Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jonathan Byers is not new to pain. 

It’s as familiar as the dips and divots of his mattress, carefully moulded around the shape of his body over time until it feels like an extension of himself. 

Some mornings, he wakes already tired, the ache settling in his bones before he’s even fully conscious. It’s not the sharp kind of pain that demands attention, not the kind that makes you reach for help. It’s dull. Persistent. The sort that lingers quietly in the background, content to be ignored as long as it’s acknowledged every now and then—like an old injury that never healed quite right.

The ceiling above him is cracked, a thin fracture running diagonally across the plaster. He’s traced it more times than he can count, following its uneven path with his eyes when sleep won’t come, or when it comes too easily and leaves too soon. He could probably draw it from memory. He probably already has, once or twice, absentmindedly, in the margins of a notebook he no longer opens.

There’s a weight pressing down on his chest, familiar in its own way. Guilt, maybe. Or grief. Or something nameless that settled there long ago and decided it liked the space. Jonathan doesn’t bother trying to untangle it anymore. He’s learned that some things only grow more tangled the harder you pull. 

Will was home. Will was alive. Breathing.

But still, the ache in Jonathan’s chest flares—raw and exposed, just like the day he stood in the morgue and stared at a body that wasn’t Will’s and yet somehow was; a shape that had worn his brother’s face long enough to break something fundamental inside him.

Will is alive, he reminds himself. Because Will never died. Because there was no body in the coffin, no dirt pressed down over his little brother’s name.

He can hear the water running in the bathroom next door–probably Will getting ready for school. Jonathan focuses on the sound, tries to let it anchor him. 

But the water shuts off soon enough, and the quiet rushes back in. The ache returns with it, deeper this time, heavier. Jonathan rubs a fist over his ribs with more force than necessary. The sharp discomfort is easier. It gives him something he can point to, something that makes sense.

“Jonathan?” 

Will’s head peeks around the door. “Can I go over to Mike’s after school today?” 

It hits him all at once that Will looks older somehow–not taller, but sharper around the edges, like childhood is already slipping loose where it used to cling so tightly. Dark circles shadow his eyes, reminders of nights spent waking up terrified of things Jonathan can’t see and can’t fight and can’t fix. 

Jonathan kind of feels like throwing up.

“Dustin and Lucas will be there,” Will adds, a little faster now, nerves creeping into his voice as Jonathan doesn’t answer right away. “And I can ask Nancy to drop me off after. I know you have work…” He trails off, shoulders curling inward. 

Jonathan cringes.

Will deserves normalcy now more than ever. Friends. Laughter. Afternoons that don’t end in panic or blood or monsters clawing their way out of the dark. Jonathan doesn’t know if he’s capable of giving Will that–doesn’t know if he ever really has.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice rough from disuse. He clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just–” He pauses, searching for the right balance between concern and control. “Be home before dinner, okay?”

Will’s face lights up, relief bright and immediate. “Okay,” he says, quick and earnest. “I will.”

Jonathan watches him linger in the doorway for a second, like he’s waiting for something else–an extra word, maybe, or reassurance Jonathan isn’t sure how to give. Then Will turns and disappears down the hall, footsteps light against the worn floorboards.

The house feels quieter after that.

Jonathan stares at the ceiling a little longer than necessary. There’s no reason to get up–he still has time before he needs to drop Will off at school. But there’s also no reason not to. Eventually, gravity wins. Not because it’s persuasive, but because it’s inevitable. 

He moves through the room on autopilot, stepping over discarded clothes, past the mixtapes on his desk that he hasn’t touched in weeks. Dust has settled into the grooves of the case. He notices it in the same detached way he notices most things now: briefly, without judgment, without the urge to fix it.

In the bathroom mirror, his reflection looks older than he remembers. Not dramatically so, but there’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was always there, and he’s only just learned how to see it. He hardly remembers what he looked like before anyway. 

He looks away before he can linger on it.

Downstairs, Will is already halfway through a bowl of cereal, legs swinging under the table as Chester noses around his feet, hopeful for any fallen crumbs. Jonathan bends down to pat him, and Chester nudges his leg insistently. Joyce must’ve left before she fed him. 

He reaches for Chester’s bowl and fills it with kibble. Not that Chester would have much of an appetite now, since he’s clearly helped himself to more than his fair share of sugary cereal. 

Still, Chester eats the kibble, tail wagging like he’s been deprived for days. 

It all feels so…normal. Eerily so. It makes something inside of Jonathan’s skin crawl. 

Will is alive, he reminds himself, rubbing at his chest again. Here. Breathing. Eating breakfast.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Will’s voice cuts through the fog of his thoughts. 

Jonathan sighs and sits down on the empty chair next to Will. The nausea is back. “I’ve got a stomachache,” he replies, trying to look as miserable for good measure. 

Will frowns but doesn’t question it. He never really does. And besides, Will has always been the faster eater. 

The ride to Hawkins Middle School is quiet. Well, as quiet as it can get in Jonathan’s car, with the clanking of the old engine and the music humming perpetually from the stereo. Will hums along to This Charming Man, slightly off-key, and it eases something tight in Jonathan’s chest. Not the Smiths’ best work, but at least Will likes it. 

There are too many cars outside of Hawkins Middle School–parents idling impatiently as kids on bikes weave recklessly through the traffic, backpacks swinging too low on their shoulders. 

Joyce had been adamant that Will not ride to school anymore. Jonathan doesn’t argue. Sure, it takes longer this way, pulls him out of bed earlier, makes him late for everything–but if it means Will won’t go missing agai–

“I can walk from here,” Will says, already reaching for the door. There’s that excited gleam in his eyes, the one that only shows up when Will or Dustin or Lucas are nearby. 

Jonathan leans out the window and sure enough, spots the familiar trio waving wildly from the school doors. 

“Okay,” he says, exhaling. There’s no reason to keep Will in the car now. “Have a good day, buddy.” He reaches over and ruffles Will’s hair, tries to smile like this isn’t the hardest part of his morning. 

Will whines and pushes his hand away, none too eager to get out of the car now. “Okay, okay.” 

“Will,” Jonathan calls as he climbs out, leaning across the console to speak through the open window. “If you need anything, call the diner and ask for me. Okay?” 

Will nods, already halfway gone, attention pulled by his friends' incessant beckoning. 

“You’ve got the diner’s number, right?” He tries again, louder this time. 

“Yes, Jonathan,” Will groans. “I’ll call the diner and ask for you if I need anything. Can I go now?” 

Jonathan forces his lips into what he hopes looks like a genuine smile. “See you later, kiddo.” 

He stays parked longer than necessary, watching Will excitedly make his way toward his friends and tries to control the panic that rises every time he loses sight of Will to a passing car. 

Eventually, Will disappears through the front doors, and Jonathan grips the steering wheel until his knuckles ache, breathing slowly–deliberately. In. Out. In. Out. He waits for the panic to crest and pass like it’s supposed to. 

It doesn’t–it never really does–but it dulls enough for him to turn the key. 

The parking lot is already half-full at Hawkins High, a scatter of familiar cars and unfamiliar faces. Seniors leaning against hoods, freshmen hovering close together like they might dissolve if they drift too far apart. 

Jonathan parks near the edge, where he always does, and cuts the engine. He can already feel a headache blooming behind his eyes. 

The halls are loud in that particular way only high schools manage: lockers slamming, laughter echoing too sharply, voices overlapping until they blur into noise. Jonathan keeps his head down and tries to blend in with the walls, hands protectively curling over the camera hanging heavy against his chest. 

People still look at him sometimes. Not as openly as they used to, and definitely not with the same morbid curiosity, but the awareness is there. 

Jonathan pretends not to notice. He’s gotten good at that. 

By the time lunch rolls around, the dull throb in his head has become a steady pounding, syncing unpleasantly with the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. He grabs the haphazardly made PB&J sandwich from his bag, wincing at its sorry state, hoping Will’s looks better than his. 

He takes a bite out of it, more out of habit than hunger. 

He’s sitting at his usual table, the one tucked slightly too far into the corner. It’s better this way. Less attention. Fewer looks. Fewer questions. 

He takes another bite of the sandwich, eyes unfocused, thoughts drifting everywhere and nowhere at once; about Will’s smile that morning, about cracked ceilings and running water and the way his chest never seems to fully loosen anymore. 

“Hey.” 

Jonathan startles, shoulders tensing before he can stop himself. 

Steve Harrington stands there, tray in hand, looking–uncharacteristically–uncertain. His hair is still stupidly perfect, which feels unfair, but there’s something different about him lately. Less polished. More…careful. 

Though not surprising, Jonathan thinks. Fighting an interdimensional monster, almost dying, getting dumped by your girlfriend, and losing all your friends in the span of a few weeks would probably do that to anyone. 

“Uh,” Steve says, gesturing vaguely to the empty seat across from Jonathan. “Mind if I sit?” 

Jonathan blinks at him. He’s not sure what he’s doing with his face, but Steve looks like he’s seconds away from bolting.

Which is… funny. In an ironic way. 

“Oh,” Jonathan says, because the silence feels too loud.  “Yeah. Sure.” 

Steve sits down, relief flickering briefly across his face before he schools it into something casual. He sets his tray down and glances around, like he’s half-expecting someone to call him back to wherever it is he’s supposed to belong. 

They sit in silence. 

Jonathan is acutely aware of Steve’s presence–the warmth of it, the way it subtly shifts the air around them in an unfamiliar way. 

It’s not that he hates Steve–not anymore, at least–but the past sits between them like an unspoken third presence. 

And Jonathan doesn’t know how to step around it without pretending it was never there at all. So he eats, shoving down the rest of his sandwich for lack of anything better to do. 

“Your brother,” Steve says eventually, softer than Jonathan expects. “Will. He’s…he’s doing okay?”

Jonathan stiffens instinctively, the same way he does anytime someone asks about Will. But Steve isn’t looking at him like he’s trying to goad him into another fight. He looks…earnest. Awkward even. 

“Yeah,” Jonathan says after a beat. “He is.” 

Steve exhales through his teeth and nods, like that matters. “That’s good.” 

Another pause stretches between them. 

And Jonathan may not be the most adept at responding to social cues, but the uncomfortable silence makes him feel all kinds of restless. He stands up abruptly. 

“I should go–” he says, at the same moment Steve blurts, “I’m sorry–”

They freeze, staring at each other.

It must look strange, Jonathan thinks somewhat hysterically, King Steve and the resident creep, frozen mid-sentence in a high school cafeteria of all places. 

Steve coughs–just once–and nods a little too quickly to be natural. “Yeah. Uh. Catch you later.” 

Jonathan doesn’t bother responding. 

He doesn’t expect he’ll ever talk to Steve Harrington again anyway. 

Jonathan never really sees Lonnie Byers anymore–he can count on one hand the number of times he’s laid eyes on his sorry excuse of a father in the past few years. 

It’s a slow day at the diner. Too slow. Only a handful of customers linger in the booths, the refilled coffee cups barely touched. The quiet leaves Jonathan with nothing to do but think. 

He looks at the clock behind the counter. 

6:30 pm. 

His fingers curl, nails digging into his palms hard enough to sting. Hard enough to stop himself from calling the Wheelers’ house just to make sure Will is still there. The pain is grounding in a way reassurance never quite is. 

