Chapter Text
Nancy stares at him for a few moments with a strange expression. Somewhere between anger—furrowed brows and lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure—and hurt—troubled blue eyes, breathing sadness. She takes a deep breath, as if preparing to dive in.
"I called Emerson."
Her voice is calm but sharp.
Jonathan, leaning on the kitchen counter in Hopper’s cabin, locks eyes with her. He feels his stomach sink. He has no plan, not even the beginning of one, to escape the confrontation ahead. It’s going to be a disaster.
The moment he has dreaded for nearly eight months has arrived. The moment he tried to avoid again and again—delaying phone calls, steering conversations away from anything too deep, carefully choosing the words in the few letters he sent.
He briefly considers coming up with a few more lies to try and get out of this mess smoothly…
Nancy crosses her arms, scrutinizing him with an intensity that makes him feel like she can see through every hollow excuse he might throw at her. He feels exposed and utterly insignificant. Alright. She’s already furious enough without him adding insult to injury by trying to play her for a fool—no more dodging.
"Oh."
That’s all he manages to say. A heavy silence settles between them, and Jonathan lets it stretch on, a dull anxiety creeping through him while Nancy pierces him with a cold stare. After a few moments of silent assessment, she shakes her head, sending her curls flying in every direction, and finally spells out the unspoken accusation."
"Yeah. ‘Oh?’ I contacted their office. Since you don’t plan on going back to California to check your mail, you wouldn’t know whether you were admitted or not. I insisted on getting an update on your application process… Turns out you never sent one. Never. You lied."
Jonathan runs a nervous hand through his hair, struggling to hold her gaze. He’s almost certain he’d rather spend a week with Lonnie than have this conversation. Almost.
"I’m really sorry. I was going to, but—"
The words come out uncertain, and he stops as soon as he says them. Another lie. He knows it. So does she.
He is entirely responsible for this absurd situation. It was him, after all, who never contradicted her ambitious plans when she mapped out their shared future in the days before her move; him who had patiently listened as she listed every step they needed to take to reunite at Emerson the following year, never once voicing an objection; him who had wanted to let himself be swept up in the illusion and be a part of it.
And really, for a moment, he had been. For months, he had entertained the idea. Maybe, just this once, he could do something completely reckless and selfish? With the funds provided by the government through Owen and the money Hopper had left for El, his family wasn’t struggling as much as they had when he was a kid. So maybe he could spend what should have been a lifetime’s worth of savings just to follow the girl he loved to one of the most prestigious universities in the country. A university with a mediocre photography program. A university that wouldn’t offer him a scholarship and wouldn’t give him many more opportunities than any cheap community college in California. A university thousands of miles from Lenora… where, if an emergency arose, he’d either need four days or a small fortune to make it back home.
He swallows hard and tries to be honest, even though it’s far too late for that.
"I wanted to, but I couldn’t… All of this was just… Moving 3,000 miles away from Will and my mom… going into debt for decades for a degree about which I had doubts, it was just—"
A sharp laugh cuts him off.
Nancy is seething. She gives him a joyless smile, her eyes already glistening with tears.
"Doubts? Are you kidding me? And these doubts, you couldn’t bring them up when we made this plan together? Fuck, Jonathan, when exactly were you going to tell me? Six months from now? The day I got my acceptance letter? When I ended up alone in Boston? Every time I asked you about your applications these past months… you lied to me!"
Her voice keeps rising, taking on an outraged edge. Beneath the anger, there’s a deep sadness. And the unmistakable sting of betrayal… He has been deceiving her for months. Jonathan feels his chest tighten.
He never wanted to do this. He never wanted to break up with Nancy, let alone hurt her. But it’s too late to fix things or manage them differently—he let this spiral out of control, their problems festering the longer he left them unresolved, reaching an unacceptable point.
He wants to find the right words, to explain clearly why he didn’t apply. And most of all, why lying about it had seemed like a good idea. But all he finds is emptiness. Because the truth is ugly and pathetic. He didn’t apply because he didn’t see the point in going to college. Because he’s not like her.
Jonathan isn’t driven by ambition. He never truly considered that making a living through photography was a realistic option. Never seriously thought about paying for an expensive program just to maybe, someday, try to land a job in that field. Maybe he had believed it a few years ago, but… Now, it just felt rather pointless. And he hadn’t had the courage to admit it to her, not wanting to disappoint her or hold her back.
And if he got tangled up in this inescapable web of lies, it’s because he is completely in love with her and can’t stand the idea of—already—losing her. Because deep down, he’s convinced that everything was doomed from the start, and the moment he admits he doesn’t want the idyllic future she envisions, it will destroy everything between them.
