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Okay, so, listen.
Steve really doesn’t want to be here. Seriously.
He’s currently pushed against the wall of an alley (the Alley, really), fighting against Jonathan.
Another punch lands on his face. The air knocks out of him.
It hurts. A lot. His fist connects with Steve’s face again, and again, and Steve can only weakly protest and hit back; it’s humiliating, really, because he can’t really do anything. Jonathan is fucking strong, even when you can’t see it.
Steve tries to remember this has all started. His head doesn’t make it easier, floating around somewhere above Hawkins.
He said something stupid, probably - again. It’s not hard, bringing Jonathan to the breaking point, no, it’s actually pretty easy. If he explodes like that, well, is it really all Steve’s fault that they’re here again?
It is. He’d opened his mouth in the first place. He wanted to see that angry glint in those usually so empty eyes again. He’s at fault.
It goes like this:
Zombie Boy this, broke ass mom that. A sprinkle of Lonnie Byers, and there you have it— Big Byers punching in your skull! Not that you’d want that, of course. Any sane person wouldn’t want that.
And, yeah, it’s stupid that they’re here. Really fucking stupid, and yet. And yet, they always return.
It’s almost like a ritual - a cursed one, one that ends in fights and blood and bandaids, but one with routine, which makes it almost comforting, in a weird way, and, well…
This ritual - if you were to call it that - isn’t good for either of them, like, at all. Chief Hopper is already sick of them ending up in the police station, already threatening to tell his parents - which wouldn’t make much of a difference, really. They barely live in Hawkins anymore.
It takes Steve a bit too long to notice the punches have - stopped. „What, got no energy anymore, Byers?” His voice comes out tinny, and far away. That’s probably not healthy.
He looks at Jonathan, or he looks as much as he can, his vision is swimming, and is met with a pair of eyes, glassy, but the angry glint is there. That’s what Steve wanted to see.
The fist comes at him again. Steve lets it happen, lets the pain fade together.
He’d take it all if it meant - if it meant emotion in those eyes.
Oops. He’s being too honest with himself.
„’s that all you got there? Really?” He taunts, instead of thinking about his earlier statement. His left eye hurts. He should go to a hospital, probably.
„Steve, shut the fuck up. Or- or I’ll, I’m…” Jonathan pants. He stops punching Steve, though. He doesn’t know if he should be grateful or— he doesn’t know.
Sweat is forming on Jonathan’s forehead, his hair already wet. It’s getting longer these days, making it hard for Steve to stop thinking about him.
„Steve? Fuck, fuck, fuck! Steve—“
Oh hey, the sky is spinning. He’s almost nostalgic for Starcourt mall. That was a joke. He’s not. He never wants to go back there.
It’s fucking bright. Not cool. He’d like a snack right now. Jonathan’s lips look good at this angle. His left eye hurts, and—
And it all fades to black.
Steve wakes in a rusty car. His head hurts. A lot.
Jonathan is next to him in the driver seat. The light is still bright, but Steve can see a bit, the sun shining on his side profile just right.
Jonathan spares him a quick glance before turning to the road again.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet, but loud enough in the silent car: „You’re awake.”
No shit.
„That’s good,” Jonathan continues, „I, uhm, I hope we can treat you at home.”
That’s fine with him. Wait, why aren’t they just going to the hospital?
„Why… not hospital?” Steve voices.
He thinks he can hear a bitter laugh— but maybe he’s hallucinating.
„Can’t afford it,” Jonathan admits, even quieter. „Besides, I’ve done this before.”
„Y’ beat up guys often?”
„No, only when it’s necessary.”
„Like today?”
Jonathan sighs. „No, that was me being stupid.”
„Why’re y’ helpin’ me anyway?” Steve is tired. He’d like to go to sleep.
„I really don’t like the way you slur your words. Don’t fall asleep.”
Well, that’s rude. He was just about to.
„Why?”
„You probably have a concussion. Do not– Steve, do not fall asleep. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but, keep talking.”
„‘Kay. Y’ avoided my first question.”
„I said keep talking, not keep me talking.”
„This is how conversation works, freak.”
„Back to insults, are we?”
„Don’ talk to me like I’m a child.”
„Sorry.”
The apology is not what Steve had expected. Something like ‘maybe you are one’ would have fitted better here. Sorry doesn’t apply to Jonathan. ‘You deserved it’ is way more likely.
„Don’ be sorry,” Steve replies, on instinct. He’s not sure if he means it.
„I kind of should be. I mean, you just passed out on me. I really shouldn’t have gone that far.”
Okay, is he dreaming? Someone pinch him. Wait, no, he’s in enough pain already, he knows he’s not in a dream.
„Lucky no one called the police on y’, huh?”
„You have no idea,” Jonathan mumbles, under his breath. Steve isn’t sure if he should even witness it.
