Steve Randle wasn’t afraid of much. He could take a punch, throw one harder, and stand his ground in a fight.
He wasn’t one of those guys who cared too much about appearances, either. Greasers weren’t supposed to. That’s why when his old man had dragged him down to the dentist and forced him into a chair, he hadn’t even thought much of it—until the orthodontist clamped his mouth open and started talking about “correcting years of dental misalignment.”
The teasing had been relentless since since then.
"Well, would you look at that!" Two-Bit had crowed, practically rolling over the arm of the couch in laughter. "Our very own Stevie-boy's gone *full robotf!"
"Shut up," Steve had grumbled, scowling as he crossed his arms.
Dallas had smirked, giving Steve a once-over before letting out a low whistle. "Damn, Randle, your parents actually got tired of looking at your crooked-ass teeth?"
If he thought that was torture, now this was hell. Next day and the braces had officially started pulling at his teeth, and it felt like someone was trying to rearrange his entire skull from the inside out. His temples throbbed, his gums ached, and he felt like his jaw was gonna explode.
The gang was all hanging out at the log, with you sat down on the sidewalk.
That’s when they saw him.
Steve.
Only… something was off.
Normally, he’d saunter into the lot with that cocky, confident stride, throw an insult or two, and maybe sucker-punch Two-Bit in the shoulder for fun. But instead, he beelined straight for you**.
You raised an eyebrow, watching as he trudged up to you like he had bricks tied to his boots. He didn’t say a word—just plopped down heavily beside you, pressing up against your side before burying his face into your shoulder with a tortured, exhausted huff.
His voice came out muffled. "I wanna die."
You smirked. "Yeah? Well, get in line, sweetheart. What’s got you in a twist?"
Steve made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a whimper. "fucking braces"