Heads: they accept they’re too different and break up… even if they love.
Tails: in trying to hold on, they hurt each other, ruin their futures, and end up hating one another.
Either way, there’s nothing to gain. No clean way out.
Jonathan takes a deep breath.
"This was never my plan. I never wanted… with the move, everything got complicated… I didn’t have the courage to tell you that I didn’t want to go to some elite university. Before you brought up Emerson, I was just planning to go to a community college, earn a few credits, then find a basic job to start saving up in case something went wrong. And after everything that’s happened these past years, I don’t want to move too far from Will and my mom. I didn’t want you to think about giving up your dream school just to apply somewhere near Lenora… I was afraid you’d feel stuck with me."
The words finally escape his tight throat, but they explain nothing. And they certainly don’t justify his constant deceit.
Nancy opens her mouth, then snaps it shut, her face pale. When she speaks again, her voice is sharp, her anger flaring even higher.
"Stuck with you? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you fucking kidding me, Jonathan? You’re going to pretend you lied to make my life easier? You think I’m too stupid to know what I want? That I would’ve just applied to some California school on a whim to be with you? And even if I had… that would’ve been my decision! If you wanted to break up, why the hell did you let me believe we had a future?!"
Because I love you, because I don’t want us to break up, and because—even if it’s crazy—a part of me wants our story to have a happy ending.
It’s the truth, but Jonathan certainly can’t tell her that. Not now, when, tangled up in his own contradictions, he’s managed to screw everything up. A cold shiver runs down his spine. Nancy is right, of course. With his lies, he backed her into a corner, leaving her no choice. How could he possibly explain the twisted logic that led to this mess?
He lets out part of what has been weighing on him ever since the plans for Emerson were laid out—ever since she started envisioning their glorious future together, a future he just couldn’t bring himself to believe in.
“It’s not that I want us to break up, I just… Where do you see yourself in ten years, Nancy? If we make a mistake now, trying to hold on to each other even though we don’t want the same things… In ten years, when you realize this wasn’t what you wanted… you’ll hate me.”
That’s not really what he thinks. Not even close to what he truly wants to say. It’s barely a shadow of the dozens of reasons why he’s been lying to her for eight months, but it’s all he can get out. He lowers his head, staring resolutely at the floor, unwilling to see her expression.
He hears an incredulous laugh. The sharp sound tightens his throat involuntarily.
“You’re afraid I’ll hate you in ten years?”
He forces himself to look up: Nancy looks exasperated, an awful, fake smile hovering on her lips, her hands clenched into fists, piercing him with an icy glare. The glint of contempt he sees in those big blue eyes makes his stomach churn. Even before she speaks again, he knows she’s at her breaking point. He can tell she’s going to lash out, to hurt him.
He deserves it. He can take it.
"So, is that it, Jonathan Byers? Are you too cowardly to own up to what you want, so you spend your time running away and lying to everyone? According to your grand theory, it was me who was going to end up a loser like my mom with a crappy little life of an insipid middle-class girl; in the end, it's you who's becoming exactly like your asshole father! After all, a failure remains a failure. Have you started drinking too, or is it just drugs?**"
Jonathan feels the air leave his lungs. He stumbles back, stunned. Turns out, he can’t take it. He would have preferred if she had slapped him. It feels like someone just poured acid into his stomach. His fingers clench so hard they ache, his bitten nails digging into his palms.
There’s a horrible moment where everything seems frozen. A silence that stretches between them for agonizing seconds. Then, time starts moving again.
Nancy flinches and widens her eyes, instinctively raising a hand to her face as if even she is shocked by what just came out of her mouth. She stares at him, stunned, then shakes her head violently, her coppery-brown curls bouncing with the motion—a strange, silent negation. Guilt floods her features, tears spilling over, rolling down her cheeks. She parts her lips. A few words, dripping with regret, escape in a broken voice.
“Jonathan, that’s not—”
The stunned despair that had rooted Jonathan to the spot fades as realization dawns. His distress twists into anger, then into fury. The venomous feeling rises in him, uncontrollable. He cuts off the apologies forming on Nancy’s lips.
“That’s not what you meant? Not what you really think of me?”
There’s nothing more to say. Nothing to fix. Nothing worth salvaging. It’s over.
And after all, he shouldn’t even be mad at her. She only said the truth: he is a loser. A loser, a coward, and a liar.
He grits his teeth and keeps clenching his fists compulsively. His blood feels like it’s boiling in his veins. His heart pounds violently against his ribs, and a bitter taste rises in his throat.
He shouldn’t be mad at her. This mess is entirely his fault… and yet, he is furious at her. Furious that she used this to cut him down. His voice cracks, bitterness lacing every word he spits at her.