Outside, the sun is already beginning to sink, washing Hawkins in a red hue that Jonathan might’ve once found beautiful but now just makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

The bell above the diner jingles as someone leaves. Jonathan glances up out of reflex, heart jumping before he can stop it.  

For half a second, he sees Lonnie–greying hair, leather jacket, the stale mix of beer and cheap cologne clinging to him like a second skin. Then the man turns, and Jonathan realises it’s not Lonnie at all. The eyes are too soft at the edges, the mouth pulling into a lopsided smile that shows crooked teeth instead of a smirk as he lifts a hand in farewell. 

Jonathan swallows. 

He grabs his camera and steps outside under the pretence of taking a break. Not that he’s earned one yet.

The air is cooler than he expects. He lifts the camera, frames the trees lining the street, their branches silhouetted against the dying light. 

The red glare catches the lens just right. 

The flash of the camera blooms, overwhelming the frame, and Jonathan forgets to breathe. For a split second, it isn’t the sun he sees, but movement–too fast to track, too familiar to mistake. The sharp crack of skin on skin echoes somewhere behind his eyes, remembered more than heard. 

Because there had been weekends once—real ones—where Lonnie played catch with him in the yard until Jonathan’s arms ached and the sun dipped low, laughing when Jonathan missed and clapping when he didn’t. Jonathan remembered the way Lonnie’s shadow used to stretch long across the grass, how big and unbreakable he’d seemed.

He used to think those afternoons were proof that his father loved him. 

He doesn’t remember when that certainty slipped away. Only that Joyce wasn’t home the night it did. 

Lonnie had insisted she go out.

“I got it,” he’d said at the door, one hand already on Joyce’s coat, gently but firmly guiding her out. “I can handle one night with my own sons.”

Joyce had hesitated, worry etched into the lines of her face. She knelt and kissed Jonathan’s forehead. “Don’t give your dad a hard time, okay?”

Jonathan nodded eagerly. He wanted to be good. He wanted to be easy.

Dinner was meatloaf. Or something pretending to be.

They sat across from each other at the ratty dining table, Lonnie eating in silence while Jonathan poked at his plate. Will was already asleep upstairs. The meatloaf was grey and soggy, somehow bland and oversalted at the same time. Jonathan dragged a piece of wet bread through it, his stomach twisting.

“Dad,” he said, small and uncertain. “I don’t want to eat this.”

Lonnie didn’t look up.

Jonathan should have stopped there. He knew that now. But he’d been seven, and hungry, and none the wiser.

“Dad,” he tried again, louder. “Can we please–”

He heard it before he felt it.

A sharp, cracking sound, just like when his bat hit the ball too hard. A hand–the biggest and strongest he’d ever known–struck his cheek.

The world lurched. His head snapped to the side as pain exploded across his cheek, hot and blinding. Jonathan tasted metal. Tears spilt down his face before he could stop them, shame burning hotter than the sting.

Lonnie stood so abruptly his chair scraped against the wooden floor in a deafening screech.

He didn’t say a word.

He just walked away.

Jonathan sat there long after, face throbbing, chest tight, finishing the watery meatloaf in silence because it felt worse to leave it untouched. 

Lonnie didn’t put him to bed that night.

But he came later, when the lights were already off.

“I’m sorry, Jonathan,” Lonnie whispered, his voice unsteady. His hand trembled as it combed through Jonathan’s hair–the same hand that had struck him hours earlier. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what came over me.”

His other hand closed around Jonathan’s, gentle and reverent, like Jonathan were something fragile.

“It’ll never happen again,” Lonnie said, squeezing softly. “I promise.”

Jonathan nodded. The ache in his cheek already felt distant, already fading into something unreal.

At seven, Jonathan believed him.

At sixteen, the ache is gone, but Jonathan still remembers the sound. The camera is heavy in his hands.  

Jonathan exhales, a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, and the world slides back into place around him. The diner hums behind him, busier now–muffled voices, the scrape of a chair, the steady hiss of the fryer–normal sounds. 

His hands are shaking. 

He tightens his grip on the camera until the plastic edge digs into his palm. 

The light has shifted–the red sky softening into something duller. A car passes on the street, headlights briefly flaring too bright. And when he finally turns back toward the diner, the glass reflects him faintly: all angles and sharp edges, older than he feels, younger than he’s supposed to be. 

“Jonathan,” a voice calls. 

He turns his head to see his manager jerk a thumb toward the now-filled booths waiting to be tended to. 

Jonathan nods. He forces his shoulders to loosen and pushes the door open. The bell jingles again, bright and ordinary. 

And Jonathan steps back inside. 

The cafeteria smells like stale mop water and something vaguely fried.

Jonathan sits at his usual table, the one tucked too far into the corner to be accidental. His lunch sits untouched beside him. Instead, he’s focused on his camera, fingers worrying at the strap, checking the lens cap for the third time even though he knows it’s fine.

The noise presses in from all sides–laughter bursting too loud, chairs scraping, the constant echo of too many voices in one space. Jonathan keeps his head down, shoulders drawn in, trying to disappear into the edges of the room.

“Hey.”

The word lands too close.

Jonathan startles, fingers tightening reflexively around the camera. He looks up–

Steve Harrington is standing there again.

Tray in hand. Hair perfect in that infuriating way. Hesitant in a way that still feels strange on him.

“Oh,” Jonathan says, because apparently that’s all he’s good for lately.

Steve pauses, eyes flicking over Jonathan’s face, like he’s checking for something he can’t quite name. “Sorry,” he says, immediately. “I–I can go if you want.”

“It’s fine,” Jonathan replies tightly, sounding snappish even to his own ears.

Steve exhales softly and sits anyway. “Cool. Thanks.” 

They don’t talk right away.

Jonathan drops his gaze back to the camera, thumb rubbing the worn edge where the paint has chipped. He’s acutely aware of Steve’s attention on him, and it makes it harder to fade into the background.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says after a moment. “I didn’t mean to–I’m not trying to be an asshole, I wanted to say sorry for–” He huffs out a breath, frustrated with himself. “You know. That time with the camera, I wanted to–”

“Don’t bother,” Jonathan cuts in. He means it. He’s done things he’s not proud of, too. Besides, they both got a good beating out of each other for it. 

Stevel’s eyes widen.“Yeah. I know. I just–” He runs his fingers through his hair, skewing the carefully styled locks ever so little. “I was a jerk,” he says finally. “And I’m sorry. For all of it.” 

Jonathan studies him for a long second. Steve looks different up close. Not smaller, exactly. Just less sure. 

“What do you want, Harrington?” he finally asks and forces himself to meet Steve’s gaze head-on. 

Steve lets out an incredulous laugh. “You are unbelievable, Byers. I’m over here trying to apologise, and you’re making my life a living hell.” 

He tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Is this how you felt every time you talked to me? Is this payback? Because if this is some kind of fucked-up mind game, congratulations. It’s working.” 

Jonathan lifts an eyebrow, oddly affronted. “I haven’t even done anything.” 

Steve honest-to-god whines like a child. “What do you want me to say?” He gestures helplessly. “That I’m a piece of shit who bullied you because I was insecure and jealous of you because I thought Nancy might be cheating on me with you, and I have no friends except, like, five middle schoolers–which I know sounds pathetic–and I’m really sorry, and would like us to be friends?”

The words tumble out in one breath.  

And it’s so unexpected, Jonathan lets out a quiet laugh before he can stop it–startled and a little breathless that surprises him as much as Steve. 

He isn’t laughing because it’s funny. He just has absolutely no idea what to do with that level of sincerity. 

Steve freezes, caught somewhere between looking offended and relieved. “Okay,” he says cautiously. “I’m going to take that as… not a total rejection.” 

Jonathan shakes his head. “I wasn’t exactly easy either.” 

But before Steve can respond, the bell rings, and students begin to pack up their tables.

“Catch you later, Harrington,” Jonathan says instead and hopes Steve understands what he’s trying to say. 

And despite everything, Steve sits with Jonathan during lunch after that. 

Not every day. Not at first. Sometimes he’s late; sometimes he doesn’t show at all. But often enough that Jonathan starts to expect him, glancing up when footsteps slow near the table, feeling something settle when Steve drops his tray across from him like it’s always been that way. 

They don’t talk much. Steve complains about the food. Jonathan eats whatever he packed that morning, usually standing by the counter half-awake while Joyce rushed around him. 

Sometimes Nancy joins them. Nancy is easy–always has been. She asks Jonathan about his classes, about Will. She listens in a way that feels practised, intentional. 

Jonathan notices things about her. The way she straightens her notes even when she isn’t studying. The way her jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, whenever Barb’s name comes up. 

They bonded once, without really meaning to–over fluorescent lights and police stations and the awful, endless waiting. Over the shared, choking knowledge of what it’s like to love someone who has vanished into somewhere neither of them could follow.

Jonathan respects her for surviving it. For making sure Jonathan survived it too. 

He thinks she’s brave in a way people don’t always see. Not loud or reckless. Just… steady. 

And maybe, in another life, they could have been friends–real ones. The kind Joyce would like immediately. The kind who sit on opposite sides of a library table and trade notes and talk about college. 

But there’s a quiet imbalance between them that Jonathan can’t stop feeling.

Because Will came back.

Barb didn’t.

Jonathan never says it out loud, but it sits between them anyway, heavy and unmovable. Every time Nancy looks at him, there’s a part of him that wonders if she sees it too–the unfairness of it all.

Sometimes he catches himself holding back, just a little. Not because Nancy doesn’t understand–she might be the only one who truly does–but because getting closer feels like taking something he didn’t earn.

So he stays careful. Polite. Just distant enough.

Nancy doesn’t push. She never has.

She just sits with them, forks her food absentmindedly, and listens. And Jonathan thinks that somehow makes it worse.

But Steve… Steve listens like he talks–questions that don’t sound like questions so much as a challenge until, without quite meaning to, Jonathan finds himself answering.

It usually starts with the camera.

Actually, it always starts with the camera–Steve has some weird fixation on it. 

He asks if Jonathan likes it, about a picture Jonathan took for class, or one he’s seen in the darkroom, and Jonathan explains, despite himself. About lighting. Angles. Shutter speeds. 

He doesn’t notice he’s talking more than usual until Steve goes quiet, chewing slowly, eyes fixed on him like he’s afraid to interrupt.

That’s usually when Jonathan stops.

Steve doesn’t push. He just nods, says something like that’s cool or yeah, that makes sense, like it actually does.

Jonathan tells himself it doesn’t mean anything.

Still, when the bell rings and Steve slings his bag over his shoulder, Jonathan feels the absence before he’s ready to admit he was aware of the presence at all.

The darkness is the first thing Jonathan notices. 

He can see himself–faded blue jeans, sneakers worn past their limit, the frayed yellow apron from the diner still tied around his waist–but everything beyond that dissolves into black.  

“Hello?” he calls. 

His voice echoes back at him, hollow and wrong. 

He takes a step forward and gasps as icy water seeps into his shoes. He turns to leave, but the water is already climbing, cold and insistent, rising to his hips, stretching endlessly in every direction. 

“Jonathan?” 

His head snaps up at the familiar voice. His heart slams against his ribs, loud enough to feel like it might split him open. 

“Will?” 

The water is up to his stomach now. 

“Will,” he shouts, the sound sharp and panicked. “Where are you?” 

He can’t see anything–just shifting darkness and the relentless churn of water around him. His breath comes fast and shallow, fear tightening around his throat. 

