Work Text:
Jonathan prays to a god he doesn't believe in. He prayed before he got in the school bus growing up, prayed before bed each night after his mom tucked him in. He prayed when Will wasn't at home that morning. Prayed when he picked out Will's casket. He prayed when they were burning Will inside out. He prayed after he found Joyce on their couch holding Jim Hopper's police badge in her hands. He prayed in their living room after all the boxes were in the uHaul. He prayed before he took the blunt from Argyle and dragged in a long breathe he would cough out. He prayed a lot.
He never remembers why. Because the root is always the same.
He asks for forgiveness. He asks for freedom. For happiness. For relief. He's prayed for life and he's prayed for death. He asks for answers or for signs. He never gets them. But he still prays.
Lonnie would pray over dinner, but never went to church. Joyce smoked more on Sunday's. Will had never been inside a church. Wasn't baptized. Lonnie left. Jonathan still prayed, but at least one of his prayers has been answered.
There were mornings when he would watch Nancy sleeping and pray his thankfulness to the heavens. The next night he'd pray for the nightmares to end.
He would kiss Nancy's hands and pray that she would be okay.
He moved away and his prayers got longer. He prayed for Will and for Eleven and his mother. He got high out of his mind but even then, he'd stare at the sky and ask God if He was listening.
God never gave him a reason to believe. He gave him plenty of reasons to not believe or to hate Him. And sometimes Jonathan did hate Him. But he couldn't stop getting in his knees and clasping his hands to his chest.
"Do you believe in god?" He had asked Nancy. She had laughed and said no. No one who saw what they did could.
But he still prayed.
Maybe it was the bruises he grew up with or the lonely nights at work or the times he had seen death. Maybe Will coming back was a sign, or Nancy kissing him back, or his mom still being alive, or his dad moving away. maybe God was real. but it didn't really matter. Because he would continue to pray, and pick at his fingers while he did it. Patiently waiting for an answer for why he was there. Why he was still breathing? When so many others had died.
God was silent.
And he was okay with that most days.
He was quiet too.