FORTY-THREE
— the art of eye contact
AT LAST, IT was over.
That night, in the tunnels, and in the lab, she thought her time was up. That death had come knocking at her door. She racked her brain for an answer on why, how she was still alive, after the events of November fifth. She feared death. She feared it's low and quiet calling. She feared the overwhelming heaviness that lingered deep in the pit of her stomach, the rush in her head, the flash of white in her bloodshot eyes. If death had succeeded, where would she be? With Sara, with her birth-mother, at the end of a tired life. But, she had lived. She lived to see the constellations for another night, to see hear the breeze blow through the wind-chimes, to feel his hands run through her hair.
Her worries unwinded in a sequence of deep breaths and tired blinks. Her brow un-furrowed. Her chest rose and fell steadily. And, for once, her mind was at ease. She flipped through memories like a picture book. Everything she would have regret loosing if the Demodogs won that night. The ringing laughter from father, when they watched comedies at midnight. A sweet smile from Eleven, an endearing nudge from her brother, a longing glance from Steve.
God, Steve.
Her stomach ached, thinking about him. She remembered the grime of the tunnels, the horror of the lab, the hopelessness in the shed. But, in the end, she remembered him. On the doorstep. His knee between her legs, his arms around her, his lips pressed close to hers. Her chest falling into his, the feeling of her fingertips bathing in the mess of his brown hair. The words that left his lips in such a soft, careful whisper, she was afraid she'd shatter.
Now, she stood in his doorway. She was the one to drive him home.
One of the red double-doors was open. He pressed his head to the doorframe, tired eyes half-lidded. The house was empty. The lights were off. The heater hummed. A floorboard creaked. He inhaled, and pressed the ice-pack closer to his swollen eye. She looked at him. His busted lip, his bruised cheekbone, the dry blood that coated his rims of his nostrils. Lucy winced. "Steve, you're a mess."
He opened his eyes, because he wanted to see her. With a breathy exhale, or an exhausted laugh, he nodded. "Didn't notice."
Her lip twitched. She stepped past him, and into the house. Steve only turned to her, with a furrowed brow. She reached for his arm, fingers tightened around his bicep. "Come on," she spoke, "doesn't matter what time I get home."
Floorboards moved beneath his heavy feet. Her palm grazed the banister, as she swiftly walked up the carpeted steps, the soles of her sneakers silent against them. He huffed. "Hop," Steve spoke, quietly. "What're you doing?"
She turned the corner. "You know, if you don't clean your face properly, you'll get an infection," Lucy spoke. "I don't mean to scare you, or anything, Harrington. But, if you get infected, you'll loose that pretty face of yours."
He lowered the ice-pack. Steve opened the door to his bedroom, flipped on the light-switch, and gestured her inside. The childlike patterns of his wallpaper were comforting. Red and blue blocks scattered across the walls, blocked only by framed photos of cars and posters of swimsuit models. The light-switch was connected to a small lamp, on his bedside table. The dim, yellow light shone from the corner of his room.
He tossed the ice-pack to his bed. "I can clean my own wounds, you know?" Steve shrugged off his jacket. "It's late, and you're tired." He hit the bathroom light-switch. This light, in contrast, was white, and fluorescent. It buzzed, and shouted down at them, quiet dust-particles floating through its presence.
Silently, she leaned against the bathroom sink. With her arms folded firm over her chest, she raised a brow. He did the same. "Well?" Lucy cocked her head. "Show me your wound-cleaning skills, Steve. I'm not so convinced from earlier."
He exhaled. Steve turned the sink-nob, and dipped his hands below the faucet. The gush of water filled his open palms, and dripped down his wrists. He craned his neck down, and brought the liquid to his face. When Steve ran his fingertips over his eye, she winced.
"Okay, okay," Lucy pried his hands away from his face. She turned the faucet off, and blinked. "I think you made it worse, actually."
He chuckled. Steve pressed a palm to the porcelain countertop, and looked at her. "Luce," he sighed, "I know you're tired."
The bathroom was a mess. The shower curtain was open, and she could see the clutter of shampoos and hair-conditioners and body-wash on a single shelf. The toilet-seat was open. His toothbrush had fallen over. A can of Farrah Fawcett hairspray was sat neatly in the corner. A heard him speak— a small, low, "Ah, shit," left his busted lip. Her gaze averted his way. His nose was bleeding, again.
"Point proven," she muttered, plucking a tissue from the box. "And, I'm not tired, Harrington. I could run a marathon, if I wanted to."
He held the thin tissue to his nose, while she searched the cabinet for supplies. A single bandaid, even. She grabbed for a towel that hung from the doorknob, and clutched it. "Is this clean?" Lucy turned to him.
He shrugged. She shrugged. She ran it under the faucet, watching as the warm water turned the rag soggy. Wringing it out, she turned to him. "Sit on the toilet," Lucy said, in a whisper. "It'll be easier."
He complied, the toilet seat creaking below his weight. The above-head light buzzed, and he watched her move towards him. Steve's pupils dilated, and his brow twitched upwards when she neared. His tense chest fell— she stood between his legs, her lower-body close to his face. Her body heat radiated onto him, the warmth of her torso moving straight to the center of his face.
She winced. The dried-blood, from deep inside the cut, transferred onto the damp towel. "God, Steve," she whispered. "I've seen you beat up... three times, now. But, this is the worst," she widened her eyes, "by far."
Steve chuckled. "Worse than Byers?" he muttered.