Then he sees it.

A body in the distance. 

His vision blurs, the edges of his world warping as panic takes hold. “Will,” he screams, wading forward as fast as he can. 

His legs turn to jelly, knees buckling beneath him as the water around him grows rougher, rising higher, pulling at him with a force that feels deliberate. 

“Jonathan,” Will whispers, voice trembling–in fear or anger, Jonathan isn’t sure. He’s still too far away. And Jonathan is losing ground, fighting water that wants to drag him under. 

“Why didn’t you find me?” 

Jonathan’s mouth opens, but the words stick. “Hang on, Will,” he manages, barely audible. “I’m coming.” 

Even to his own ears, it sounds like a lie.

His body feels like lead, moving too slowly as water surges, knocking him under, again and again. He thrashes, swims, reaches–

Will screams. 

Jonathan wakes up with a gasp.

His heart pounds painfully against his chest, breaths coming out in shallow, desperate pulls. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. The darkness clings to him, thick and suffocating. 

He’s already moving before the familiar shapes of his room come into focus–out of bed, down the hall, bare feet against the cold floorboards. 

“Will,” he whispers, pushing open the door. 

Will is there, one arm flung over his pillow, mouth slightly open, face relaxed in a way Jonathan envies. Asleep. Breathing. 

Jonathan stumbles into the room and stops just short of the bed. His hands hover, uncertain, before he lowers himself carefully to the floor, leaning against the edge of the mattress. He watches Will’s chest rise and fall. Once. Twice. 

It isn’t enough. 

He reaches out and presses two fingers lightly to Will’s wrist, feeling for the pulse there. It thrums steady beneath his skin–real, insistent. 

Jonathan exhales, the sound shuddering out of him. His fingers linger a second longer than necessary before he pulls back, guilt flickering sharp and quick. 

He stays there until his breathing matches Will’s, until the room feels less like it might collapse in on itself.  

Morning arrives grey and unwelcome. 

Jonathan is pulling on a jacket as the sun begins to bleed weakly through the clouds. 

“Where are you going?” Joyce asks from the kitchen. She sounds tired. Jonathan is still getting used to seeing her up this early. She used to sleep in on the weekends, before–well, just before.  

“Out,” Jonathan says, hoping the tremor in his voice isn’t noticeable. “I want to take some pictures.” 

Joyce doesn’t answer right away, but Jonathan can hear the frown in the silence. “Are you going to the quarry?” 

Jonathan grits his teeth. The nightmare still clings to him, heavy and close, and the house feels too small. 

He considers lying. It wouldn’t be hard. No one would know if he went alone. But he hesitates just long enough to give himself away. 

“Jonathan,” Joyce says, sharp but not unkind, as she steps out into the hallway. She really looks at him then, eyes searching his face. Whatever she finds makes her jaw set. “Take someone with you–I’m sure Nancy is awake or–”

“It’s fine, Mom,” Jonathan exhales, the words edged with frustration he doesn’t mean to let slip. The anxiety hums louder under his skin the longer he stands there. He knows exactly two people he could call, and he doesn’t really want to talk to Nancy right now, and he’s most certainly not taking Will to the quarry. 

But if he hesitates any longer, Joyce will call Hopper, and that option seems infinitely worse than any–

“Steve,” he says suddenly. “I’ll call Steve.” 

Joyce makes a face. “Who’s Steve?” 

Jonathan scrubs a hand through his hair. “Harrington? They live on the other side of the woods?” 

“Oh,” Joyce exclaims, recognition sparking. “Danny’s kid.” 

“Sure,” Jonathan mutters.  

Joyce smiles, tentative but hopeful. “I didn’t know you were friends.” 

We’re not, Jonathan almost says. 

Yeah,” he says instead. The word coming out wrong. “I mean–yeah.” 

He pretends not to notice the strange twist in his stomach as he reaches for the phone. He’s not even sure if Steve will answer, much less be awake. 

Steve answers on the second ring. Awake then. 

“Hello?” he says, voice infuriatingly alert.  

“Are you busy?” Jonathan asks.

Steve snorts. “What crawled up your ass and died this morning?” 

“Are you?” Jonathan presses. 

“Yeah dude, totally.” There’s a pause. Then, “Uh. Why?” 

Jonathan stares at the front door, at the way the light spills across the floor in thin, pale stripes. 

“I’ll pick you up in ten,” he says, and hangs up before Steve can protest. 

Steve Harrington is standing in his driveway when Jonathan pulls up, jacket thrown on over a rumpled T-shirt, one pant leg tucked into a sock. His hair is already up and styled, though. He squints at the car like he’s not convinced it’s real. 

Jonathan tries not to think about the fact that Steve showed up at all. 

“You weren’t kidding,” Steve says as he climbs in, shutting the door with more force than necessary. “It’s not even eight.”

Jonathan shrugs and pulls back onto the road. “Shouldn’t have answered the phone then.” 

Steve shakes his head and lets out a laugh that almost sounds…fond? Jonathan doesn’t dwell on it. 

“So,” Steve tries after a moment, glancing sideways. “You wanna tell me why I’m being kidnapped before breakfast?”

“I’m going to take pictures,” Jonathan says.

Steve hums. “Uh-huh. And I’m here because…?”

Jonathan keeps his eyes on the road. “Moral support?” 

Steve watches him for a second longer than necessary, then leans back in his seat. “And here I thought I was getting wooed.” 

It’s so ridiculous, Jonathan laughs. The tension in his shoulders ease by a fraction. “Dream on, King Steve.” 

Steve smiles, but doesn’t say anything else, instead humming along, off-key but confident, to the Talking Heads. 

Jonathan glances at him before he can stop himself.

“You–” He clears his throat. “You know the song?”

Steve grins, eyes still on the road ahead. “Yeah. Listened to it. Like, three times.”

Jonathan blinks.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Steve adds smugly. “You’re the one who told me I need better taste.”

Jonathan huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh and turns his attention back to the road. “I as righ.” He doesn’t comment on the way his chest feels unexpectedly tight.

Steve keeps humming.

Jonathan turns the volume up. 

The quarry is quiet when they arrive. It looks the same as it always has–jagged stone walls, dark water sitting too still at the bottom. 

Jonathan lifts the camera and peers through the lens, adjusting the focus until the world narrows to something manageable, even as his pulse ticks faster. He edges closer to the water without really meaning to. He tells himself he’s here for the light, for the way the sun hits the water at this hour.

Steve watches him from a step back, casually leaning against the hood of the car. Jonathan tries not to stare. 

Jonathan has never liked water.

Water is difficult to photograph. It never stays where you want it–too reflective, too dark, swallowing details whole. 

Then again, he never liked water long before he ever picked up a camera. It’s just something about depth—about not being able to see the bottom—that makes his shoulders tense and his breath go shallow.

He lowers the camera again. 

He’s always had trouble with water. 

Will was still a baby when they took the trip.

Just a short drive–nothing fancy–but Joyce had been excited, and Lonnie had been in a good mood. Good moods were rare enough to feel like something worth protecting.

The motel had a pool.

Jonathan liked the shallow end, where his feet could touch the bottom. He stayed there, watching the adults swim in the deeper water, curiosity tugging at him despite the knot in his stomach.

Jonathan edged closer to the line where the floor dropped away.

“Careful,” Joyce called absently, rocking Will in her arms.

Jonathan hesitated.

He never saw Lonnie come up behind him.

Strong hands grabbed him, lifted him, and then–

He hit the water before he could even scream.

Cold and blinding, chlorine burning in his eyes as the world tipped sideways. His limbs flailed uselessly, feet kicking for ground that wasn’t there. He tried to scream and swallowed water instead, lung seizing as panic bloomed sharp and immediate in his chest. 

His fingers scraped along the pool wall, nails tearing, skin splitting as he clawed for something–anything–to hold onto. But the tiles were slick and unyielding.

It couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds, but it felt endless.

Then hands grabbed his shoulder and hauled him up and out.

He broke the surface, choking, gasping, air burning its way back into his lungs. He coughed and sputtered, water pouring from his mouth as he clung instinctively to the arms holding him. He sobbed, loud and humiliating, clinging to the stranger who held him steady.

“Easy,” the man murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Somewhere in the distance, Lonnie laughed. “See? Told you he’d be fine.”

When Jonathan finally dared to look up, his eyes met soft, icy blue ones–wide with concern, steady and focused entirely on Jonathan.

They were the kindest eyes Jonathan had ever seen.

“You know,” Steve says casually, and the memory loosens its grip all at once. “People usually go to places like this to relax.”

Jonathan hums noncommittally.

Steve steps closer, grinning, and suddenly feints like he’s going to shove Jonathan into the water.

Jonathan tenses, bracing himself for–

But Steve’s hands never push.

They land gently at Jonathan’s sides instead, steadying him. Steve’s grip is careful, palms warm through the fabric of Jonathan’s jacket. His thumbs press lightly against his waist, and the touch sends a sharp, unfamiliar sensation skittering under Jonathan’s skin that feels so close, yet so far to the restless itch of anxiety that usually resides there. 

Without thinking, Jonathan leans into it–just a little–before he stills, catching himself. 

“Relax,” Steve says, laughing softly. “I’m kidding.”

Jonathan turns to look at him, breath caught somewhere in his chest. Steve’s eyes are bright, amused. But there’s something else there, too. Watchful. Kind.

They remind him, absurdly, of those icy blue eyes of the stranger.

Steve’s hands fall away, and he steps back, giving Jonathan space. 

Jonathan swallows and tightens his grip on his camera to stop himself from pressing his own palms against his sides, where the warmth lingers longer than it should. 

“Got your shot?” Steve asks.

Jonathan nods, though he knows they’re all going to be absolute dogshit.

They stand there together, the quarry quiet around them, and for the first time in a long while, Jonathan doesn’t feel like the water is pulling at him. 

Finally, Steve clears his throat, and Jonathan catches him glancing over from the corner of his eye, hesitant. 

“So,” Steve says carefully, “why did you really want to come to the quarry?” 

Jonathan takes a deep breath, feeling it catch in his throat. “I…” He stops, jaw tightening. Starts again. “They found Will’s body here.”

“Oh–shit,” he hears Steve curse. “Oh god, Jonathan, I’m sorry, I–”

“Well, what they thought was the body, anyway,” Jonathan interrupts, because Steve hasn’t actually done anything wrong, and he doesn’t want Steve spiralling over this, too. “So. Yeah.” 

Steve goes quiet. “Right,” he says carefully. “Right. I–yeah. I remember.” 

Jonathan nods, eyes still on the water. 

 “I keep thinking,” he says slowly, “that if I look at it long enough…it’ll make sense.” He huffs out a short, humourless breath. “Or that I’ll feel something different. Less–” 

He trails off, frustrated. 

He doesn’t know how to explain it–he doesn’t even understand it himself. This urge–need–to come to the quarry. 

“Less stuck?” Steve offers, not looking at him. 

Jonathan’s grip tightens on the camera strap. “Yeah.”

He shifts his weight, restless. “I don’t even like water,” he admits, quieter now. “Never have. But I keep coming back here anyway. Like maybe if I don’t stop looking at it, it can’t… surprise me again.”

He winces. It sounds incoherent, even to his own ears. He has half a mind to turn around now and drive back home, and never eat lunch at the cafeteria again. 

