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They didn’t stay in California.
They couldn’t. With the house in shambles and El’s pending expulsion (it turned out bullies were cruel, but their moms were crueler when president of the PTA), there was no place for the Byers family in Lenora anymore.
Jonathan didn’t fight it; he knew this was bigger than him.
He also liked to see Mom happy, and she was truly happy with Hopper. She would never pressure him or Will to move back just so that she could be with him, but Jonathan knew that was also part of the reason they couldn’t stay. It was for El’s benefit too, of course.
The sight of his mother cuddling with the former Hawkins chief of police took some getting used to. After all, he’d attended Hopper’s funeral less than a year ago. But he made do.
He’d miss Argyle, who sent him off fondly with more weed than his life was worth for crossing state borders, but the dude was such a free spirit that Jonathan wouldn’t be surprised if he turned up one day in their new backyard in Hawkins out of the blue.
(The housing market was fantastic. All it took was a string of murders followed by an unprecedented interdimensional disaster—their new four-bedroom place barely sustained any foundational damage from the gateway-induced earthquakes, either.)
Jonathan’s room, almost a week after packing up his life and driving it back to Indiana, was still a mess of taped boxes. He told himself he’d unpack when it felt like home. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next year, maybe never.
He’d considered moving back west on his own, where he and Argyle would make the most dysfunctional pair of roommates to disgrace California, but right now, his family needed him.
Will needed him.
It wasn’t just because of how Jonathan caught him grabbing the back of his neck, feeling the Mind Flayer’s faraway consciousness—that was its own issue, and Jonathan was committed to keeping his brother safe this time.
It was also that Will was dealing with more than any kid deserved to.
Jonathan had pieced it together on the van ride to Hawkins. He’d heard his brother unroll the painting that he’d spent weeks hiding, show it to Mike, of all people…then outright lie about whose idea it was to make it. He watched him pour his heart out to his best friend, all under the guise of El’s feelings, El’s fears, and how much El cared for him.
But the rearview mirror had told the truth. The tears Jonathan had watched Will barely hold back came flowing.
His brother was head over heels for Mike Wheeler.
Once he’d worked that part out, everything else seemed to come together. Will’s discomfort whenever their mom brought up girls at school in that way, how closed-off he’d been, his insistence that he’d never fall in love. Well, he was wrong there. By the looks of it, he already had.
So Jonathan had taken his chance when they were at the Surfer Boy’s that night. He hadn’t known exactly what to say, how to convey to Will that he didn’t care if he was gay, or whatever. But he’d told him his love was unconditional. That was more important, and Jonathan thought the message had sunk in.
However, it seemed like being back in Hawkins wasn't helping. Will had spent almost the whole week so far holed up in his room, ignoring his friends’—even Mike’s—requests to spend time together and catch up. He was quiet at meals, distant with Mom and El. Even the encouraging looks Jonathan was able to throw his way were met with fleeting nervous smiles before he backed away like a stalked animal.
Normally, Jonathan would give his brother space to be alone and let Will come to him on his own time. But after seeing Max’s broken body in the hospital and learning about the other three lives stolen by Vecna’s appetite for despair…he didn’t want to take his chances.
This secret was eating Will from the inside out. If he didn’t intervene and let him know he had support, Jonathan was afraid he’d need to relive the worst day of his life—his brother’s funeral—for real this time. He needed to know someone had his back—someone who knew what he was too scared to say, and didn’t care. Jonathan was going to be that person.
So he waited until they were the only two home one afternoon before knocking on Will’s closed door.
A come in sounded, so he entered to see his brother on his bed, unpacking and organizing, much further along in the process than Jonathan was. The boxes strewn across Will’s floor were all varying states of partially empty, and personality was already starting to shine through the disheveled unfamiliarity of the space.
He pulled out the stool from Will’s easel and took a seat, admiring his newest work in progress. An outline of the Hawkins skyline had begun to take shape against a green underpainting.
“Will, this is good. Really good,” he said, gesturing to the canvas.
“It’s barely a painting yet, you don’t have to pretend,” Will replied bashfully.
“I’m being serious.” He was.
They sat in silence for another minute as Will unrolled his posters from the old wrapping paper tube he’d stored them in while Jonathan tinkered with the loose bristles at the bottom of the paintbrush container. Bowie’s Modern Love crackled quietly out of the radio on the window.
Will’s not going to bring this up on his own. You have to at least initiate, he thought to himself.
Jonathan sucked in a short breath and went for it.
“You know your last painting? The one you gave to Mike?”
Will’s head snapped toward Jonathan, face blanching.
“What about it?”
“I was wondering why you lied about it to him,” he shifted awkwardly in his chair, “you know, saying that El commissioned it and everything? That’s not true. You wouldn’t let either of us see it.”
Will’s eyes locked themselves to the floor. “You…you noticed that?”
That, and a lot more.
But Jonathan couldn’t say that. He wanted Will to feel comfortable telling him himself.
So he answered with, “‘Course I did. I can tell when something’s bothering you.”
He waited for Will to look up, to meet his eyes, to give any indication that he knew Jonathan was safe to talk to.
Instead he heard a sniff erupt from Will’s hands clasped over his mouth, his shoulders jerking in.
Fuck, he’s crying. He’s still scared.
“I can’t…” he hesitated, seeming to juggle his next words uncertainly. “This isn’t something you’d…” he stopped again, voice hitching on an invisible hook.
“Will…you remember what I said in the Surfer Boy’s? You know I love you, right? And nothing’s ever gonna change that?”
