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Jonathan was four years old when his baby brother was born. The baby’s name was Will and Will was a tiny little thing. The night Jonathan met him he was wrapped tenderly in blankets, rocked in his mother’s arms, pink cheeks and huge eyes already wet from Lonnie’s relentless yelling. He looked delicate, fragile, something that needed protecting. From the moment Jonathan laid his eyes on him he knew that he wouldn’t ever let anything bad happen to him.
Will really was a tiny baby, far too small, as light as a feather. Joyce had let Jonathan hold him sometimes, trusting her eldest with a gentle nod, rules he had to follow, and an encouraging smile. Will wasn’t a planned baby, but Joyce loved him dearly even so. Yet, the baby made Joyce stressed, tired her out, made her unable to take extra shifts when money was tight, forced her to skip work on some occasions, made her risk her job. The baby made everything harder for the Byers family.
There was always yelling, Jonathan found.
So much yelling.
His mom and dad would argue constantly. There didn’t seem to be a day they didn’t.
Jonathan didn’t understand the words they threw at each other, only that it made the atmosphere thick and heavy. He knew not to intervene. He had learned his lesson from that; there had been a time when his dad had pinned his mom at the kitchen table, Jonathan hadn’t understood, mom hadn’t been bad? Why was dad hurting her? He’d begged for him to stop, weakly failing to get Lonnie’s hands off of her. Needless to say, Lonnie didn’t take kindly to him interrupting and gave him a harsh whack for it.
Jonathan had gone to bed that night contemplating what the words ‘stupid fucking bastard’ meant.
Yelling always made his head hurt. It made him want to fold himself into a ball and rock back and forth until it stopped. He didn't like it. He didn’t like how loud it was. He didn’t like any loud noise. And if he didn’t like it, he realised with devastation that neither would the baby.
Most of the time their mom would shut the door behind her so that Will wouldn’t hear, but when she didn’t Jonathan would do what he could. He’d rock the baby in his own arms, soothing him, pressing his hands gently over the baby’s ears to block out the noise (specifically his palms as he reckoned if he used his fingers the noise would slip from them. It didn’t feel right either). He’d focus on keeping Will calm, slipping a thumb into his own mouth to self soothe whilst he did so. If he could focus on the task at hand, he could block everything else out.
Hours later, Joyce would resurface to find them like that, her face pink, bruised and tear stained. Eyes that were previously full of sorrow would soften when she noticed Will sleeping peacefully against Jonathan’s chest, slobbering all over his shirt because Jonathan hadn’t been able to reach the drawer to get the baby a pacifier.
Relief would flicker across her face.
Gratitude.
So much gratitude.
She’d bend down and kiss both of their foreheads. She’d praise Jonathan, taking his hands, squeezing them gently, whispering over and over to him that he was such a good boy for keeping his little brother all safe and sound, that he was the best big brother in the entire world and mom was so proud of him.
Jonathan would beam at the praise, taking it in as a flower would the sun.
Joyce hadn't been spending as much time with him since Will was born, she was always preoccupied with the baby and household matters. It made Jonathan feel a little upset, but even at his young age he knew that the baby was frail, a priority. Jonathan wasn’t a baby. He didn’t need the same things Will did and that was okay.
It didn’t mean he didn’t miss his mom though.
He did.
A lot.
That day, something flicked in his young mind, he came to realise that his mom applauded him when he did things for her. And that made him feel like he was gaining some of her attention back.
Jonathan had learned early on how to look after himself more often than not, doing so meant that his mom wouldn’t get upset when she was already worn thin, late for work, and needed to get Will dressed for school.
She didn’t need any more stress on her plate.
So Jonathan took it off.
He wiped the plate clean.
As Jonathan grew, he’d memorise his mom’s way of caring for Will, watching her actions to precision. He’d take care of most of her jobs for her without her having to ask him. He’d get Will up for school, clothe him, make him his favourite breakfast, tuck him in at night and leave the room when Joyce would tell Will a bedtime story, that was mother and son time, something he couldn’t offer Will nor did he want to interrupt.
It made things a lot easier, the whole house was thankful for it.
Joyce wasn’t as on edge anymore, her lungs weren’t contained and she could actually breathe, being a somewhat, single mother wasn’t easy. The atmosphere wasn’t as dense now either. Lonnie was still Lonnie, but Jonathan knew how to step around him, how to be careful. Lonnie was out of it most days anyway, deep in booze.