But Steve doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even look puzzled. He just steps a little closer–not touching this time, but near enough that Jonathan feels the difference.

“Makes sense,” Steve says finally. 

Jonathan lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Does it?”

Steve shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “Yeah. I mean–if something scared the hell out of me like that, I’d probably keep poking at it too. Just to prove it doesn’t bite anymore.”

Jonathan lets that sit. He wonders, distantly, if that’s what Steve has been doing with him all this time–poking, waiting, proving. 

And maybe they aren’t so different after all.

Jonathan lifts the camera again. This time, he doesn’t take a picture of the water. He turns the lens toward Steve. 

“Hey,” Steve yelps, swatting at the air. “Absolutely not. Delete that.”

Jonathan lowers the camera, lips quirking despite himself. “Nah.”

He turns toward the car. He’s done with the quarry for today.

“Creep,” Steve mutters as he follows, but there’s no venom in it–only something warm and familiar.

Jonathan snorts and slides into the driver’s seat, starting the engine.

“So,” Steve says, slumping dramatically into the passenger seat, “where are you taking me now?”

Jonathan shrugs, eyes on the road. He’s always been a careful driver. “Home.”

Steve sputters. “You’re not even going to drop me back to my place? After dragging me all the way here?”

“You shouldn’t have picked up the phone,” Jonathan mutters. Then, after a beat, “And–yeah. We can have breakfast at my place. Since, uh.” He clears his throat. “I owe you. Or whatever.”

There’s a brief pause.

Then Steve grins, bright and easy. “Wow. Guess I should start answering your calls more often.” 

Jonathan rolls his eyes, but his mouth betrays him, curving into a smile as he pulls away from the quarry and leaves the water behind.

Jonathan doesn’t remember when he put it there.

That’s the worst part.

He’s cleaning his room–actually cleaning it, not just shoving things into a drawer, because he can’t sit still and the house feels wrong when it’s quiet–when he finds it folded between two mixtapes on his table.

The paper is yellowed at the edges. Creased soft from being folded and unfolded too many times.

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

Jonathan’s chest tightens, sharp and sudden, like someone just wrapped a fist around his lungs.

Will’s face stares back at him. Younger. Smiling a little crookedly.

Jonathan sits down hard on the bed.

He should throw it away. He knows that. He’s known it for months. Maybe longer.

He’s thought about it before–late at night, or in the spaces between shifts, or standing too close to the edge of the quarry with his camera shaking in his hands. 

But his fingers don’t move.

Because the idea feels wrong in the same quiet way the quarry does–like turning his back on something that might still be watching. 

Instead, Jonathan folds it back up with shaking hands, careful along the old creases, like there’s a right way to do this. 

Jonathan leaves the poster folded on his desk. 

He tells himself it’s temporary. That he’ll deal with it later, once his hands stop shaking or the pain in his chest goes away. He reaches for his camera instead–muscle memory more than choice–and doesn’t realise he’s picked it up until the straps bite into his wrist. 

The days blur after that. 

He forgets to eat. Not on purpose. Most days, his insides feel sludgy and wrong until his stomach cramps sharply enough to make him pause, dizzy, halfway down the hallway. 

The nights come without warning. 

Jonathan lies awake on his bed, staring at the cracks on his ceiling. Sometimes he listens to music, volume turned high enough until his ears hurt. Sometimes he just listens to the house breathe around him–floorboards settling, pipes ticking, the faint rush of wind against the windows. 

He keeps waiting for sleep to take him, but his thoughts won’t slow. They loop, snagging on the same images over and over: dark water, Will’s body, the Christmas lights blinking on and off. 

Eventually, he gives up.

He pads quietly down the hallway. Will’s door is cracked open–always is. And Jonathan stands there, watching.

He tells himself he’s checking. Just checking. 

“You okay?” 

Jonathan blinks. He’s at school. In the hallway. Steve is standing a little too close, brows drawn together, bag slung low over one shoulder.  

“What?” Jonathan says.

Steve glances at Nancy, who’s hovering a step behind him, concern written plainly across her face. “Have you been sleeping, Jonathan?” 

Jonathan looks up. He’s standing in front of a locker. He doesn’t recognise the number. 

“I’m fine,” he says automatically. It comes out too fast. 

Nancy doesn’t look convinced. “You fell asleep in class.” 

“I was tired.” 

“You’re always tired,” Steve jokes, though not unkindly. He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “You look like shit, man.” 

Jonathan tries to tamp down the annoyance that bubbles up. “Gee, thanks,” 

“We just–” Nancy starts, shooting Steve a look. “There’s a new movie tonight, and I was thinking we could go?” 

Jonathan’s chest tightens. The idea of sitting still, of being watched, makes his skin itch. 

“I have work,” he says, already stepping back. “I’ve got to–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to. He turns and walks away before either of them can say anything else.

At home, he keeps finding reasons to be near Will. Asking if he’s eaten. Telling him to put on a jacket. Hovering in doorways, listening for footsteps, for breathing.

Will squints up at him once, confused. “Jonathan, I’m fine.”

Jonathan nods. Smiles. Steps back.

The feeling under his skin doesn’t ease.

If anything, it sharpens–restless, electric, the same wrong pull that dragged him to the quarry, that kept the poster folded instead of thrown away. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for.

Somewhere along the way, Steve starts showing up.

Not in a dramatic, talk-it-out kind of way. Just…there. On Jonathan’s porch after work. Slouched on his bed with a cassette case in his hands. Eating whatever Joyce leaves on the counter without asking.

Jonathan doesn’t remember inviting him. It just becomes a thing. Steve fills the quiet without demanding much of it, and Jonathan lets him, because it’s easier than being alone with his thoughts.

Some nights they talk. Some nights they don’t. Steve sprawls across the carpet, shoes kicked off, humming along to Jonathan’s tapes like he belongs there. 

Steve fills the quiet without demanding much of it, and Jonathan lets him, because it’s easier than being alone with his thoughts. Because Steve doesn’t ask why Jonathan keeps pacing the house at night. Doesn’t comment when he forgets to eat until Joyce points it out. Doesn’t flinch when Jonathan goes quiet mid-sentence and never finishes the thought.

Some nights they talk. About movies Steve pretends not to like. About work. About nothing at all.

Some nights they don’t.

Steve sprawls across the carpet, shoes kicked off, humming under his breath along to Jonathan’s tapes. Sometimes he gets the lyrics wrong on purpose just to see if Jonathan will correct him, if the grin Jonathan catches is any indication. Sometimes Jonathan does. Sometimes he just listens, camera warm and solid in his hands, and lets Steve’s voice anchor him to the room.

Once, Jonathan comes back from the bathroom to find Steve sitting cross-legged on the bed, rewinding a tape with careful concentration.

“You’re gonna stretch it,” Jonathan says.

Steve glances up, sheepish. “Yeah, well. Worth it.”

For some reason, it doesn’t annoy him. Jonathan surprises himself by smiling.

There are moments–small, treacherous ones–where Jonathan catches Steve watching him. Not openly. Just out of the corner of his eye. Like he’s memorising something without meaning to. Jonathan pretends not to notice, even as the awareness settles under his skin, warm and strange and unsettling.

Once, their hands brush when they both reach for the same cassette.

It’s nothing. Barely there.

Still, Steve pulls his hand back like he’s been burned.

Jonathan pretends he doesn’t feel it lingering long after.

Another night, Steve falls asleep on the carpet, head tipped back against the old couch. Jonathan debates waking him. Doesn’t. He drapes a blanket over him instead, careful not to touch too much.

Steve murmurs something in his sleep. Jonathan’s name, maybe. Maybe not.

Jonathan sits on the edge of the couch and listens to Steve breathe until the tightness in his chest eases just a fraction.

He doesn’t question any of it.

He’s tired of questioning things.

Jonathan is gone less than five minutes.

When he comes back, Steve is standing by the desk, his back to the door. Only his feet are bare–pale and veiny against the carpet–and the sight of them pulls at something tender and sore in Jonathan’s chest. 

“Got your Coke,” Jonathan says, holding up the can.

Steve doesn’t answer.

Jonathan scratches absently at the side of his nose. “Uh. Steve?”

Nothing.

Jonathan pitches his voice up, exaggerated. “‘Gee, Jonathan, thanks so much for being a great host even after–’”

“Jonathan.”

Steve turns around slowly. He’s holding a partially folded piece of paper in both hands.

Jonathan’s stomach drops before he even sees it.

The empty space between the mixtapes on the desk. The flash of black ink. The too-familiar curve of a smile that hasn’t existed like that in months.

“What is this,” Steve says it flatly.

Jonathan steps forward, squinting like that’ll somehow undo it. “What is what?”

Steve flips the paper just enough for the photo to show.

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

Jonathan’s breath catches, sharp and painful. His feet root to the floor.

“It’s a poster,” he says a beat too late. “Last I checked, it was mine, not yours, so maybe stop going through my stuff. I was cleaning.”

“I was looking for paper,” Steve says. “I was gonna write you a note for–forget it.” He gestures with the poster, his grip tightening until the paper crinkles. Jonathan has to look away from that. “I saw it. It was right there.”

“It’s nothing,” Jonathan snaps. “That doesn’t mean you get to–”

“You kept it,” Steve says, voice cutting through. “You kept it on your desk instead of throwing it out like a normal person. Why?”

“It’s nothing,” Jonathan repeats. “I forgot about it. Give it back.”

He reaches for it–fast, instinctive, already folding it in his head, already planning where to hide it–but Steve jerks it out of reach.

“Nothing,” Steve repeats. “Bullshit. If it were nothing, you would’ve tossed it without thinking. Why did you keep it?”

Jonathan’s hand hangs uselessly in the air before he pulls it back and crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “Steve. Leave it. The Coke’s gonna get warm.”

“I don’t give a shit about the Coke,” Steve says. “Answer my question.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Jonathan–”

“Drop it,” Jonathan says, low and firm. He doesn’t raise his voice. “What I keep, what I throw away, that’s not your business. I could pin it to the fridge or frame it in the hallway if I wanted–it’s mine. So stop snooping through my shit.”

He turns away before Steve can respond.

One step toward the door. Two.

He’ll go downstairs. He’ll stand in the kitchen with the hum of the fridge and let the white noise rattle everything loose again. He won’t–

“Jonathan.”

Steve’s voice is quieter now. Stripped down.

“When are you going to start fucking talking to me?”

Jonathan stops.

“I talk to you all the time,” he says, still not turning around.

“Don’t,” Steve snaps. “Don’t do that. Stop deflecting, stop dancing around it–god.”

When Jonathan turns back, Steve is dragging a hand down his face, breathing hard. The poster is creased in his fist.

“You tell me what movies you hate. What songs are stupid. You complain about work. You tell me how I should get my shit together,” Steve says, pacing now, agitation bleeding through every movement. “But for all the yapping you do, you sure as hell don’t say as much about yourself, you know that?”

Jonathan’s jaw tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve flings an arm out between them. “Look at us. Look at the paper in my fucking hand. You tell me to stop feeling guilty for being a dick, and then you turn around and let this stuff eat you from the inside out.”

He exhales, runs a hand through his hair.

“You didn’t lose him,” Steve says, quietly. “What happened to Will–none of that was your fault.”

Jonathan goes very still. His hand spasms at his side. His heartbeat roars in his ears–too loud, too fast, red-hot and drowning out everything else.