"Worse than Byers," she nodded, lips cracking into a smile.
She saw his eyes move across her face. The honey-brown of his irises, his black pupils fluctuating with every longing glance. He took in her freckles, the purple-ish bruise on her temple, the dimples that deepened in her cheeks when she let herself smile. She brushed the cloth over his cheekbone, and her brow twitched. "Steve," she said, lowly.
He blinked. "Lucy," he muttered, equally quiet.
She cupped a hand around the back of his neck. "You're staring... you're thinking," she spoke. A moment lingered, and he moved his hands to the backs of her thighs. He tugged her closer, the palms of his hands pushing to the fabric of her jeans. "Tell me."
Steve exhaled. He shook his head, and she muttered a small, quiet, "come on". He grinned, and chuckled dryly. "I can't tell you," Steve said. "You'll just hate me more."
Her brow was knitted, just in the center. She moved her hand up the nape of his neck, fingertips brushing against his hair. "Nothing you say, Harrington, can make me hate you more," she exhaled, her chest falling. "Try me."
It was silent. They heard the light buzzing, and the sound of the cloth padding against Steve's bruised skin. His eyes softened, "You're beautiful, Hop," he shook his head, "and you can hate me for saying it."
She blinked. She felt his hands on her. She felt her heart swell, to the point where it was hard to breathe. Steve nudged her closer, his thumbs digging close to her flesh. She sniffled, and tossed the rag into the sink. "You're all clean," she muttered.
When she pulled away, Steve pulled back. He shook his head, and whispered. "Talk to me," Steve said, "it'll help me feel better."
She sighed. Lucy leaned close, and whispered in return. "Could I tell you a secret, Steve?" she said. "But, it's embarrassing. You have to keep it."
He blinked. Steve moved his right hand from off the back of her leg, folded his hand into a fist, and extended his pinky— her eyes squinted with a smile. She intertwined her finger with his, and sighed. "When we went to the antique shop, for Nance," Lucy started, her brow furrowing, "I didn't want you to get that jewelry box, not really."
Steve broke into a smile. "That's it?" he laughed. "That's your secret, Hop?"
She nodded, and looked away. "That's it," Lucy said, her words covered with a chuckle.
His laughter died, and he let his chest fall. After a moment, Steve spoke, "Can I tell you a real secret, Luce?" he muttered, and she nodded.
His eyes didn't leave her. "When we went to the antique shop, for Nancy," he said. "I realized... that I just saw you."
Her brow twitched.
"In the eighth grade... you. Freshmen year, sophomore year, junior year, now. And, I guess, part of me knew, that you'd hate me more if I said anything," Steve muttered. He cracked a smile, and nodded, "I was right, yeah?"
She traced her pointer-finger over his chest. "On the porch," Lucy said, "it's just— I couldn't stop thinking. And, it's a problem, I know, but... you said something. I remember, you said, I could loathe you. And, you said, you'd watch in silence."
Quietly, he nodded.
She shook her head. "I don't want that, Steve," Lucy spoke.
He saw it in her eyes. She blinked, and looked away, her teeth dug into the inside of her cheek. Steve's eyes softened, further, and he shook his head. "Hey," he muttered, squeezing her leg. "It's okay, Hop. I know what you mean."
They spoke with their eyes. Green danced in the center of her irises, and slowly folded out to a deep-brown, that turned lighter from the fluorescence of the above-head light. Her brow twitched down, eyes squinting, but barely. His did the same, an unbelievable, gut-aching sense of understanding filling his features. No words had to be spoken. Eye contact was the language. He knew her, he saw her, and he heard what she was saying through the look in her eyes.
She craned her neck. Lucy's lips grazed his. He felt the heat of her face on his own, her breath fanning over swollen lips. The world disappeared. She heard nothing, not the buzzing lights, not the humming heater, not the creaking floorboards. Just the sound of his heart thumping. The image of his eyes on hers. The feeling of his palms against the backs of her knees.
He spoke against her lips. "If I kissed you again," Steve whispered, "this time, I don't think I'd be able to stop."
She blinked. Lucy's fingers bathed in the back of his thick hair. Lowly, she muttered, "That's fine."
She tasted blood on her tongue. His lips molded with hers, gently. Steve's hands ran up the back of her legs, to hold her hips, his touch soft yet eager. She was careful not to breathe too hard, her nose clashing with his when she moved her head. Steve's chest fell into her torso, a long, breathy exhale leaving his lips when they parted.
"Your lip is busted," she muttered.
He hummed, and kissed her again, "doesn't matter."
She couldn't get another word out. His hands moved to hold her waist, the pads of his fingers on her lower back. Lucy inhaled, and pulled away— they remained close, her forehead pressed to his. "Your lips taste like blood, Steve."
He kissed her, sloppily. Steve felt an uncontrollable smile spread across her lips, her teeth nearly clashing with his. He deepened the kiss, before pulling away. "Now yours do, too."
She grimaced, and scoffed. "That's gross."
Again, he kissed her. Over and over, in a sequence of messy pecks, he kissed her. "Yeah," Steve hummed. "Gross."
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hi pooks sorry it's been so long omg
i actually have a disgusting case of writers block i'm braindead
my last day of school is soon i'm dying sos
i made a lucy and steve playlist if u want to see it my spotify is linked on my account but if anyone has song recs i would love that i think music is a love language and i love lucy and steve 😋
okay i love u bye i'm gonna write another chapter while i'm motivated 💪