When Jonathan was 13 his mom and dad got divorced.
Jonathan proceeded to get his first job. It was only as a paperboy, but it brought money in. He took on small tasks from the neighbours too, just to bring in some extra cash. And it helped. Meals that were frightening small, barely enough for two growing boys and an adult woman, had grown in size now that their household income had increased. Jonathan was delighted that he’d been able to contribute to Will gaining more meat on his bones, his little brother looked both healthier and happier. Jonathan couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. He was helping. He was pulling his weight and it was working.
Jonathan never kept any of the money for himself, he’d give it to Joyce to go towards the rent, water, gas, electricity or other bills that needed paying. Some of the money Jonathan would hand directly to Will, urging him to spend it on a new board game or a piece of clothing that he liked. Will would get teased at school, other kids making fun of him for how his clothes didn’t fit properly, Jonathan couldn’t stop the bullying directly, but he would in any way that counted. It was always worth it for the way Will’s face would light up. Joyce tried, she did, but with so much to pay for, she couldn’t afford to buy either boy new clothes unless it was important, nevermind something disposable such as a board game.
Jonathan was tired all of the time too now, he’d find himself nodding off in class some days, other days he’d get home, kick his shoes off, crash into bed and fall straight asleep. Between work, exams, school, household chores, making sure Joyce was alright, and looking after his little brother he barely had any time for himself.
Photography brought him a sort of piece of mind though. It had always been something he’d been fascinated with. And recently the thought of it became something that was always clanging around his in brain, making him accidentally zone out and lose track of time when he should be focusing on things that were actually important. It made him spend money too. Money he should be giving to Joyce. He’d tried to part with it, but found he couldn’t. It became his guilty pleasure.
He thought somewhat it was better that way, to be alone the way he was, that is.
He’d never been able to properly understand his peers, even as a child he realised they were immature in a way he wasn’t. As a teenager, he didn’t want to go to parties, partake in sports or get drunk. He’d people watched on multiple occasions, trying to fathom what about it made them so happy? He couldn’t grasp it. He didn’t have time to partake in them sorts of things anyway.
Though pushed to the back of his mind, a want that he could be like everyone else lay dormant.
It didn’t matter.
He had officially claimed the ‘man of the house’ title now. No longer did him looking after his little brother get praised by Joyce, but it was expected, punished by disappointed glances and words if he didn’t. It had been expected for a while, but that didn’t stop him from on a rare occasion throwing wanting glances in Joyce’s direction, hoping that she’d pay attention to all that he was doing. That she’d award him with gratitude, or a hug, or anything really.
That never happened.
He learned not to expect it.
Joyce put most of her energy into making sure Will had the closest to a perfect upbringing that she could. Her attention was always on Will, never Jonathan. Jonathan told himself it didn’t matter. He was grown. He didn’t need his mom like that.
At 16, Jonathan was working two jobs.
At 16, Jonathan’s baby brother disappeared.
At 16, Jonathan planned an entire funeral by himself.
At 16, Jonathan no longer had a purpose to live.
At 16, Jonathan’s whole world had shattered into countless pieces he would never fully gather again.
At 16, Jonathan Byers had never felt relief like finding out Will Byers was alive.
At 16, Jonathan hadn’t expected to find out about monsters from another dimension.
At 16, Jonathan didn’t realise how the incident would truly change their family dynamic.
At 16, If Jonathan thought Joyce paid no attention to him now, little did he know it’d only get worse as the years went by.
-
[present/1987]
Jonathan knows that his mom cares about him. He’s never doubted that. Growing up as poor as they were, it was only expected that as the eldest child, he must pull his weight.
Recently though?
Jonathan misses the time he used to spend with his family.
Not that he’d ever had much time to anyway, but he finds himself missing those rare moments from when he was a child where Joyce would play with them both, spend time with them both. When he’d play with Will in Castle Byers when Joyce couldn’t. If someone was to ask Jonathan if his life had ever been perfect, he’d say then. Back when it wasn’t clear that Joyce evidently had a favourite child, back when Jonathan had been too young to realise anyway.
Jonathan hadn’t expected to sink into depression as deeply as he had recently.
