Work Text:
In 1992, when all of this has blown over, this is how it will go:
They’ll live together, Will and Jonathan, in a double-wide trailer they can comfortably afford to pay rent on, with space for their friends to visit, to hang out, every weekend. One day, when he gets his bonus, Jonathan will come home with a brand-new VCR, not a rental, and he’ll hook it up to a TV set they honest-to-god own, and they’ll watch a rental tape, one of those nerdy TV shows they can never watch live. Star Trek sometimes, maybe Knight Rider, but never horror -- Will wouldn’t like that anymore -- but they could watch concert videos. He can picture it. Talking Heads on the TV, and Jonathan on the floor, his long legs pulled up lazily, a cold beer in his hand; Will sprawled out on the couch or jostling for space among his friends, loudly critiquing the music, the visuals.
There won’t be any flickering Christmas lights. There won’t be any alien voices speaking through his brother’s mouth. There won’t be any blood.
Just long hard hours at a factory. Just a cheap trailer and an old car. Just enough cash for a six-pack on a Friday night and a rental at the video store. He can almost hear Will and Mike arguing about the movie; he can almost feel the static on the screen, hear the electronic whir of the VCR. Other kids growing up in Hawkins can’t imagine wishing for a trailer, wishing for a cheap TV, but that’s all Jonathan wants. To sit on the floor and get buzzed and listen to his brother laughing with his friends. To watch some wacky alien creature on TV and laugh, and point at it with his beer bottle, and say, "Hey, remember when...?" and all of this stuff going on right now will just be a weird story that no one but them will ever believe.
No blood, he tells himself.
No death, he prays.
Poverty. Aging. The death of a parent. The slow creep of addiction, of burn-out, among their friends. The everyday sorrows of life in Hawkins, for everyone whose last name isn't Byers. He can twist the scenario however he wants: no friends, okay. No Mom, okay, he'll deal with it. A trailer in Hawkins or a one-bedroom flat in California. A job at the local factory or an unemployment check. But in every scenario, Will is there, and Will is smiling, and there's no blood, and he can hear the hiss of static on the TV, the click-whirr of the VCR.
That's all he wants. That's what he'll fight for.
He opens his eyes and faces 1987, faces his brother, knowing none of it will ever come true.