Chapter Text
Jonathan Byers wasn’t really much for alcohol. Not really.
He never quite developed a taste for it back in high school when most people did; found it too tied to bothersome social situations and expectations to be ‘fun’ when you drank it, or whatever.
However, once he figured out it wasn’t all keg stands and sloshing red solo cups and it didn’t turn you into a carbon copy of all of your father’s mistakes with a single drop, Jonathan found himself not entirely opposed from time to time. Occasionally, or whatever. When he felt the instance called for it. Even still, he was never really what one would consider ‘fun’.
El once said he was clumsy. Will claimed he got weepy. And Nancy–
Ah.
Right.
Right.
Nancy.
Nancy, with the ‘y’ flourished into a little heart at the end of its tail, Nancy. ~ ❤
Fuck.
She was the whole reason he had ended up wanting a drink in the first place.
Well, not, like– okay, she didn’t actually do anything–didn’t actually make him do anything, either. Truly, she was probably the least at fault for anything at all. It was, just… just… well –
It was just because today was today. And that day was the 23rd– April 23rd, to be exact. Five full years to the day since Nancy Wheeler broke up with him.
And, honest-to-god, swear on Will’s still empty grave, Jonathan just wasn’t in the mood for weed. That kind of inebriation often made him feel hyper-sensitive emotionally and often got him a bit too existential, both of which were not really paths he wanted to send his brain spiraling down this evening.
No, the goal tonight was to drink like the world was still ending while pretending he didn’t feel like it already had, a premeditated self-sabotaging goal to absolutely fucking obliterate himself. If everything went according to plan, he’d get himself to the point where he couldn’t even feel the painful swirl of self-pity anymore or maybe, even, if he was lucky, get to the point where he could stop thinking about any and everything at all.
And so that was how Jonathan found himself in the bathroom of some piss-shit dive bar, nearly an entire bottle of whisky deep, feet flat on the cracked linoleum, bracing himself against the edges of a sink. He stared into a mirror and met his own eyes as a spinning reflection stared back.
He kind of looked like shit. Which made sense because he also felt like shit, everything he had consumed in the last few hours suddenly hitting him all at once. He closed his eyes and dropped his head and felt a sharp pain behind his eyelids. He had definitely missed the comfortable cushiony level and rocketed into belligerently fucking drunk.
God he even sucked at drinking, huh? Did this mean he was just like his dad?
Jonathan was so distracted by that doom-spiral of a realization he barely registered the arrival of another person and almost missed the weird familiarity at which they said his name or the seemingly far away sympathetic notion of:
“Dude, you look terrible!”
Okay it was fine. It was fine. Whoever it was would leave soon. No one wanted to deal with his drunk ass. Not even himself, apparently, as he was quickly coming to realize.
When he finally looked up some time later he was surprised to find the offending person had not, in fact, left and was, in fact, familiar.
“Steve.”
“It sure is.”
The cheeriness of the voice that exited Steve’s mouth is grating. Nails on chalkboard sort of sound, scratching across his brain.
“Go ‘way.”
Steve holds up his hands as if he were approaching a wounded animal. “I’m just gonna wash my hands and then I’ll be out of your hair. Pronto.”
Hands. Right hands. Had Jonathan washed his hands? Had he even gone to the bathroom? Fuck, wait a second. He had been holding something before Steve Harrington rudely and completely interrupted what he was doing with his presence. Or at least, he thought he had. What was–oh–right–
“M’ phone.” Jonathan slurred out, but his tongue felt too thick, not wanting to work properly. When had he even dropped it? El was probably right, he was clumsy.
“Phone?” Steve asks, turning his head, “Oh, wait, here it is.”
Steve bends down then comes back up, said missing phone in hand.
“You trying to call someone? Need someone to come get you?”
“I jus’–I need too–”
“Who?”
“N–”
“No?”
“ No , no, no. Nan, hng… ”
“ Nan… wait –Nancy?"
The silence in that pause is more silent than anything else.
“Isn’t she still in Boston?”
Jonathan took a deep breath and then used that same breath to let out a scoff. Look who’s suddenly so smart. But that’s fine, it’s fine. Jonathan’s smart too.
“P’nes work ‘n Boston.” he says in more of a slur than he intended.
"Why are you calling her if she’s in Boston?"
These questions were getting frustrating. And it was probably because of that frustration, an honest-to-god honest answer came out of his mouth next:
“Dunno, I jus’ miss her I gues’.”
