Chapter Text
Steve Harrington gets married on a Tuesday.
Not because he’s in love, not because he’s ready, and definitely not because this was ever part of his plan. He gets married because his parents’ money is gone, the Harrington name doesn’t carry the weight it used to, and apparently the solution to all of that is a contract, a courthouse, and a stranger with sun-bleached hair and a smile too easy for someone about to be legally tied to another human being.
Argyle shows up late.
Steve notices this immediately because he’s been sitting on a stiff wooden bench for twelve minutes too long, dressed in a suit that doesn’t feel like his own skin. The doors swing open and in walks a man who looks like he belongs on a beach, not in a government building—sandals hastily swapped for dress shoes, hair tied back with a rubber band, suit wrinkled like it’s never known an iron.
“Dude, I am so sorry,” Argyle says, breathless, dropping into the seat beside Steve. “Parking here is gnarly.”
Steve blinks at him. Once. Twice.
This is who he’s marrying.
The vows are short. The signatures shorter. When it’s done, Argyle offers Steve a soft, uncertain smile, like he’s waiting to be told whether this is a good thing or a bad one.
“Well,” Argyle says, scratching the back of his neck, “guess we’re married.”
Steve exhales. “Guess so.”
They move to California two weeks later.
The house isn’t big—nothing like Steve’s childhood home—but it’s warm, filled with light and mismatched furniture Argyle inherited from relatives who never threw anything away. Argyle gives Steve the bigger bedroom without being asked and stocks the fridge with food he hopes Steve likes.
Steve doesn’t know how to process kindness without conditions.
They settle into something that looks like domesticity from the outside. Shared grocery runs. Quiet evenings. Argyle makes dinner; Steve cleans up. They talk about nothing and everything—music, movies, dumb stories from high school. Argyle listens when Steve talks about Hawkins like it still haunts him.
At night, Steve lies awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how someone he married out of obligation became the person he looks forward to seeing every day.
It happens slowly.
A hand brushing another in the kitchen. Falling asleep on the couch together. Steve laughing—really laughing—for the first time in years because Argyle said something ridiculous with absolute sincerity.
The marriage stops feeling fake long before either of them admits it.
The night it all comes undone, Steve overhears Argyle on the phone, voice low, apologetic.
“I know,” Argyle says. “Yeah. He deserves better. I’ll make sure the contract ends clean.”
Steve doesn’t confront him. He packs a bag instead.
Argyle finds him by the door.
“Steve?” His voice cracks. “Where are you going?”
Steve turns, heart pounding. “I thought this was just business to you.”
Argyle stares, devastated. “It was. Until it wasn’t.”
The silence stretches.
“I didn’t want to trap you,” Argyle says quietly. “I wanted you to choose me.”
Steve steps forward before he can stop himself. “I already did.”
They kiss like it’s something fragile, something earned. When Argyle pulls Steve close, it finally feels like home—not because of the house, or the contract, or the arrangement.
But because they chose each other anyway.