“You don’t know that,” he says. His voice sounds wrong to his own ears. “You don’t know anything about–”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Steve says, voice breaking just slightly. “I’m not asking for everything. I’m asking for something. I want to help you, Jonathan. I want you to open up–”

“I am open,” he snaps.

“About what?” Steve demands, stepping closer. Not threatening. “Your camera. Your pictures. Your dumb little jokes. But when it comes to this–” He thumps a hand against his own chest, hard. “It’s like pulling teeth. You carry all this shit around and you don’t tell anyone. If something is bothering you, tell me–”

“Why?” Jonathan says, the word ripping out of him before he can stop it.

Steve freezes.

“Why?” he repeats, incredulous. “Because we’re friends, Jonathan. Because this stuff matters. And because I–”

His throat bobs.

Too late, Jonathan recognises the look on his face as hurt.

“Why can’t you just trust me?” Steve asks quietly.

He waits.

The thing is–Jonathan does. God, he does. He trusts Steve more than he’s trusted anyone in a long time. Ever since Steve forced himself into that lunch seat. Ever since he showed up at the quarry without question. Ever since he stayed and listened when Jonathan didn’t know how to ask.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do when something gets too close.

Jonathan shoves him.

Not hard. Just enough.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve shoves back.

Jonathan stumbles, regains his footing–and then they’re both yelling, hands everywhere, grabbing sleeves, knocking into the desk. The world narrows to heat and motion and breath.

He grabs Steve’s hair and pulls. Steve grabs back. They go down hard, crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and fury and something neither of them knows how to name.

It’s nothing like the last time they fought.

They aren’t punching. They aren’t swinging. They’re just…fighting.

Like neither of them knows how to stop.

The door flies open.

“What is going on in here?!”

Jonathan freezes.

Steve scrambles up first, breathing hard as Joyce looks between them, stunned.

Her eyes flick to the overturned chair. The scuffed floor. Jonathan on his knees, chest heaving, hair wild and eyes too bright.

“What is going on in here?!” she repeats, sharper now.

Neither of them answers.

Steve straightens, hands lifting instinctively, like he’s the one who’s been caught doing something wrong. His gaze flicks to Jonathan–quick, searching–before he looks back at Joyce.

“I’m sorry, Ms Byers,” he says. His voice is hoarse, but steady. “I should go.”

Joyce blinks. “Steve–”

“I’ll go,” he repeats, already backing toward the door. “This was my fault.”

Jonathan’s mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Steve stoops to grab his jacket from the floor. As he does, his hand brushes the crumpled paper lying half-hidden near the desk leg.

The poster.

Jonathan sees it at the same time. His breath stutters.

Steve’s fingers still for half a second.

Then, without looking up, he folds it–careful, precise, along the old creases–and slips it into Jonathan’s open bag by the door. Tucks it beneath the strap of the camera, out of sight.

Jonathan’s chest aches at the smallness of it. The thoughtfulness. The restraint.

Steve straightens and meets Jonathan’s eyes.

Then he’s gone.

The silence that follows is enormous.

Joyce exhales shakily and turns to Jonathan. Up close, her anger evaporates, replaced by something raw and terrified.

“Oh, honey,” she says, and her voice cracks. “Are you hurt?”

Jonathan shakes his head.

She nods, like she’s relieved but not convinced. Her gaze flicks over him–his knuckles, the flush in his face, the way his shoulders are still drawn up around his ears. She steps into the room slowly, like she’s afraid he might bolt. She rights the chair, then sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight in her lap.

“You’ve been… distant,” she says finally. Not accusing. Just stating it, like she’s afraid of being wrong. “I keep thinking it’s just school. Or work.” Her fingers tremble. “But I see it, Jonathan. How you don’t sleep. How you look like you’re carrying the whole world on your back.”

Jonathan looks at the floor.

He thinks of the nights he’s spent standing in Will’s doorway, counting breaths. The mornings he’s left without saying goodbye because it’s easier not to look. 

Guilt settles heavy in his gut.

“I’m okay,” he says automatically.

She reaches out and smooths Jonathan’s hair back from his face, gentle as if he’s still a child. He doesn’t pull away. 

“No,” she says gently. “You’re not.”

The back of Jonathan’s throat burns. 

She reaches for his hand. Jonathan lets her take it. Her grip is warm, grounding, and it makes something twist inside him, sharp and ugly and unfair.

“I keep telling myself you’ll tell me when you’re ready,” she says. She squeezes his fingers. “But I should’ve noticed sooner.” Her voice dips. “Talk to me, Jonathan.”

Jonathan swallows. He wants to cry. To punch something. To scream. 

There are so many things he wants to ask that his mouth aches with them. 

Why, even after everything, none of them seem to move past anything that’s ever happened to them.  

Why the name Byers still sits on the mailbox. Why it still follows them everywhere. Joyce Byers, like it never mattered enough to shed. Like leaving him didn’t mean leaving that, too.

Why wanting Lonnie to be better feels so much like missing him.  

Because he doesn’t know anymore where Lonnie ends and the idea of a father begins. He doesn’t know which parts of that man were real, and which ones Jonathan made up because he needed someone to be there. 

He doesn’t know when wanting Lonnie to be better turned into blaming Joyce for surviving him in a way Jonathan never quite learned how to. 

Jonathan hates himself for thinking it.

Joyce hesitates, then pulls him into a careful hug. Not tight. Not desperate. Just there. “I don’t like seeing you like this,” she whispers. 

Neither does Jonathan. 

But he doesn’t know how to explain that it feels safer to be wrong and braced, than hopeful and exposed. 

“My beautiful boy,” Joyce sighs, hugging him tight, her hand steady and gentle against his head. 

Jonathan stiffens out of habit. 

Then slowly, he leans into it, and the nails Jonathan had hammered into his heart to hold himself together finally snap under the weight of it.

Will’s POV

Will notices Steve before he means to.

At first, it’s just little things. The sound of a car pulling up outside more often. Laughter that doesn’t belong to the house drifting up the stairs. The way Jonathan’s boots aren’t by the door when Will expects them to be, because Jonathan already left. With Steve, probably.

Steve Harrington starts showing up the way Jonathan does things now: quietly, like it’s not a big deal. Like he hasn’t changed the shape of the house just by being there.

Will doesn’t hate him. 

Steve is nice to him. Asks about his drawings. Brings Eggos sometimes, like he’s trying too hard not to be awkward about it. He even lets Will pick the songs when they’re all in the car together.

But Jonathan laughs differently around Steve.

Not louder. Just… looser. The kind that makes his eyes squint, deepens the dimple on his cheek. The kind Will hasn’t seen in a while. 

Sometimes Will passes Jonathan’s room and sees them there.

The door is always cracked open–not enough to be an invitation, but not enough to be closed.

Steve sits on the floor with his back against the bed, knees pulled up. Jonathan lies on the bed above him, leaning forward on his elbows. Their shoulders don’t touch, but they’re close enough that it feels like they could without moving much at all.

They talk quietly. Or sometimes they don’t.

Steve tilts his head back to look at Jonathan when he says something, like Jonathan is the only person in the room worth paying attention to. Jonathan looks down at him when he answers, eyes focused in a way Will hasn’t seen aimed at anyone else in a long time. 

Will watches it happen and feels something small and sour twist in his stomach.

He tells himself it’s stupid. Jonathan can have friends. Jonathan should have friends–Will has friends who aren’t Jonathan. 

Still, sometimes it feels like Jonathan is slipping sideways out of his life; not leaving exactly. Just stepping somewhere Will can’t quite follow.

Will asks him about it once at the kitchen table, pencil moving in slow, uneven strokes while Jonathan is cooking dinner. It smells like potatoes. His favourite. 

Will stares down at his drawing and forces the words out. 

“Do you love me?” 

Jonathan looks startled, like Will caught him mid-thought. The knife pauses mid-chop. “Will–” he turns, flustered. “I–of course I love you.”

Will shrugs, presses his pencil harder than he needs to, until the graphite smudges and tears. He suddenly feels small. 

“Am I still your best friend?”

The room goes very quiet. 

Jonathan sets the knife down carefully. Then he kneels on the floor in front of Will, concern etched deep into his face. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “Yes. Yes, Will.” His voice is steady, but his hands tremble where they brace against his knees. “You’ll always be my best friend. Okay? You’re–” He stops, like he’s searching for the right word. “I’m always here for you, and there is nothing–and I mean nothing–in the world that can ever change that.” 

Will nods again.

He believes Jonathan.

He also knows Jonathan lies sometimes. Not the bad kind. Just the kind that will stop people from worrying. 

Will has seen him do it with Joyce.

Jonathan tells Joyce that school has been hard. That people at work have been difficult. That his camera’s been acting up.

But Will has never seen Jonathan fail a class. And Jonathan treats his camera like it’s made of glass–he’d notice if something were wrong.

Jonathan never talked a lot–not like other people–but he used to talk to Will. Ask about his drawings. Sit on the floor while Will worked. Tell him stories about songs on his mixtapes, like the music mattered more if you shared it.

Now Jonathan mostly just does things. Fixes things. Checks things. Carries things.

Like if he keeps moving, nothing bad can catch up to him.

Will doesn’t say any of this out loud.

He just watches.

That’s how he knows Jonathan is pretending to sleep.

Will knows because Jonathan’s breathing sounds wrong. Too even. Too measured. Like he’s afraid that if he breathes the wrong way, something bad will happen.

Joyce said Jonathan had a fight with Steve. 

Will lies in his own bed for a while, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. He tries to make himself stay put. He tries to tell himself Jonathan is just tired, that everything is okay now.

But okay doesn’t sound like this.

Jonathan used to hum sometimes when he couldn’t sleep. Not real songs–just noises, soft and tuneless. Jonathan always overestimates how thin the walls are. He hasn’t done that in a long time.

Will slips out of bed.

The hallway feels longer at night. The floor creaks even when Will steps carefully, and every sound makes his stomach twist. He stops outside Jonathan’s door and listens.

Quiet. Too quiet.

Will opens it.

Jonathan is curled on his side, facing the wall, one arm wrapped around his pillow like it’s holding him together. His shoulders are hunched, tight, like he’s bracing for a hit that never comes.

Will swallows.

Will sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips, and Jonathan’s breathing stutters for just a second before smoothing out again.

Definitely awake.

“You’re awake,” Will says.

Jonathan doesn’t move.

“I can tell,” Will adds, because sometimes Jonathan needs reasons. “You’re doing the breathing thing.”

Jonathan shifts slowly, but he doesn’t turn around. Like he wants Will to go away.

“Sorry,” Jonathan says. “Did I wake you?”

Will shakes his head. “No. You did the opposite.”

Jonathan makes a quiet sound that might have been a laugh.

Will watches him in the dark. His brother looks older lately. Not taller–just… tired. Like someone erased something from him a little at a time.

Will climbs onto the bed before he can talk himself out of it. He moves slowly, giving Jonathan time to say no.

Jonathan doesn’t–he never says no to Will. 

Will slides in behind him and wraps an arm around his middle.

Jonathan goes stiff, like a startled animal.

“Is this okay?” Will whispers.

Jonathan nods. He still doesn’t turn around.

Will presses his forehead between Jonathan’s shoulder blades. Jonathan’s back rises and falls unevenly beneath it. Will matches his breathing to it on purpose, the way Jonathan used to do for him.

