" I hummed by way of an answer, comfortingly massaging his scalp when I felt him shivering.
He was sweating a bit, and his cheek still felt feverish pressed against the skin my low-cut blouse left bare. I brushed this out of my mind, though, and focused on his words instead. "Does growing up scare you? Like, do you ever feel unprepared for the future?" he asked, and I blamed the dramatic change in topic on the vodka in both of our systems.
"Of course I do. Doesn't everybody?" I answered, resting my head atop his.
"I don't know," he said, voice hushed a little. "I guess I just assume that everyone has their shit together but me. I mean, they're just so much older and more mature."
I paused. "Older?" I asked now, confused about who he was referring to. "We're the same age, and so is everyone in our class."
He laughed a little. "I know, but do you really feel like they are? I mean, wasn't sixteen supposed to be the age when everything sorts itself out and you become, like, a miniature adult or something?"
I was silent, mulling that over. "Yeah, I guess that's what you think when you're younger," I said after awhile. "But then you hit sixteen and nothing's changed."
"Except everything's changed," he said in response. "Everything's changed but me. I'm still like an eleven-year-old in a sixteen-year-old's body, and yet everyone still expects me to have my life worked out."
"But don't you have your life worked out?" I asked, puzzled. "You're going to be a rockstar, Steven. You're gonna make records and tour the world and be on the cover of magazines." That's when a sudden thought occurred to me, but I did my best to squish it down.
"But that's putting the rest of my life in someone else's hands," he said. "I know we're a great band, but what good does that do us if no one signs us?" He sounded scared. "I'm just a kid pretending to be a man, and the world is so fucked up that having faith in our abilities may not be enough."
"Steven," I said, snapping him out of it. "You're a great band. You have something no other band out there has, and if you just put yourself out there, someone will see that and they will absolutely sign you."
He grew quiet. "And then what?"
"What do you mean?" I asked. "Then you record and tour and get free drugs and you just enjoy your life."
He sounded so fearful. "But don't you ever worry that you won't make it that far?" he asked, and I felt my heart skip a beat in sudden concern. "That you'll get sick or get hit by a car or you'll OD and you'll die and you'll feel so much regret because you spent so much time sitting on your ass that you never got to live your dream?"
"Steven, where is this coming from?" I said, alarmed. I didn't pull away from him though. In fact, I hugged him tighter to my chest and resumed my earlier job of petting his hair lovingly.
"It's--nowhere," he said, sounding tired and anxious. "I just worry, Pink. Because I really do want to be a rockstar, and I wanna be a rockstar for a long, long time. And I wanna grow old and get married and spend the rest of my life playing rock music and lying in bed with you even after our favorite Yardbirds record ends."
It was only then that I realized he was right; the record that had been playing was long over and the needle was lying patiently in the center of the black disk. I made no move to change it, though.
"And you're gonna do that, love." I felt desperate to let him know this. "I'm gonna look out for you and Aerosmith is going to become America's greatest rock 'n' roll band, and you're going to have a long, happy life," I assured him, allowing a few tears to slip down my skin and onto the top of his head. "Just promise I won't be left behind."
"Sesame Ophelia Bello," he said, tilting his head to look me in the eyes. "There is absolutely no one I'd rather bring along."
And then we were kissing.