a/n: before we dive in, a few things: one, there are mentions and descriptions of underage drinking in this chapter. and two, this chapter includes a pov change at the end (it's marked, but still).

Willow really hated parties. There was nothing good about them - there were always too many people, too much alcohol, too many bad ideas bouncing around a room full of sweaty high schoolers.

But attending one was a small price to pay for the sight in front of her.

Robin was talking to Vickie, lighting up at whatever joke she had just told her. She doesn't think she's ever seen her friend smile or blush so much during a conversation, and she knew that the blame wasn't on the red cup of punch that Robin was nursing.

Willow was holding a matching one in her hands, but she'd really only taken three sips total. It was strong , whatever it was. Steve had laughed at her when she'd first tried it.

"Jesus, Harrington. Did you poison the punch? What the hell is in there?" Willow grimaced the moment the punch met her tongue. She almost spit it back out.

Steve threw his head back in laughter, "No, I didn't poison it. It's called jungle juice, Jenkins."

He never did answer her as to what was in the punch, but as the night dragged on, Willow had started her own mental list of personal guesses.

Orange juice, lemonade, Sprite, and way too much alcohol. She's pretty sure she had seen multiple empty bottles of rum and vodka in his trash can.

"They really are cute, aren't they?" Willow jumps when Steve's voice suddenly sounds from above her. She was sitting on one of his couches, and the smacking of the kissing couple beside her had been the only thing she'd heard the last thirty minutes over the music currently blasting throughout the house.

Willow looks up to see the look full of pride that Steve had on his face as he watches their friend shamelessly flirt.

"They are," she says, just loud enough for him to hear her over the music, "Definitely Hawkins' next power couple."

"Oh, for sure," Steve immediately nods and scrunches his face up happily.

She wishes she could partake in his joy a bit more at the scene. She should be joining him in celebrating their success as Robin's wing-men, even if she was just simply annoyed at the entire ordeal of being at a party.

But it wasn't just the party.

Eddie didn't come to school today. Her mother had informed her the moment she woke up that he had called, letting her know he was sick and he wouldn't be giving her a ride today. It had immediately sent her mind into overdrive - was he playing hooky because of their kiss?

He was the one in the end who initiated it. He was the one to chase her up to her front door for it. But what if he had felt peer-pressured to do it? What if he had just felt guilty for leaving her hanging?

What if he regretted it?

It made her stomach turn far more than the poisonous punch in her cup did. The thought had rattled with her anxiety the entire day already, occupying the spaces that should have been dedicated to her classes and overtaking her appetite at lunch. When he'd kissed her last night, all she could feel was giddiness - the sight of her pressing against her front door once she'd closed it on the sight of him, the stereotypical movie scene of her sliding down with an impossible smile until her tailbone met the floor had played out. Her mom had even caught in her lucid, happy haze.

"Willow, baby? Why are you on the floor?" Anne's confused voice called out as she entered the living room, clearly having just showered.

"Huh?" Willow's eyes refused to focus for a moment, still picturing Eddie's grin as she finally looked up to her mother.

"What has gotten into you?" she laughed, walking over to her daughter.

Anne Jenkins had never had the privilege to see her daughter gush over a crush in a positive sense. It had all been particularly hopeless and sorrowful when she'd spoken about Steve Harrington. This reaction couldn't have possibly been because of Steve.

When Willow didn't answer, instead biting her lip to try and quell her cheesy grin and tucking her chin into her knees as she stared up at her mom, Anne finally took a seat on the ground beside her daughter.

"It's a boy, isn't it?"

Willow had told her mom about Eddie, officially. She'd never had that kind of moment with her, and she hated to say that it had soothed a particular ache somewhere deep inside her; being able to just sit with her mother, on the floor, shoulder-to-shoulder, and gush about the boy who had sent her mind reeling.

The details had been fibbed only slightly. She told her about the kiss that had just taken place, but not the pining for said kiss in Eddie's room before. She mentioned that they were now dating, but never specified when the question had been asked (and certainly not that Willow had been the one to initiate nearly three weeks before). But the details weren't what Willow focused on - she focused on the feelings .