It takes a while, but Jonathan’s breathing starts to follow.

“You keep checking on me,” Will says quietly. “At night.”

Jonathan exhales hard. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

Will shrugs even though Jonathan can’t see it. “I notice stuff.”

He always has. The doctors said it was sensitivity, like it was a problem. Will thinks it’s just paying attention.

“You don’t talk anymore,” Will says. “Not like before.”

“I’m just tired,” Jonathan says.

Will frowns. The word feels wrong. Tired people sleep.

Jonathan doesn’t.

“That’s not it,” Will says, because someone has to say it.

Jonathan’s shoulders tense.

Will tightens his arm just a little. He doesn’t want to scare him. He just wants Jonathan to know he’s there.

“You let me be scared,” Will says. “When I couldn’t sleep. When I thought the dark was going to take me again.”

Jonathan’s breath catches.

“So you can be scared too,” Will adds. “You don’t have to be… the strong one all the time.”

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then Jonathan curls forward like he’s folding in on himself, shoulders shaking. He presses his face into the pillow, like he’s trying to disappear into it.

Will’s chest aches.

He wishes he knew what to do. Wishes he could say something smart or brave that would fix it. Grown-ups always think words do that.

“I’ve got you,” Will whispers. His voice trembles, but he doesn’t stop. “You can sleep. I’ll stay awake.”

Jonathan shakes his head weakly. “You shouldn’t–”

“I want to,” Will says, firmer this time.

Jonathan stops arguing.

He just cries.

The sound is quiet and broken, like Jonathan is afraid of taking up too much space even now. Will holds him tighter, heart pounding. He feels Jonathan’s tears soak through the pillow, warm and real.

Will stays still.

He counts Jonathan’s breaths. He remembers how Jonathan used to count his.

He thinks about how Jonathan stood between him and Lonnie when Lonnie got loud. How Jonathan learned how to lie so Joyce wouldn’t worry. How Jonathan always goes first, always gives things up without saying anything.

Will doesn’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, Jonathan got lost.

Will presses his face against Jonathan’s back and closes his eyes.

And later–after nights pass and the house rearranges itself back into routine–Will will remember this moment without meaning to. The way Jonathan cried without sound. The way he held himself like there was nowhere safe to put the weight of it.

Maybe that’s why Jonathan is already on the porch when they pull up.

Will notices before the car even stops–the way Jonathan’s silhouette is stiff against the porch light, arms crossed, weight rocking once from heel to toe and back. He’s been waiting. Will knows that posture.

Steve parks crooked, like he always does. 

“Sorry,” Steve says as Will opens the door. “We ran long.”

Jonathan doesn’t answer right away.

“It’s almost ten-thirty,” he says finally.

Steve shrugs, a little defensive. “You can blame Nancy’s demon-spawn brother for that.”

Will steps out onto the driveway. The air feels tight, charged in a way he doesn’t like. He adjusts the strap of his backpack, suddenly very aware of the space between them.

“You said ten,” Jonathan says.

Steve scoffs. “God, do you ever turn it off? It was twenty minutes. ”

The words are casual. Almost careless.

Will feels them land anyway.

“Don’t say that,” he snaps.

Steve blinks.

Jonathan turns at the same time. “Will–”

“No,” Will says, heat rushing up his throat. “You don’t get to say that.”

There’s a beat of silence. Will can feel his heart pounding, too loud, like it’s trying to warn him about something he already knows.

“He was worried,” Will says, gesturing at Jonathan. “And you said ten.”

Jonathan opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Steve looks between them, clearly not understanding what just changed. “I was kidding.” 

“Don’t joke about him,” Will snaps.

The words come out wrong–heavier than he meant them to be.

Will sees it then: the quick glance Jonathan and Steve exchange. Confused. Concerned. Like they’ve both missed a step in the same place. 

Will hates that. Hates how strange it is that the first time since their fight they’re on the same page, it’s over him.

“You don’t get it,” Will says, voice climbing despite himself. “He’s not–Jonathan is always–”

The sentence collapses in on itself. Will swallows, tries again.

“He’s always watching,” he says, helpless. “Always waiting for something to go wrong. And you–” His voice breaks, sharp and humiliating. “You say stuff like that, and it’s like you don’t see it at all.”

His hands are shaking now. He grips the straps of his backpack, knuckles aching, grounding himself the way Jonathan taught him to. In for four. Out for six.

It doesn’t help.

Tears spill over anyway, hot and embarrassing.

Jonathan is in front of him instantly.

He kneels like it’s instinct, like his body moved before he thought about it. His hands are warm on Will’s face, thumbs brushing just under his eyes.

“I’m right here,” he says softly. 

Will swallows hard and leans into the touch before he can stop himself.

Steve shifts behind them. Will hears it more than sees it.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, after a moment.

Will doesn’t look at him. He’s watching Jonathan’s face instead, the way his brother’s eyes are soft and tired and steady all at once. 

Jonathan pulls him into a hug, firm and familiar, rocking him gently. Will presses his forehead into Jonathan’s shoulder, breathing in detergent and cold night air until his breathing evens out, hitch by hitch. 

Jonathan keeps an arm around Will for a moment longer than necessary. Then–

“Go inside,” he says quietly. “I’ll be right there.”

Will doesn’t move at first. He listens to Jonathan’s heartbeat through his jacket, steady but fast.

He doesn’t want to leave Jonathan out here alone, but he knows he can take care of himself. 

He steps back, reluctant, then turns toward the house. The porch boards creak under his feet. He opens the door slowly, like maybe if he goes too fast, something will break.

Before he goes in, he looks back.

Jonathan and Steve are standing a few feet apart now. Not arguing. Not talking, either. Just… there. Like two people who reached the same place by accident and don’t know what to do.

Steve’s shoulders are hunched. His hands are in his pockets. He keeps rocking forward slightly, then stopping, like he’s catching a bad habit mid-motion.

Jonathan says something Will can’t hear.

Jonathan’s shoulders are rounded, his chin tipped down. One hand lifts–not pointing, not sharp–just open, palm up, like he’s offering something back. Like he’s already decided he’s in the wrong.

Steve shakes his head. His jaw tightens, then loosens.

Jonathan nods. Once. Then again.

Will’s chest tightens.

Jonathan apologises like that. Quiet. Careful. Like he’s afraid of taking up too much space with it. Or maybe because he’s so rarely wrong. 

Will presses his forehead against the wall. He thinks about how strange it is that Jonathan and Steve sound the same right now–careful in the same places, quiet where they usually push.

When Will was younger, he used to think fights ended with yelling.

Now he knows they sometimes end like this.

The car door closes outside.

Will flinches at the sound of the engine turning over, then fading away.

He waits.

A minute later, the door opens. Jonathan steps inside, shutting it gently behind him. His eyes immediately snap to Will. 

“You okay?” Jonathan asks, his mouth turned up into a smile that’s more reassuring than happy. 

Will nods and wipes his face with his sleeve, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to–” 

“You don’t have to apologise,” Jonathan says quickly. He pulls Will into his side, hand absentmindedly stroking his shoulders. 

Will nods stiffly and tucks himself closer to Jonathan. 

He isn’t sure what Jonathan is thinking–his face gives very little away–but Will thinks about the way Steve stood on the porch, unsure where to put his weight, eyes searching Jonathan’s face like he was afraid to get it wrong again.

Will doesn’t know when that changed.

But he thinks he understands now.

Jonathan’s POV

Jonathan doesn’t mean to take the alley.

He just… doesn’t feel like walking past people.

After the kitchen, after everything with Will and Joyce and Steve, the world feels sharpened around the edges. Every sound lands a little too hard. Every glance feels like it might stick. His head hums with that dull, faraway pressure he’s learned not to name, and his stomach aches in the familiar, hollow way that tells him he forgot to eat again.

The ache is quiet. Patient. It sits in him the way it always has: content to be ignored as long as he doesn’t look at it too closely.

He tells himself the alley is faster. Quieter. That it doesn’t matter.

It’s the same kind of lie he tells himself every morning when he wakes already tired, when the weight settles into his chest before he’s fully conscious. Not the kind of pain that demands anything from him. Just the kind that lingers, asking only to be carried.

Jonathan knows how to carry things.

He turns into the alley because it narrows the world. Brick and shadow instead of faces and questions. Because the quiet back here feels cleaner somehow–less crowded with expectations. Because if something hurts back here, it will be simple. Obvious. Something he can point to.

Something sharper than this.

So when he hears his name, it almost makes sense.

“Byers.”

Jonathan doesn’t turn around. He keeps walking, because some part of him had been waiting for this–for the universe to choose something solid and familiar and cruel.

A hand slams between his shoulder blades, hard enough to knock the breath out of him. He stumbles forward, palms scraping against brick as he catches himself on the wall, skin burning where it drags.

“Didn’t hear you,” Tommy Hagan says, amused.

Jonathan turns slowly. He feels strangely detached, like he’s watching this from somewhere just over his own shoulder.

Tommy’s grin is sharp and familiar, all teeth and mean nostalgia. There’s another guy with him–taller, broader, a face Jonathan doesn’t recognise but already knows won’t matter. Must be Steve’s replacement.

Despite the situation, Jonathan can’t help but find it ironically funny. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Still got that attitude,” Tommy says. “Guess some things never change.”

Jonathan’s head feels light. The alley tilts slightly, like the ground has shifted without telling him. He thinks, distantly, that he should move. 

“I’m not interested,” he says.

His voice sounds wrong to his own ears–too flat, like it belongs to someone else.

The punch comes out of nowhere.

It clips his jaw, snapping his head sideways. Pain blooms hot and bright, and it snaps the world back into shocking clarity. But another hit lands before he can reset, knuckles cracking against his cheekbone.

Jonathan swings back on instinct.

His fist connects with something solid–a shoulder, maybe–and for a second there’s a wild, stupid spark of hope.

It doesn’t stop them.

Hands grab his jacket, shoving him hard. His feet slide out from under him. The pavement is cold when he hits it–knees first, then his hands–impact rattling up his arms and straight through his skull.

The world narrows.

A boot presses into his side, knocking the air out of him again.

“Thought you were tougher than this,” Tommy says.

Jonathan tries to push himself up, but the initial burst of clarity is gone. His arms shake uselessly, elbows buckling. His fingers feel thick, clumsy, like they don’t belong to him anymore.

A sickening wave of terror wells up from his belly. 

Not from the pain–but from the way his body won’t listen. The way his hands are numb. The way the edges of his vision keep darkening, closing in. He can’t tell if it’s the blows or if something inside him is short-circuiting, panic crashing through his chest too fast to grab onto.

“I–” he tries.

Nothing comes out.

Another kick lands, glancing off his ribs. He curls inward without thinking, protecting what he can, counting breaths without meaning to.

Someone curses. “Jesus. Did we mess him up?”

There’s a pause.

“Whatever,” Tommy says, suddenly less amused. “Let’s go.”

The weight disappears.

Footsteps retreat, echoing until the alley is empty again.

Jonathan stays where he is, on his knees, palms pressed to the concrete like it’s the only solid thing left. Something warm runs down his face–blood, maybe. He doesn’t bother checking. His heart is racing too fast, too loud, pounding like it’s trying to escape his chest.

His stomach twists, sharp and insistent now. 

“Jonathan?”

