Steve Harrington did not get sick. Sure, sometimes he sneezed more than usual or his head pounded. But he never actually got sick. Until one morning in November when he woke up with an uncomfortable itch in his throat. An itch that made him want to hack and cough. His head felt like it was being carved into by a jackhammer, and he was already sweaty despite it being 7am.

But it was fine. Nothing big. He'd just take a couple aspirin after breakfast.

What Steve didn't account for was the eggs and bacon you made turning his stomach upside down. Steve had never thrown up before, but he decided he hated it. The saliva felt sour in his mouth and the pressure in his throat made him compulsively swallow over and over.

That's how you found him, curled up on the bathroom floor holding his belly. Tears were rolling down his flushed cheeks as he tried to quell the queasy feeling. His parents would be so disappointed to see him like this. They hadn't spoken to him in almost a year, but Steve could till picture the scolding he'd get.

"Don't cry, what hurts?" you asked softly, crouching beside him. God, you were like an angel. Steve couldn't reply, the words not coming. He just cried and reached for a fistful on your shirt.