"Sounds like he makes you happy," her mother sighed contently, looking at her daughter who was absolutely radiating pure joy.

Willow didn't hesitate to nod furiously, "He does. I kind of hate how happy he makes me."

"Good, it means that you should stick with it. See where you two end up."

Willow then asked a question she wouldn't have normally had the bravery to ask, but the adrenaline from Eddie's lips on hers was still pumping through her blood, "Is this how you felt.... When.... Did you feel this way with dad?"

They never talked about her dad, not anymore.

Anne was clearly taken off guard, "Oh. Well, in the beginning, yes. But..."

"But not in the end?" Willow finished the sentence for her mom, not wanting to put her through too much pain in talking about it. She simply nodded before Willow continued on, selfishly, "Do you ever miss him?"

"Sometimes," she answered surprisingly fast, sounding faraway in the moment, somewhere between not necessarily sad but not necessarily happy, "I think I just miss that feeling more. The happy."

Willow tried to imagine a day in which she might be in her mother's position. She tried to imagine having to simply reminisce on the feeling that Eddie gave her rather than just experience it for what it is. But it almost broke her heart more than the thought of him never having kissed her. She couldn't imagine it, not clearly - her mind and her heart could agree on one thing, and it was that neither could handle a future without Eddie Munson. He wasn't the type of person to think of in the past tense; he was the kind of person Willow wanted by her side, in the present, for as long as he would allow her.

"You okay, Jenkins?"

The couple that had been beside Willow on the couch had just left, giggling to themselves as they made their way to the stairwell on the other side of the room. Steve wastes no time in taking their place, sitting so close that his thigh almost touched Willow's.

"Fine, why?" she puts on her brightest smile, but she can tell it isn't quite meeting her eyes.

She missed Eddie. She'd just figured out she wanted him around all the time, that she'd slay dragons and fight monsters to keep him at her side, and suddenly had to spend a whole day without contact. It kind of hurt.

"You just seem distracted," Steve shrugs, looking at her softly, "I'm sorry, I know you're not a fan of parties-"

"It's for Robin, I'll live," she promises, leaning and bumping her shoulder to Steve's. She waits for a warmth to spread from where they touched, the same kind that burned when she touched Eddie, but it never comes. The realization is a painful one - why wasn't the boy she wanted setting her aflame in the same way as the boy she hadn't planned for? It's enough to make her suddenly bring the red solo cup up to her mouth, and tilt it back without regard, finishing it off quickly. Steve watches with wide eyes as she lowers the cup, breathing in deeply and she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, "You know what? I don't think I'm nearly drunk enough. Are you drunk enough?"

He's a hopeless puppy, shaking his head wordlessly and letting her grab his hand and pull him up with her as she rises from the couch.

This is a bad idea, a voice in her consciousness scolds her as she makes her way to the kitchen, dragging Steve along behind her.

She grabs the first bottle of hard liquor she sees.

Vodka .

Her nose scrunches on instinct as she holds it and turns to Steve, and his eyes nearly bulge out of his head at the sight.

"What, you want to take shots?" he asks her, astonished.

She shrugs, "Why not?"

Steve takes the bottle from her with ginger hands, turning and finding two fresh red cups wordlessly. He keeps glancing over his shoulder at her, a subtle mixture of confusion and concern painting his features. He pours what she figures is the appropriate amount into each one - Willow isn't exactly sure how much a shot's worth is - before turning back to her and handing one.

"Okay, now listen, if we're going to do this, we need to take it slow -"

Willow groans and rolls her eyes playfully at him, "Save me the lecture, dad ."

She tilts back the cup before Steve can reply, downing the liquid with a sharp intake of breath.

She almost throws up immediately at the burn in her throat.

"Fuck!" she coughs, trying to hold back from gagging, "That's disgusting !"