The voice cuts through the fog.

Hands grab his shoulders–firm, shaking. Jonathan blinks hard, trying to focus. Steve’s face swims into view, pale and panicked, eyes wide in a way Jonathan’s never seen before.

“Oh my god,” Steve breathes. “What happened?”

Jonathan opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Steve swears under his breath. “Hey–hey. Look at me. Can you hear me?”

Jonathan nods. Or maybe he just thinks he does.

Steve’s grip tightens like he’s afraid Jonathan might vanish if he lets go.

He crouches lower, one hand hovering near Jonathan’s face, unsure where it’s safe to touch.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “What did you get yourself into, Byers?”

Jonathan’s head lolls slightly. The alley already feels unreal, like he’s watching it through glass–like it happened to someone else and he just wandered in afterwards.

“I’m fine,” he tries to say.

It comes out slurred.

Steve says something Jonathan doesn’t catch. 

He glances around once, sharp and quick, then decisively hooks an arm under Jonathan’s and hauls him up. Jonathan sags immediately, legs giving out without permission.

“Easy,” Steve grunts. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” 

Jonathan leans into him without meaning to. He’s so tired. Everything feels heavy, like gravity got turned up without warning.

“Did you hit your head?” Steve asks.

Jonathan shakes his head. Or tries to. The motion makes his vision spark and smear.

Steve doesn’t look convinced. He steers Jonathan toward the car, one hand firm at his back, the other gripping his arm like an anchor. Jonathan fumbles for the door handle and misses it entirely. Steve opens it for him without comment.

The seat is cold when Jonathan slumps into it. He curls instinctively, shoulder pressed against the door, the world narrowing again.

Steve’s door slams shut a second later.

The engine roars to life too loud, too sudden. Steve peels out of the alley like he’s afraid it might swallow them if he doesn’t.

Jonathan watches the streetlights streak past. His jaw throbs in time with his heartbeat. He presses his tongue to his teeth, checking. Everything is still there. The thought feels absurdly important.

Steve keeps glancing over at him, quick looks he thinks Jonathan doesn’t notice.

“Was it Tommy?” Steve says finally. 

Jonathan hums.

“Okay,” Steve says, gripping the wheel harder. The speedometer ticks higher. “Okay.”

Silence stretches between them, thick and vibrating. The road hums beneath the tyres. Jonathan’s stomach rolls.

Jonathan closes his eyes. The blurring landscape is only making the nausea worse. 

He thinks of Will. Of how worried Jonathan had been over ten-thirty.

Steve notices him going slack. “Hey,” he says, reaching over without looking, knuckles brushing Jonathan’s knee. And it’s so stark it’s almost painful. “Hey. Don’t fall asleep.”

Jonathan blinks and hums again, too tired to speak. 

Steve nods, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road. Focused and serious in a way that is so unlike Steve. Jonathan wonders distantly if that is how he looks to others when he drives. 

Lights bloom ahead of them. Too bright. Too white. It doesn’t look like his house. 

Steve pulls into the lot hard, barely parks before he’s around the car again, opening Jonathan’s door.

“Slow,” he says, already bracing him. “I’ve got you.”

The ER smells like disinfectant and bad coffee.

Jonathan hates it immediately.

They clean him up faster than he expects. A nurse presses gauze to his lip, checks his pupils, asks him questions Jonathan answers on autopilot, words slipping out without attaching themselves to meaning.

“Any dizziness?”

“Yes,” Steve says at the same time Jonathan says, “No.”

Steve shoots him a look.

Jonathan stares resolutely at the wall.

His lip gets stitched. His knuckles are cleaned and wrapped. They prick his finger with a pin and slot the blood-stained paper into a machine. 

“That’s it?” Steve asks, incredulous when the doctor finally arrives.  

The doctor seems unfazed. “Hypoglycaemia.”

Steve frowns. “What?”

“Low blood sugar,” the doctor says mildly. “Has he eaten today?”

Steve turns slowly to look at Jonathan.

Jonathan looks at the floor.

There’s a beat. 

“Does he have diabetes?” 

“...No.” 

The doctor hums, scribbles something down. “We’ll get him some juice. Keep an eye on him tonight. Come back if he worsens.” 

He finally looks up. Meets Jonathan’s eyes. Smiles. Then turns to Steve. “The vending machine is down the hall.” 

And then he’s gone.

Steve doesn’t say anything. He just nods once and follows the doctor out.

Jonathan is left staring at his hands. Wrapped. Clean. Still shaking faintly now that nothing hurts badly enough to demand his attention. He tells himself it’s just the hypoglycaemia. That his body is catching up with him. That there’s a medical reason for the way his chest feels too tight.

It takes longer than he expects. Long enough for his thoughts to start spiralling.

All of this, for a Band-Aid and a concussion scare and the quiet confirmation that he forgot to eat again. For needing help in a way that can’t be explained away or hidden. He thinks of the alley, of the way he’d wanted something sharp and simple, and feels the familiar wash of shame.

Someone settles next to him. 

Steve is back, breath a little uneven like he walked faster than he meant to. He sets a small juice box on the tray beside Jonathan’s hand.

Apple.

Jonathan stares at it like it might be a joke.

Steve snorts before he can stop himself, then immediately presses his lips together, guilty. “Drink it.”

Jonathan sighs, and sticks the straw in his mouth.

The juice is too sweet. Cloying. Or maybe food just tastes wrong in hospitals.

Steve watches him like he might disappear if he looks away.

Jonathan drains the box and sets it aside, cheeks warm. His hands are steadier now, the world sharpening back into focus in a way that’s almost overwhelming. 

Steve doesn’t say anything; he just sits there, one foot hooked around the leg of the chair, close enough that Jonathan can feel the heat of him. Like a guardrail. 

He knows the hospital has already called Joyce. The thought makes that familiar feeling of guilt clamp down hard around his chest. She’s probably at work. She always is. And Jonathan knows–has always known–how badly they need every hour she can get. 

Every missed shift is groceries weighed more carefully; bills paid a little later. He learned that math early. Learned it the same way he learned how to make dinner, how to get Will to do his homework, how to keep things moving when Joyce was too tired or too scared to.

Before he can spiral any further, familiar footsteps approach.

Jonathan stiffens before he even sees her.

Joyce steps in, breathless, jacket half-zipped over her Melvald’s General Store uniform. Her eyes go straight to Jonathan–his lip, his hands, the faint bruise already darkening along his jaw.

“Oh,” she says softly. 

Jonathan straightens reflexively, like he’s about to be scolded. Like if he looks contrite enough, she won’t be angry. 

He learned that posture young, back when anger lived in the house like bad weather–unpredictable and unavoidable. Joyce had learned it too, in her own way. They’d survived the same man, after all. Just from different angles.

Joyce crosses the room in three quick steps and cups his face, careful around the stitches. Her hands shake.

“Oh, Jonathan,” she whispers. “Oh, honey.”

Jonathan blinks.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically. The lie rises up easy, practiced smooth from years of use. “It’s nothing. I just–”

Joyce pulls him into her chest before he can finish. And it’s tight enough that he can feel her heartbeat through her coat–fast, panicked, the same way it sounds the nights Will doesn’t come home on time.

Steve stands up so fast his chair scrapes. “I–I’ll give you guys a second,” he says, already backing toward the hallway.

Joyce looks up at him like she’s only just realised he’s there. “Steve,” she says, and there’s something fond in her voice. “Thank you.”

Steve nods, awkward. “Yeah. Of course.” He hesitates, glances at Jonathan once, then ducks out into the hallway.

Joyce pulls back just enough to look at Jonathan’s face. Her eyes are wet, but she’s not crying. 

“They said low blood sugar,” she says quietly, like she’s still trying to wrap her head around it. “They said you hadn’t eaten.”

Jonathan swallows.

The urge to cry is sudden and overwhelming–he seems to be doing a lot of that recently. He bites the inside of his cheek hard, grounding himself in the sting. He can’t do this. Not now. 

Not when Joyce already carries so much.

He dragged her out of work. Added another fear to the pile. Another hospital room. Another reminder of how fragile everything still is.

The ache in his chest comes back full force–heavy, familiar, and relentless.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hating the tremor in his voice. “I didn’t mean to. I just–forgot. I was busy–”

Joyce’s mouth trembles.

“Oh,” she says again, and this time it sounds like something clicking into place too late. “Oh, sweetheart.”

She sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. Her hand rests on his knee, grounding and warm, thumb gently rubbing circles through his scruffed-up jeans. 

“You should get back to work–” he says the same Joyce blurts, “I’m sorry–” 

Silence stretches between them, thick with things they don’t know how to say anymore. Joyce gives him a watery smile, full of regret, gratitude, and a love that has been bent under too much weight for too long.

Jonathan hopes she can read it on his face too: I tried. I’m still trying.

There was a time when he believed Joyce could read his mind as easily as he read hers. Back when they moved in sync–when fear had been the shared language, welding them together so tightly they forgot where one ended, and the other began.

Nowadays, Jonathan realises, they don’t read each other right. They’ve taken advantage of their innate ability to communicate for so long that they’ve forgotten what it’s like when they’re on opposite sides of the conversation. 

“I should take you home,” she says. “I can tell them I’m taking the rest of the day. They’ll manage.”

The words land heavy in Jonathan’s chest.

“No,” he says too quickly, then forces himself to slow down. “Mom, you don’t have to do that. I’m okay. Really.”

Joyce looks unconvinced. 

“I don’t like leaving you like this.”

“I won’t be alone,” Jonathan says quickly, and his eyes dart toward the hallway before he can stop himself. “I–Steve can drive me.”

Joyce hesitates.

Jonathan can see the math happening behind her eyes: work schedules, bills, missed hours. The way worry always has to negotiate with reality.

“I’ll come back on my break,” she says finally, eyebrows drawn together tightly. “I’ll check on you.”

Jonathan nods. “Okay.”

She leans in and presses a kiss to his hair, lingering just a second longer than usual. “Please eat something,” she murmurs. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” Jonathan says, because it feels like the least he can give her.

Joyce squeezes his knee once, then stands. She pauses at the front desk, looking back at him like she’s memorising the sight, then heads toward Steve–probably to thank him for bringing Jonathan here.

The room feels emptier without her.

A moment later, familiar footsteps approach.

Steve steps back in, hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets. He looks at Jonathan, then at the ceiling, then back at Jonathan again.

“You okay?” he asks.

Jonathan nods. “Yeah.”

Steve exhales, relieved in a way that surprises Jonathan. “Okay. Cool. I mean–not cool. But… yeah.”

They discharge him faster than Jonathan expects. Paperwork. A nurse reminding him–again–to eat. Someone pressing a printout into Steve’s hands like Steve is somehow in charge of him now.

Jonathan doesn’t argue. He doesn’t want to think about how that makes him feel. 

The parking lot is too bright. The sun feels like it’s drilling straight into his skull. Steve unlocks the car and hovers, unsure, before guiding Jonathan gently into the passenger seat.

“Tell me if you feel weird,” Steve says. “Like–weirder than normal.”

Jonathan snorts weakly. “I got beat up and was fed apple juice as consolation.”

“Fair,” Steve says. 

The drive is quiet.

Jonathan watches the town slide past the window–school buses, storefronts, people moving like it’s a normal day. Like he didn’t just spend the morning on a hospital bed.