“I’m a loser? A coward? A liar? Yeah. Took you long enough to figure it out! And what about you, Nancy? You haven’t changed one damn bit! You always make everything about you! You think you’re so much better than everyone around you, you believe you can make all the decisions for them. You never gave a single damn thought about what I wanted! You just built this whole plan on your own, betting I’d follow you around like a dog!”
He steps toward her, then back, pacing the room, glaring at the ceiling and the walls as if speaking to them. His words are coated in venom, his hands gesturing wildly to release some of the fury surging inside him.
“I don’t think you ever even considered that I might want something different from what you planned! If I don’t agree to follow your every step, then I’m the asshole and our relationship is over, right?”
He moves through the room like a caged animal, restless, aimless, before turning sharply toward Nancy again, taking a few brisk steps in her direction. She doesn’t react. She looks frozen in place, tears—more and more of them—streaming down her face, soaking the collar of her sweater. Then, suddenly, she stirs—like waking from a bad dream—and wraps her arms around herself, her expression crumbling. She tries to interrupt him with a fragile voice.
“Jonathan…”
But he doesn’t stop. The words keep pouring out, his whole body trembling, his gestures still animated with raw anger. He wants to hurt her, to knock her off her pedestal.
“I was worried you’d give up on your dreams just to hold on to us. But that was bullshit! I was deluding myself. No matter the circumstances, you were never going to sacrifice anything for me! Now I’m reassured—you’ll be just fine without me! You won’t be stuck in a miserable little life with a fucking loser! The only person you truly care about, the only one that ever really mattered to you, is you!”
He could stop there—he should stop there—but the next words slip out before he can think, his hands still cutting sharply through the air.
“You know what, Nancy? Those graffiti your ex’s friends sprayed all over Hawkins? They were right. You really are—”
The insult catches in his throat. What is he saying?
Jonathan leaves the sentence unfinished, but the unspoken word lingers between them like a dark shadow. He suddenly realizes how close he’s gotten, pointing an accusatory finger inches from her face.
Nancy has instinctively recoiled. For a split second, he thinks he sees fear flicker in her eyes.
It stops him dead in his tracks, yanking him out of the red mist of fury that had clouded his mind. He freezes, swaying slightly, dizzy. His stomach twists violently. Had she thought he was going to hit her?
A wave of absolute disgust washes over him. Against the world. Against his father. And most of all, against himself.
Shit. He’s not like that.
The shadow of a doubt surfaces: is it really such an absurd thought?
Is he the kind of guy who could lose his temper to the point of becoming violent? There had already been that strange incident with Steve Harrington…
Is he cowardly enough to hit a woman or a child? He shivers and shakes his head, as if answering his own question.
And yet, the insult he had almost hurled at her… how many times had he heard his father spit it out? How many times had that slur been aimed at his own mother?
A wave of nausea washes over him. A leaden weight seems to have fallen upon the room, the silence stifling, oppressive. Nancy wavers, pale, just inches away from him, staring at him in shock. Silent sobs shake her shoulders, and Jonathan feels a diffuse panic creeping in.
He can still remember Nancy’s face the first time he kissed her, her expression the night they compared scars in that dingy motel; he recalls how tightly she had held him the day he moved to Lenora. How did they get here?
Love will tear us apart.***
It’s over. Everything is over.
He feels like he’s been torn into a thousand pieces.
Without a word, he grabs Argyle’s van keys and storms out of the house. He drives aimlessly, the music blasting, the windows down, the freezing wind whipping at his face. No matter how many miles he covers in the night, he can't calm down. A dull ache still throbs somewhere deep in his chest. The words they exchanged and the look of fear in Nancy’s eyes haunt him.
Just like your asshole father.
Nancy doesn’t know… she didn’t mean it like that.
And yet, the cruel sentence keeps replaying in his mind, a sinister refrain he can’t shake, even with Joy Division blasting through the van’s speakers.
It’s only when he pulls over near Indianapolis that Jonathan realizes where his reckless drive has taken him. Just a few miles from Lonnie Byers’ house... The mysteries of the human mind. The unconscious has a twisted sense of humor.
He lets out a bitter laugh and parks on the side of the road. He wipes angrily at the traitorous tears clinging to his lashes. He opens the door. Barely has time to lean out before he collapses onto the pavement, vomiting onto the asphalt, his body wracked with tremors.
He takes a deep breath, trying in vain to pull himself together. He needs to go back to Hawkins, but he doesn’t want to.
He’s afraid. Afraid of others, but—above all—afraid of himself. It's the kind of fear that leaves scars. There's no refuge from it. No asylum.