It had been building up for a while. Years perhaps. Just suppressed.
It was a lot harder to suppress it now.
Maybe he’d given up trying to hide it as well as he had.
Getting high helped, but without Argyle, without company, it wasn’t the same.
He found it difficult to confide in Nancy about his struggles, he wasn’t used to opening up. He wasn’t used to being the center of someone’s attention. So he didn’t. He should and he knew that. Communication was the most important part of a relationship, but he didn’t think any words from her could help in the way he wanted anyway. Not that she was bad with her words, she wasn’t, but Jonathan, as silly as it sounded at his grown age, just wanted to confide in his mom. Joyce couldn’t make it all better, he knew that, but a caring maternal figure would help. Just a hug even, perhaps a pat on the back to tell him he was doing well.
It’s a random Saturday when Jonathan wakes up feeling miserable, he must’ve caught an illness somewhere, it’s not surprising this late in the year. As illnesses do, it sucks, and he feels terrible. He still drags himself out of bed though, helping out around the house as usual.
Joyce hadn’t commented on his pale appearance, instead he’d had to tell her himself that he was sick. The honesty sounded foreign to his ears, he wouldn’t usually burden his mom with information like that. She hadn’t seemed to be too concerned, she’d told him to tell her if it worsened though, and then had scurried off, doing whatever it was that she was doing.
It’s later on that day when he, Will and Joyce are in the car that he feels the need to get Joyce’s attention again. He had offered to drive, but Joyce had mumbled something about if he was really ill she didn’t want him driving when Will was in the vehicle, marking it as unsafe. It had been a joke.
Apparently.
It hadn’t made him laugh.
Not much did anymore.
“Mom.”
Jonathan isn’t sure why he calls out. The word slips before he can stop it. He regrets it instantly. Thankfully, his voice had been far too small to hear.
The sickness isn't that bad, not enough for them to pull over. He isn’t going to throw up, the nausea had settled, and his splitting headache from the early hours of the morning had already improved a lot too. Ibuprofen really was a life saver.
He’s fine, he scolds himself over and over again.
But he’s lying to himself and he knows it.
Deep down, he’s tired. He’s so tired of everything. Everything just seems too hard recently. He just wants Joyce to care. Just for a second. To hear it in her voice. For her to coax that his negative thoughts were all wrong.He just wants his mom. He just wants her to notice that something's not right with him, to show him that affection she gives so freely to Will. He isn’t sure why he wants it so bad. It's just the sickness that’s making his head feel all sorts of wrong. It’s got to be. He doesn’t feel well, that's all it is.
(It most definitely isn’t everything that’s happened over the years catching up to him.)
And who doesn’t want their mother when they’re sick? Who actually grows out of that urge?
“Mom.” He calls again, this time louder. Loud enough to be heard.
For a moment his world stops.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart?
Joyce hadn’t called him sweetheart since he was very little, before the weight of all his responsibilities settled on his shoulders. Her tone is gentle too, almost too gentle.
His heart sputters, confused.
Then cracks open.
Shatters.
Joyce isn’t looking at him.
She’s looking at Will.
She thought Will had called for her.
She’d even mistaken his voice for Wills.
Will looks up, perplexed, crayon merged between his fingers, wax painting his fingerprints orange. “I-huh? I didn’t say anything.”
Joyce mutters something, double checking that Will’s okay before her focus returns to the road.
Jonathan feels like he’s underwater.
He’s drowning.
He can’t make himself look away from Will.
His stomach feels wrong as he looks at him. Not hunger. Not from the sickness either. It just feels wrong.
Deeply, fundamentally wrong.
His jaw clenches, chest too tight, throat so dry that it feels like he’s swallowing the last droplet of water in a desert. His brain short circuits. The unsettling feeling doesn’t fade, it lingers as the seconds tick by. It crushes his soul to realise it isn’t physical; the feeling sharpens, turns heavy when he watches Will and his mom interact, yet it eases when he looks at Joyce alone. The moment Jonathan’s gaze drifts back to will, it sinks deeper, hardening in his belly, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
Jealousy.
Anger.
Anger born from jealousy.
A deep upset too.
The three don’t mix together well.
The realisation makes him sick.
He’s jealous of his baby brother.
Yet to his horror, it refuses to shake, it grows.