Steve glances at him every so often, quick checks he pretends are about traffic.

It’s… nice in a way Jonathan isn’t sure how to explain. 

When they pull into the driveway, Jonathan hesitates before getting out. It feels wrong to see the house at this hour. Quiet. Empty. 

He knows he’s been staring too long when Steve comes round hurriedly. “Dude, are you sure you’re fin–”

“I just don’t want to go in yet,” Jonathan admits, moving around the car and leaning back against the cool metal of the hood. He exhales slowly. 

His body aches; his chest still feels tight. And nothing is fixed. 

Steve pauses, hand still hovering uselessly in the air like he doesn’t know whether to touch Jonathan or not. He drops it instead, shoving both hands into his jacket pockets.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. Okay.”

They stand there in the driveway, the late-morning sun bleaching everything pale. Jonathan can hear a lawnmower somewhere down the street. A dog barking. Normal sounds. Sounds that feel completely disconnected from the way his heart is still racing.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says suddenly.

Jonathan turns away. He wants to go inside now. 

Steve huffs out a breath, scuffing his shoe against the dirt. “I’m sorry for… pushing you. About the poster. About–well, everything.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, mussing it worse. “ I shouldn’t have tried to force it out of you.”

Jonathan swallows. His throat feels tight again, like everything wants to come rushing back up at once.

“I just–” Steve continues, quieter now. “I didn’t know how else to say it. I was scared. And pissed. And I didn’t want you shutting me out like I didn’t matter.”

Jonathan’s fingers curl against the car door.

“That’s not–” he starts, then stops. He trusts him. That’s the problem.

The thought knocks something loose–Lonnie’s voice, low and careful in the dark, It’ll never happen again. The weight of a hand in his, gentle enough to feel like safety.

Jonathan swallows. He’d believed it then, too.

Trust feels dangerous when you know how convincing a promise can sound right before it breaks.

Steve looks at him then. Really looks at him. His eyes are soft in a way Jonathan isn’t used to seeing directed at him.

“I care about you,” Steve says. The words come out plain, unpolished, like he’s not trying to be charming or funny or anything else. “And I know you don’t owe me anything. But… I want you to trust me. Not because I think I deserve it. Just–because I want to be there.”

Something in Jonathan cracks.

He thinks of Steve at the quarry. Steve in the hospital chair, watching him like he might vanish. Steve standing between him and the world without even realising that’s what he’s doing.

Before he can overthink it–before the fear can catch up–

Jonathan steps forward and kisses him.

It’s clumsy. Too fast. His mouth barely brushes Steve’s, more a collision more than a kiss.

For half a second, the world goes very, very quiet.

Then he feels Steve’s lips move against his own. 

Then Jonathan jerks back like he’s been burned, pushing against Steve’s chest until he stumbles back. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes, horror flooding him all at once. “What the fuck–I–what are you doing?”

Steve stares at him like someone just knocked the wind out of him. His mouth is slightly open, one hand half-raised like he’d meant to grab Jonathan’s sleeve and forgot how his body works. 

“What?” he asks, bewildered. “You’re the one who kissed me.” 

Jonathan scrubs a hand down his face, heart slamming against his ribs. “You–you aren’t even gay.” 

Steve lets out a confused noise, still breathless from being pushed–something Jonathan hates himself for noticing. “What are you talking about?” 

“You called me queer!” 

Steve winces immediately. 

“Yeah,” he says, grimacing. “I know. I did. And I was a jackass.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring, Steve,” Jonathan snaps, even as his hands shake. “You don’t just–people don’t just–”

“I did it because calling you that was easy,” Steve cuts in, too fast. “Because I knew it’d get a reaction. Which doesn’t make it okay. I know it doesn’t.” He drags a hand down his face, frustrated. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t mean–” He stops, exhales sharply. “Shit. This is not how I wanted this to go.”

Jonathan laughs once, brittle. “You didn’t want this to go at all.”

Steve hesitates. He looks at Jonathan like he’s trying to decide something on the fly, like thinking it through any longer might actually kill him.

“I don’t know what I am,” Steve says finally. “I don’t. And I don’t want to figure it out standing in your driveway while you just got back from the hospital.”

“Then don’t,” Jonathan says, already stepping around Steve. “We can just–pretend it didn’t happen. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

Steve grabs his wrist. “No,” he says, sharper now. “That’s not–”

Jonathan freezes.

“Look at me,” Steve says.

Jonathan doesn’t want to. But that compulsion is back–the very same one that pulls him to the quarry. Keep the poster. Talk back to Lonnie. And he can’t help but look up at Steve. He tells himself he won’t hit back if Steve punches him this time. 

Steve’s expression is wrecked. Earnest and panicked and very, very real.

Jonathan is acutely aware of the way Steve’s fingers are wrapped around his wrist, of how fast his pulse is rabbiting beneath them.

Jonathan starts to pull his hand away–

Steve just steps in and kisses him.

He steps in like he’s already decided, like thinking about it any longer would tear him in half. His mouth finds Jonathan’s again, deeper this time, surer. 

Jonathan gasps softly, the sound swallowed between them.

Steve’s hand slides up to the back of Jonathan’s neck, fingers threading into his hair, steady and warm and grounding. He pulls Jonathan closer, and Jonathan goes willingly, one hand bracing against Steve’s chest as if he needs something solid to hold him upright.

It’s messy–their noses bump; their breaths stutter and tangle. Jonathan’s heartbeat feels too loud, too fast.

Jonathan kisses back harder, a quiet, desperate press that makes Steve make a low sound against his mouth–something surprised and wrecked and real.

For a second, Jonathan forgets everything else–the hospital. The alley. The years of distance and damage and words that cut deeper than fists ever did.

They break apart only enough to breathe, foreheads knocking together, breaths mingling. Jonathan laughs shakily, lips still brushing Steve’s.

“We need to talk,” he whispers.

Steve exhales, something like a smile tugging at his mouth. His thumb shifts, resting lightly at Jonathan’s pulse, like he can’t help checking that he’s real. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “We’ll talk. Later.” 

Jonathan nods, not really hearing the words. “Later.” 

Steve hesitates, then leans in and presses a quick, softer kiss to the side of Jonathan’s mouth–achingly gentle, like he’s afraid of startling him. 

Jonathan exhales a shaky breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. The kiss lingers anyway, a ghost of warmth that makes his chest feel too open.

“Come inside,” he says before he can think better of it. The words tumble out too fast, too desperate. “I–just for a bit.” 

Steve doesn’t tease him. Doesn’t pretend he doesn’t hear the unspoken please under it. He just nods and follows Jonathan up the steps, close enough that Jonathan can feel his presence like warmth at his back.

The house is quiet in that hollow, mid-day way–curtains half-drawn, dust motes hanging in the air. It feels wrong to be here when the world is supposed to be moving without them.

The door barely clicks shut before nails skitter across the linoleum.

“Hey,” Steve laughs softly as Chester barrels into his legs, tail wagging hard enough to thump against the cabinets.

Jonathan blinks. “Chester–sorry, he–”

Steve crouches automatically, already scratching behind Chester’s ears like he’s done it a hundred times. Chester presses into him, shameless, nose nudging Steve’s leg.

Jonathan watches for a second too long.

The sight lands warm and strange in his chest: Steve in his living room, Chester already claiming him, like this is something they’ve done before. Like this is normal.

And then the moment passes.

Chester pads away, satisfied, nails clicking back toward the kitchen. Steve straightens, brushing dog hair from his jeans, still smiling–

–and Jonathan’s hands start to shake.

He turns toward the counter, more reflex than decision, and drops his keys there a little harder than he means to. Then he just… stops.

His body finally remembers everything at once: the ache in his side, the pull at his stitches, the dull throb behind his eyes. He leans his hip against the counter, breathing through it.

Steve is there immediately, brows furrowed. A question without words.

“I promised my mom I’d eat something,” Jonathan says, half-apologetic, half-resigned. He lifts his bandaged hands like that explains everything. “Which is… kind of a problem.”

Steve glances at the wraps, then at the fridge. “Okay,” he says easily. “I’ve got it.”

Jonathan frowns. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Steve cuts in, gentle but firm. He nudges Jonathan just enough to claim the space in front of the counter. “Sit. Or lean. Or whatever.”

Jonathan lets himself be moved. That, too, feels dangerous.

Steve approaches the kitchen like it’s a puzzle he intends to win.

Jonathan watches from the edge of the counter, hip pressed to it, bandaged hands resting uselessly in his lap, feeling strangely exposed without anything to do. The house hums quietly around them–refrigerator, distant traffic, the faint tick of the clock Joyce keeps meaning to replace.

Steve opens the bread bag, squints at it, then glances over his shoulder. “Peanut butter or jelly?”

Jonathan blinks. “Uh. Peanut butter.” 

Steve nods seriously, like it matters. And Jonathan feels something loosen in his chest. It doesn’t escape him that Steve knows where they keep the peanut butter. 

Steve moves around the kitchen with easy confidence now, shoulder brushing Jonathan’s as he reaches for a plate. His hand lingers for half a second at Jonathan’s waist, not quite an apology, but…just there.

Jonathan doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he shifts closer, their knees bumping lightly. Steve glances down, startled, then huffs a quiet laugh and lets his ankle hook around Jonathan’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The contact is small. Grounding.

Jonathan lets himself feel it. And immediately hates how aware he is of the risk. How easily this could start to mean something he doesn’t know how to lose.

He watches Steve spread peanut butter with more focus than strictly necessary, tongue caught between his teeth. The faint crease between his brows is back again. 

It’s stupid, Jonathan thinks distantly, that this is what makes his chest ache.

“You’re staring,” Steve smirks without looking up. Smug bastard. 

Jonathan shrugs. “You’re very intense about this.”

Steve snorts. “Hey. I’ve been entrusted with your well-being. Doctor’s orders.” He slides the sandwich onto a plate and turns, bumping Jonathan gently with his hip. “Sit.”

Jonathan does, mostly because Steve’s hand lands on his shoulder to guide him there, thumb pressing briefly, reassuring.

Steve sets the plate in front of him, then grins. “Do you need help, or…?”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. “I’ve got it.”

Steve tries to feed him the sandwich anyway.

When Jonathan swats him away, Steve just laughs and leans back against the counter, close enough that Jonathan’s knee rests between Steve’s ankles. He nudges Jonathan’s foot with his own absentmindedly, like he’s not worried about what it means.

Jonathan takes a bite. 

It tastes fine. Normal. Like something you eat in a kitchen on an ordinary afternoon. The mundanity of it hits harder than anything else.

Chester pads in and settles at Jonathan’s feet, chin on Jonathan’s sock like he’s guarding him.

For the first time all day, the world doesn’t feel like it’s tilting.

Jonathan chews slowly, watching Steve watch him. It strikes him that maybe it–this–should feel awkward. Or fragile. Or temporary. 

Instead, it feels like falling–but not the kind where there’s nothing underneath you. The kind with momentum. With direction.

Jonathan thinks about how earlier he’d been so sure nothing was fixed. How the ache in his chest had felt permanent.

He still doesn’t have answers. 

But Steve’s here. The sandwich is warm. His ankle is still hooked around Jonathan’s.

And for now –just for now–that feels like enough.

Jonathan smiles to himself and takes another bite

The clock keeps ticking.

The house stays quiet.

And nothing hurts quite as much as it did before.