A pause.
“Oh.”
Another pause.
"And ‘m not gonna call her.” Jonathan stated, holding up a finger, because he felt like he needed to clarify this with absolute clarity. “‘M gonna text her.”
He thought he heard Steve laugh but he couldn’t be 100% sure. What was so funny?
“Dude, that’s worse!”
And then his phone was no longer in his hand. Plucked from his fingers before he could even register the hand that did the plucking.
“Take it from someone who’s done more than his fair share of stupid shit while drunk: Don't fucking text her. Whatever you’re going through right now sucks I bet, but that course of action is just going to make it worse tomorrow. Trust me.”
Jonathan reached out for his phone again but for some reason Steve’s reflexes were lighting fast. Too fast. He couldn’t grab it. He tried again. Same result. What the fuck?
“Giv’ it bac–”
“No. You’ll thank me later.”
The fuck? It was his phone.
“Fuck you. I–”
And then something in Jonathan’s stomach shifted, lurching upwards incredibly quickly and uncomfortably. He pushed Steve to the side, ran into a stall, squeezed his eyes shut, and puked into the toilet.
๏๏๏
When Jonathan opens his eyes again, the ceiling is only spinning a little bit.
Then he becomes aware that he's no longer in some shitty bathroom, but a bed. A soft bed. And for some reason the light is on. Way brighter than a normal light. Wait, hold on is that light the sun –
“He lives! Fantastic. I was sure you’d sleep ‘til noon.”
The sound of Steve's voice ricochets around the room. And it's so loud and so grating Jonathan thinks it might shatter the walls. Or, at the very least, what's left of his brain. Jonathan settles on pulling the comforter above his head.
“Do you like pancakes or waffles better?”
“Where the fuck am I?”
Even saying those words was a fucking struggle.
“My place.”
It was then he vaguely recalled something. Stumbling. Some argument. A car ride. Some other argument. Stumbling again. A hand holding his wrist and around his waist. Cold water. A soft pillow–
“I’ve been abducted.” Jonathan states flatly.
“You’ve– What?”
The bed shifts, Jonathan thinks Steve has probably sat down on the edge of it. He dares to peek out from under the comforter and confirms his assumptions to be true. The reintroduction of light makes him involuntarily squint. First Steve and now the sun. Why was everything so set on being annoying this morning?
“You abducted me.”
“Uh, yeah, sure from a long night on a dirty bathroom floor.” It sounds like Steve is rolling his eyes. His voice has that sort of verbal eyeroll feel to it. “Byers, I saved your ass.”
He’s right and Jonathan knows it, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling just a little accusatory. You know, for flavor.
“Why were you even there?”
There’s a pause. It’s almost long enough for Jonathan to poke his head out to check if Steve is still there or somehow vanished from the room.
“Not sure if you’re aware, considering, uh, you really, really wanted to text Nancy, but there’s only one bar like that in Hawkins. You just happened to be in it at the same moment in time I also happened to be in it. Simple as that.”
“Suspicious.” Jonathan still wasn’t ready to rule out abduction.
Steve sighs.
“Well, I offered to drive you home–really I did– but you were pretty insistent that you didn’t want to go. So I brought you to my place.”
“That was your solution?”
"Uh, yeah. You'd have absolutely ended up stumbling into a ditch. Maybe even broken something. My heart couldn't take knowing that would be your shitfaced fate."
“Gee thanks.” He says sarcastically.
"Now," Steve's voice fell, very serious. "I’m asking you again–most important question in the world: Do you like pancakes or waffles?”
๏๏๏
Steve makes Jonathan pancakes after Jonathan mumbles something about having spent too many years eating nothing but waffles. It’s followed by eggs. And bacon. And then Steve brings him a cup of water along with a cup of coffee. And, truly, the smell of it all is sort of making Jonathan’s stomach turn, but Steve refuses to let him leave the kitchen until he eats a little bit of something. Once he starts, he finds it actually hard to stop. Bacon is just so good? It never used to be this good. When did they change bacon to be so good?
“I called you a taxi. I have no idea where your car is. Also I added my number into your phone. I don't really know what's up with you or Nancy or anything. Just.”
He pauses, then taps the phone cradled in Jonathan’s hands.
“Text me instead of her next time you feel like ending up like that, okay?”
Jonathan doesn't give an answer but he leaves Steve’s house with a full stomach, a phone number, and a persistent pounding headache.