Work Text:
Steve had known something was wrong since the moment he'd stepped back in the door.
He'd just finished up his final closing shift with Robin before their week off for Christmas and New Year's, on Christmas Eve, when he'd felt an odd settling in his gut.
He'd driven Robin home, exchanged gifts at her doorstep before he'd gotten back in his car and drove around a little longer, before finally retiring in his driveway.
The Harrington House was decorated extravagantly for the holidays, wreaths and mistletoe and all sorts of trinkets cluttered his sight.
The hallway stinks off his mother's favourite spiced gingerbread candle, and the lighting is a dim orange.
He calls out a muffled greeting and clambers the stairs right up to his room.
Once inside, he pulls off his work uniform and gets into a comfortable sweater and plaid pyjama bottoms.
His eyes linger on the little red ribbon peeling out from under his bed. It belonged to a bag where he was storing his boyfriend's gifts, just a reminder of where they were. And just subtle enough that his parents wouldn't catch on.
Not a soul, other than Robin, Will and Argyle, knew that Steve and Jonathan had been together for several months now.
It was the purest kind of love he'd ever experienced. So quiet, so comfortable.
Nothing like what he's feeling now.
He hears his father call him, voice echoing firmly up the stairs.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been called like that. Not in a normal way. This wasn't like being called for dinner or to discuss the morning routine.
This was something different. The kind of call your parents do only when you've fucked up terribly.
Steve's gut churns anxiously as he descends the carpeted stairs and enters the living room.
His parents are both sat on the couch. Both backs straight, faces unreadable. His mothers legs crossed and arms folded in her lap.
The fire crackles on. And it reminds him of bones breaking.
"....yeah?" He swallows deeply.
His father clears his throat.
"Steve, son....your friend, Tommy, mentioned something rather interesting, when I ran into him just this evening."
Steve's gut curls and twists uncomfortably. Was it the drinking? The sex? What could it have been?
"....he said you were a queer. I didn't believe him immediately, no...but it stuck in my head. And I took a look in your room just before you got home there. So, boy. It's true, then, is it?"
Steve feels like he's going to be sick.
"..." He can't speak. His throat is horribly blocked. He takes a second to swallow for a second time. Deeply. And then he opens his mouth.
<>
The front door slams behind him with a loud bang, and yet his mother's wretched sobbing and his fathers outraged yelling is still audible. Though muffled.
In Steve's hand is the bag he'd hidden under his bed. His mind is working at a thousand miles per hour.
Everything feels numb and silent.
He walks right past his car.
It doesn't even occur to him to drive. And later he'd come to be grateful for that once he'd realised just how dissociated he'd been.
He doesn't know if it's been five minutes or fifty by the time he reaches the Byers house. Rapping on the door as he swags slightly.
Jonathan answers.
Whatever way the hall light falls on him, it illuminates a halo around his head. Which feels just right to Steve. His angel. His guardian, saviour angel.
"Jonathan..." He breathes out, voice breaking off.
And he pulls him into his arms. Inhaling the sweet smoky scent of him, hands feeling the worn cotton of his The Clash t-shirt. The warmth of his body heat.
Jonathan makes a soft noise in his ear. Unintentional. Surprised.
Jonathan's own hands are wrapped around him too, face against his neck. Listening to his pulse.
"....stevie?"
"Jonny...."
Steve accidentally allows a hitched sob to escape.
"What...?" Jonathan speaks softly, cupping Steve's face. Thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
"I don't - I don't understand," Steve exhales, "...my mom...she said - she said I'd betrayed God. That I disobeyed Him. How is that my fault- how can he send me an angel and expect me not to fall in love? A man or not?"
Jonathan guides him inside, past the kitchen where Will and Joyce are. Hopper in the living room, right to his own bedroom.
Once inside the privacy of his room, Steve pushes Jonathan gently against the wall. And slidesdown to his knees. Gripping his hips gently, forehead pressed to his lower stomach. And just feels.
It's an odd ritual to most. But Steve couldn't help himself.
He couldn't fathom why his younger self had ever mistreated this beautiful being in his arms.
He presses his face to the soft heat of his jeans where they hug right above the thigh and he nearly wails.
How could this - this purity? Be wrong.
He couldn't possibly fathom it.
Nothing about his darling boy could ever be impure, or filthy, or unholy.
At last, Jonathan's hands gentle wind through his hair and tilt his head to look up.
Steve loves this angle.
He loves the way his silhouette stands out against the illuminated backdrop of bedroom, the way his hair frames his face and his jaw and cheekbones are so delightfully contoured and-
Oh, he could go on.
"Bed," Jonathan murmurs, pulling him up to his feet, "Let's just...relax."
Steve gets into bed with him, tucks the duvet around them both and smiles when Jonathan habitually grasps an old, worn stuffed rabbit under his arm. His childhood Teddy.
Steve kisses his hair as Jonathan closes his eyes and pushes the buttons on the boombox. A soothing tune coming over the cassette tape.
It's a gentle kind of calm.
As snow falls heavy over Hawkins out of the window, and sleep carries that same blanketed weight over them.
Steve still isn't gone the next morning. Nobody says a word.