"Well, yeah!" Steve laughs back loudly, taking his own shot quickly with minimal reaction and taking her empty cup in his hands, " Like I was saying , we should take it slow. You never drink. You might actually be better off with the punch, honestly."

He doesn't have to tell her twice. She nods at him in agreement, still teary eyed, and follows him to where he set up the punchbowl. He continues to chuckle at her the entire way, filling both of their cups nearly to the brim before handing it back to her and lifting his own in a signal for cheers.

"To being the best goddamn wingmen Buckley will ever have," she announces as she brings her cup up to meet his, letting the rims bounce off of each other.

"You can say that again," he mumbles with a smile, and they both take large gulps of the punch.

It's still disgusting, but it doesn't cause as visceral of a reaction as the vodka had.

At some point, the alcohol begins to flow easier for Willow. With each sip of punch, and each eventual shot she talks Steve into taking with her, she becomes more and more numb to the burn. Her head begins to buzz, and she finds herself enjoying it. It's not the same buzz as the weed had caused, or Eddie's kiss had incited - it was different. Almost different enough to push all her thoughts of Eddie away. Almost .

She finds herself thinking of him like clockwork; a particularly 'edgier' song plays and she wants to turn to him in order to hear his thoughts on the guitar solo, someone does something stupid across the room and she turns to laugh with him only to find Steve in his place. If she were in her own home, she would call him. She'd call him and rant to him about how badly she wanted him to be here, about how much she missed him today, about how she always misses him when he's not with her. She'd probably have enough liquid confidence to even confront him for avoiding her today. But she's not at home, so the Munson's phone will stay cold in wait as far as Willow is concerned.

At some point, she ends up distracted by playing beer pong with Steve and two of the band kids she's not familiar with. She isn't sure if it was her idea or Steve's, but they're having fun regardless.

" God , you suck, Jenkins!" Steve scolds her jokingly as she misses yet another shot.

It's almost natural, the way she takes a few clumsy steps towards him and giggles, letting her forehead fall to his shoulder as he continues to shake his head in faux disapproval.

"You're the jock, I'm just here to look pretty," she argues into his t-shirt, still smiling widely. His cheeks turn red, but she figures it's the alcohol considering hers are tainted the same shade.

"Yeah, yeah. Well go stand over there, pretty girl, and watch the master work his magic," he puts his hands on her shoulders and guides her to the side of the table before he stands deadcenter at their end. He makes a show of it - dramatically cracking his knuckles and neck, positioning himself with exaggerated care, squinting as he aims the small ping-pong ball carefully. His movements are laced with the same boyish charm that had caught Willow's eye a year ago.

A year ago, Steve's hands on Willow's shoulder would have sent her into a giddy haze. She would have been a mess. The thought of sharing such proximity as they had thus far tonight would have made her dizzy.

Tonight, it doesn't. Not in the way she thinks it should.

It had been hard enough to accept that she liked both Eddie and Steve, but Willow didn't have a straight enough head on her tonight to handle the realization that she might like one more than the other now.

It's just the alcohol , she tries to convince herself, this is the liquid courage everyone always talks about.

Right now, she really doesn't want to think of the ridiculously cute metalhead who lets her braid his hair, whose kisses taste like honey and sugar, who goes through grand romantic gestures with her. Because he's not here - he should be by her side tonight, he should be the one she's playing beer pong with and giggling into the shoulder of, but he didn't come.

In her drunken state, she can even find it in herself to be pissed off at him. Hellfire was such a bullshit excuse. She knew if he told his club that he couldn't attend, or asked to reschedule, they'd let him. They might be cranky and grumble about it for the next week, but if Eddie had cared enough, he would have dealt with it.

If Eddie cared enough, he wouldn't avoid her after kissing her.

Cheers break Willow from her bitterness. Steve has made the shot, just as she knew he would, and one of the band kids reluctantly takes the shot he landed in. He turns to her, almost as if seeking out her approval, and she makes herself glow just for him. As if she had been watching, as if he's the only person on her mind right now.

If Eddie cared, he'd be here. And he wasn't.