He’s fully aware now that he’s upset that Will gets treated with so much love, so much care, whilst he doesn’t even get the scraps. The anger scrapes so deep into his core that for a terrifying second all he wants to do is shove Will away from Joyce. To sink his claws into her flesh, grabbing her from the inside out. To spit right in Will’s face that she was his mom first. That he was her baby first.
He wants to take Will’s spot. Just for a minute or two.
Everything about his thoughts make his stomach churn with devastation.
How could he think of Will like that?
How could he let himself think like that?
It’s selfish.
He’s selfish.
It’s childish.
He’s childish.
It’s stupid.
God, he’s so fucking stupid.
He hates it.
He hates it so much.
Everything is so wrong.
He could never be mad at Will, not his precious baby brother.
He loves Will. He loves Will so damn much that it physically hurts.
Not Will, who had been dragged through hell and back. Will, who had experienced more horrors than he ever had, even at an age so much younger. Will, who had been subject to monsters much worse than anything Jonathan had met at Lonnie's hands. Will, who he loved with his entire heart, who he’d sworn to protect. His little brother who Jonathan wanted to wrap in bubble wrap, keeping him safe from anything that would wish harm on him. Will, who he’d sacrifice himself for without thinking twice.
Not his Will.
Yet the feeling is there. It won’t shake. He is mad at him.
And Jonathan understands.
He does.
He understands why Joyce treats Will the way she does. Why she smothers him with constant affection, gentle hands, a soothing tone and worry.
That understanding only makes the blanket of shame tighten its grip, suffocating him. His chest is tight. Too tight. He never lets himself cry where anybody is able to see, he needs to get away soon before the inevitable. He’s getting himself far too worked up.
He knows Joyce loves him. He’s still her son. Just not her priority.
He understands why he isn’t given the same care.
He’s older.
Stronger.
Someone to rely on, not someone who needs to lean on someone else’s shoulders.
Nineteen, an adult.
And still, his brain is persistent, the thoughts are unable to be budged. It’s the sickness, he reminds himself. It’s playing its sick game with him, contaminating his thoughts, it has strings of its own.
(He refuses to acknowledge he’s the puppeteer.)
The feeling manifests into a perpetual invasive ache that settles deep down, creeping into his bones, flooding into his bloodstream, forcing its way into his heart. He can’t seem to outrun it no matter how hard he tries. He can’t snap his eyes away from the front of the car.
They’re not even doing anything.
Theres nothing to be so upset about.
Will is sitting in the passenger seat with a sketchbook, humming as he draws. Joyce is driving, occasionally glancing sideways to check that Will is still there, that he hadn’t miraculously disappeared.
A few minutes later, they’re out of the car. Jonathan doesn’t remember standing up.
Joyce is gentle with Will, she always is.
Almost nauseatingly so.
He flinches at the thought. That’s not true, nor is it fair. It’s not nauseating. Will deserves every ounce of care he gets.
Why must his brain betray him this way?
Jonathan tells himself that he’s only watching them in case Will stumbles, it’s a laughable excuse given how unlikely that is.
Joyce reaches up, brushing Will's hair from his eyes, scans him over, then slips her hand in his as she helps him out of the car. Will stiffens. He looks more than a little uncomfortable. Joyce’s care is starting to smother his little brother, Jonathan had been noticing that for a while. Will is not a baby anymore, but to Joyce?
He’ll forever be her baby.
(Her only baby).
Jonathan’s arms wrap absentmindedly around himself, tight enough to hurt, grounding himself as his heart hammers, as his eyes burn. He doesn’t know why it’s affecting him so much. It’s the sickness, it’s got to be. That’s what he tells himself. Or perhaps it’s the mortification of being ignored, maybe it’s the petulant thoughts that won’t leave him be. Maybe it’s the deep agonising shame that he can't seem to shake, or maybe it's the devil perched on his shoulder that hisses to him:
If Will doesn’t want it, why can’t it be mine instead?
It’s different. He knows that.
He’s never wished as strongly to sink down into a void of nothingness than he does right now, but he’s already far past that.
He’s already gone.
Maybe he’d never even been there in the first place.
He’s a ghost.
A ghost in his own eyes. A ghost in hers.
She doesn’t feel like his mother anymore.
She feels like a stranger.
And deep down, he knows he’s become one to her too.