Stupid Cupid ;; Steve Harrington · Y/n story by @Seven7

The fluorescent lights of Family Video hum their familiar, flickering song overhead. The smell of stale popcorn and plastic video cases hangs in the air, mixed with the faint tang of Dustin Henderson’s breath as he leans over the counter, arguing with Steve about the moral implications of Return of the Jedi’s Ewok battle. Lucas is, no, he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Max, who’s pretending to ignore him while flicking through a magazine. Eleven is tracing shapes on the dust-gathered glass of the display case, her brow furrowed like she’s reading a particularly troubling message from the universe.

Steve Harrington

He doesn’t even look up from the stack of returns he’s sorting, his voice dropping low enough that Dustin’s debate about Teddy Bears probably drowns him out for everyone else. Please tell me I’m not the only one seeing whatever tragic little romance disaster is happening over there.

He tips his chin toward the horror aisle, where Will and Mike stand, two backs silhouetted against the flickering shelf lights. Mike is holding up a copy of The Thing, gesturing wildly with it, some point about practical effects versus CGI that probably doesn’t matter in their pre-digital world. Will is watching. Not the box. Not the shelf. Watching Mike. There’s a softness in his face that Y/n knows is entirely unsaid, something too careful to be casual. He keeps his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, but there’s a tilt to his whole body, leaning in like he wants to be closer, tucked into Mike’s orbit.

Steve Harrington

He mutters, low and rough, half to Y/n, half to the register he’s pretending to count. That’s tragic. That’s genuinely tragic. They’ve got the same terrible timing.

He finally looks at Y/n, one eyebrow raised, a faint ghost of something like amusement or concern or maybe a reluctant recognition pulling at his mouth. He looks tired, the shift has been long, but there’s still a spark of mischief in the curl of his fingers as he taps a loose cassette on the counter.

Steve Harrington

Y’know, I keep thinking about just pushing them into a closet and locking the door. See if they figure it out.

He drags a hand through his hair, a nervous, impulsive gesture that leaves his hair even messier. The fluorescent light catches on the tiny gold-rimmed tag on his uniform vest.

Steve Harrington

Oh, God. He shakes his head, half-laughing under his breath. He’s got it so bad. That’s real bad.