But Steve was. So she doesn't fight him when he runs over and picks her up by her waist dramatically, swinging her around with him in delight. In fact, she even genuinely squeals and giggles along with him.

"My hero," she coos jokingly as he finally puts her down, both of them breathless.

"Oh, you know, no big deal," he shrugs and makes a funny face, pulling another laugh from Willow, before he shows off his biceps theatrically, "Anything for my pretty girl."

My pretty girl.

Three weeks ago, her entire world would come to a stop with pure, exonerated, shining contentment.

My pretty girl.

Her world stops, but not with any of those emotions. It's a brick in her chest, stopping her in her tracks. She almost doesn't feel anything at those words. At most, a few butterflies attempt to take flight from her stomach, but they don't make it far. They're just words. Steve Harrington just referred to her as his pretty girl, and she isn't even reacting.

She'd waited so long to hear words like that fall from lips she once craved. She'd yearned for him to call her his, she'd fished for every compliment she could pry from him. And here he was, handing both over to her on a silver platter, and all she could feel was nothing.

Her ears echoed with the similar words from a certain metalhead she wanted to pissed at right now.

"I'm not letting , real or not, walk to an event I invited her to."

Those words had pulled more of a reaction from Willow than Steve's. The idea of being Eddie Munson's girl tugged harder on her heart strings than being Steve Harrington's.

"Okay, yeah, sure, hot shot," she slurs out finally, separating herself from him completely. She needs to stop the comparisons. Steve isn't Eddie. He doesn't have to be.

She convinces herself she's fine, because she has to be, and eventually excuses herself from Steve's celebratory yelps with the excuse of needing to find a bathroom. It doesn't take her long to navigate the fellow drunk high schoolers up his stairs, down the hallway, finding the bathroom miraculously not taken up.

The moment the door is shut, she nearly collapses.

She misses him.

Actually, she misses a lot of things. Yes, she misses Eddie, period. But she also misses simpler times. She misses the days of Scoops Ahoy and silly jokes and sneaky glances. She misses when one look at Steve could light up her day. She misses Robin teasing her about her ridiculous crush, her constant chastising that she should find someone better than the former king of Hawkins' High.

She's drunk. That's all it is. One look in the mirror, her knuckles growing white from gripping the porcelain counter, and she can see it written across her face; her flushed cheeks and glossy eyes tell her that she shouldn't have taken some of those shots. The alcohol was affecting her and that's the only reason that Steve's touch wasn't causing a reaction, that his words weren't making home in her chest.

The alcohol had just numbed her to it all. It's fine.

All she can do is turn on the faucet and splash her face with cool water. But then it immediately reminds her of the day she first met Eddie, when she'd had her mini-breakdown in the Scoops' bathroom, and she immediately feels as if the small droplets of water on her cheeks are drowning her.

"Get it together, Jenkins," she roughly whispers at herself.

Maybe it would be easier if she had spoken to Eddie, or just seen him today. Fuck even getting a ride from him, if she had just caught a glance of him at lunch or in chemistry, she's sure her anxiety levels would be much lower. Her mind wouldn't be wandering to thoughts of him so frequently, so recklessly.

An impatient knock echoes from the bathroom door, followed by some drunken yelling, sounding like something along the lines of a poor inebriated girl on the other side being on the verge of 'pissing herself'.

When Willow leaves the bathroom, nearly getting toppled by the girl who rudely says ' finally' when the door opens, she doesn't know where to go. She's not ready to rejoin the chaos downstairs.

She finds herself wandering down only slightly familiar halls, passing a few doors before coming across Steve's bedroom door. Three weeks ago, she'd be going in there motivated by a school-girl crush, probably being an absolute freak who just wanted to know what Steve's sheets smell like, or something ridiculous like that. But her endgame isn't his bed, or one of his hoodies, or to even pry into his privacy.

Her endgame is his private phone line, sitting pretty on his desk.

One phone call. If he picks up, great. If he doesn't, it's fine.