Will nodded, still facing the floor as he wiped his eyes.
“I can tell you’re hurting,” Jonathan continued, leaning forward and clasping a hand on Will’s shoulder. “And I want to be there for you, I want to help. But I can’t, not if you can’t tell me what's hurting, y’know?”
At this, Will’s face disappeared behind his hands, muffling the panicked inhalations that followed.
Jonathan didn’t know what to say, how to continue, so he pulled his brother into a hug so tight he worried he’d break a rib. They stayed that way until he felt Will’s breathing slowed from its hyperventilating pace.
“I can’t,” were Will’s first words after he finally pulled away.
“I promise there’s nothing—”
“No, Jonathan,” Will cut him off. “You don’t get it. There are some things…some things I can’t say—I can’t say them without you never looking at me the same way again. You’ve had to deal with so much,” his voice caught on his ragged breaths, “trying to defend me. For being scared, for going missing, for my interests, from Dad…”
His voice cracked at the mention of their father. Jonathan remembered every snide comment, every man up, stop crying, every queer and fag.
“What I’m trying to say,” Will’s voice shook, once more on the verge of tears, “Is that this is different. You say nothing can change it, can change us…but I’m afraid you’ll hate me. There’s something—something wrong with me, Jonathan.”
Jonathan opened his mouth in protest, but Will went on.
“I’m a freak, I’m what Dad and every bully has always said about me, what Mom is probably afraid of, I’m…” He trailed off, breathing morphing into sobs. His mouth opened as if desperately trying and failing to form his words.
He can’t even say it out loud.
Jonathan answered before Will could struggle any longer.
“I know. C’mere.” He pulled his brother into another hug, feeling every heaving sob against his own chest.
“I’m gay,” Will finally wimpered behind his ear. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…” He repeated the phrase in trembling pleas, whispered like an admission of terrible guilt.
“Hey,” Jonathan stopped him, cupping his hand around the nape of Will’s neck and tracing his thumb across its tensity. “Don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for. I love you.”
At this, Will curled sideways into Jonathan, gasping for air in a gesture of what he hoped was relief. He got up from the stool and sat on the bed to his left, keeping his arm firm around his shaking shoulders.
“And Mike,” he wept defeatedly, “it’s always been Mike.”
“I know. It’s okay. You’ll be okay,” Jonathan assured him, trying to keep the sadness out of his own voice. Just knowing how deeply his brother carried such self-hatred made Jonathan’s own heart feel like it was going to rip out of his chest.
“How can it be, though?” Will finally looked Jonathan in the eyes for the first time since he’d initially brought up the painting, his face a contortion of chagrin. “If he finds out, well, I’m lucky if he ever looks my way again. And if El or anyone else knows—”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Mike is a good friend.” Jonathan raised his eyebrows, doubting his own surety—he couldn’t exactly predict Mike’s reaction to anything like this. “Uh, usually. He was being a little dense when you gave him that painting. One-track mind on that guy.”
A slight smile flickered despite itself on Will’s lips. “Y-Yeah,” he admitted.
“And,” Jonathan sighed, feeling a bit hypocritical in his imparted wisdom, “Mike’s not even that important in the whole scheme of things, even if he feels like your whole world right now. You know who won’t give a single shit?”
Will cocked his head. “Who?”
“Mom. I don't think you could do anything to upset her besides going out and getting yourself hurt. She only wants you to be safe. And happy. She loves you, she loves you so much, Will, and so do I.” He found himself gripping Will’s shoulder tighter as he affirmed the statement, as if trying to force its truth into his brother.
As convincing as he’d thought he’d been, Will’s eyes squeezed shut again and he shook his head almost imperceptibly, reverting back to the verge of tears. “Please don’t tell her. Or El,” he squeaked.
“Oh, no, no,” Jonathan responded, realizing his mistake. “I would never. Not if you don’t want me to.”
Will raked his hands through his hair, distressing his bangs. “I wouldn't know how to tell her, how to even start…” His voice broke and he bit his bottom lip, hands still tangled in quivering fists.
“Well, you don’t have to yet, if that’s what you want,” Jonathan supplied, in as calming a tone as he could muster. Was he taking this too fast? Why couldn’t there be some kind of pamphlet on how to have this type of conversation?
Will met his eyes again. “Can you be there when I do?”
Jonathan nodded fervently. “Of course, yeah. Absolutely.”
His brother let out a sigh, deflating flatly onto his bed before pulling himself back up and facing Jonathan. He guessed it was some kind of dissipation of tension.
“Thank you. For everything.”
“We’re family,” Jonathan stressed. “I’m here for you, always. And I mean it.”
And I will never once let you forget it.
Will’s mouth slid up in a tentative grin. “Even when I ruin your shirt?”
Jonathan craned his neck over to his right shoulder, which sported a sizable amalgamation of tears, snot, and probably spit. “Hmmm…this is pretty gross. But I’ll let it slide,” he winked.
“Good.” Will crossed his arms, growing serious again. “I can’t promise it’ll be the last one if you want me to talk to you about things. Like, the hard things.”
“It’s worth every snotty shirt, then,” he insisted. “But I definitely need to get out of this thing now,” he added, suddenly hyper-aware of the sticky fabric on his back.
He stood up slowly from the bed, not ready to leave Will if he had anything more to let out. But his brother just held his gaze and smiled, looking satisfied and less shielded than he’d been in weeks, if not months.
Just as he was about to close Will’s door, he heard him clear his throat.
“Hey Jonathan? You’re a good brother.”
With that, Jonathan went back to his room and finally started to unpack.