Jonathan focuses on the road again, and Steve lets himself relax— though not falling asleep, Jonathan sounded very serious when he mentioned that.
The drive to the Byers house isn’t uncomfortable, per se, but it’s… weird.
Them, just existing near each other, almost peaceful. Almost. The wounds of the fight— of the previous fights, because they can never do things halfway— still lay between them. The oldest ones are scarring. Most of them are open, some of them openly bleeding.
Not just the physical wounds, because with Jonathan, Steve always has to make it about feelings, too.
But none of them are being created right now. Heck, if Steve is reading this right, some might heal, genuinely.
Probably not, but he needs something to hang on to, so he doesn’t throw up.
The car door opens, and shuts again. Steve is now alone in the car for a long time, approximately twenty seconds.
His own door is opened, too, and the cold air that hits him is so different from the stuffy– yet more welcoming– atmosphere of the car.
„C’mon, Steve,” Jonathan says, holding the door open.
Wow, that’s so kind! What a gentleman Big Byers is, once he’s almost beaten you to death!
He voices that thought, while getting out. Jonathan grimaces, but ultimately decides not to comment. Wise choice, Steve nods to himself.
They stumble to the front door, Steve’s arm slung over Jonathan’s shoulder. His vision is swimming slightly. He’d like to throw up.
„Hold on,” Jonathan grits through his teeth, struggling.
„’m not that heavy, Byers,” Steve replies, slightly offended.
„Sure.”
They do make it inside, even into the bathroom. Steve is sat down on the toilet lid. Jonathan has his back to him, searching something in the pantry.
It’s freezing, he realizes. How do they live here?
„’s cold here,” he states.
„Yeah, well, that’s how the house gets in the winter,” Jonathan retorts, still searching through the pantry.
„How do you put up with that?”
It’s a genuine question. In Steve’s house, it’s usually warm, heated up by the heaters. (The physical warm doesn’t make up for the cold in the atmosphere— because that’s what Steve’s home is lacking. Metaphorical warmth.)
„You learn to.”
Jonathan has finally found what he needs, turning around.
„Here’s some pain killers,” He says.
Steve takes the bottle, trying to open it.
„Stupid childproof caps.” He mutters.
Jonathan, for some reason, laughs. „Yeah.”
„Help me,” Steve pouts.
„Fine.” Jonathan takes the bottle back, opening it with a click.
„Open up, Harrington.”
Steve opens his mouth. Jonathan gives him a pill. In his hand, which is dumb, in Steve’s humble opinion, because his mouth was already open. Oh well.
„Do you need a glass of water to swallow it?” Jonathan asks, tilting his head to the side slightly. It’s cute, really.
„What? No,” Steve lies. He does need a glass water to swallow pills, but whatever. He just hopes he doesn’t gag and absolutely embarrasses himself in front of Jonathan.
The pill goes down smoothly— as smooth as it can, which means it gets stuck in his throat but after swallowing three times, it eventually gets all the way down to his stomach.
Hopefully it’ll work soon. His head is still fuzzy.
He probably looks like shit, which is totally unfair, because Jonathan, who’s watching him with big concerned hazel eyes, looks like heaven itself— okay, maybe heaven if it hadn’t slept for half of it’s existence and just beat up a guy.
There’s a bruise on his cheek and a bit of blood on his knuckles. Steve feels his stomach twist with a sick sense of pride that he did that, and something dangerously close to butterflies in his stomach.
Christ, he’s a loser.
„Okay. Let’s get you cleaned up,” Jonathan suggests. Steve nods.
And then, they’re face to face, Jonathan wiping down his bruises with a wet towel. It stings, yes, but it’s ignorable. The painkillers are doing their work.
„So,” Steve starts, because he likes to ruin things, „What are we gonna do?”
„Hm?” Jonathan asks, looking at the bruise on his eye.
„I mean, are we good, or…” He trails off, unsure of his words. This could go good. This could go really fucking bad.
„I don’t know, Steve. Will you take back your insults?”
„Will you take back your punches?”
„Touché.”
The silence wraps around them again. Jonathan is done with fixing him up, but he’s not moving away.
They stare at eachother for a moment.
The cold bathroom is suddenly quite stuffy, the blood flowing into Steve’s cheeks like some kind of moron.
Jonathan’s eyes go to Steve’s lips, then up again, his stomach twists again, not with nausea but, well, with the goddamn butterflies he so desperately doesn’t want to feel.
Get over it, Harrington. You’ve just had a fight.
And yeah, they just had a fight. And still.
It’s no use. The Butterflies persist.
Steve’s face is probably heating up the bathroom— the whole house, even. Maybe that’s why he’s sweating.
„I’m sorry, Steve.”
The admission lands somewhere in the bathroom. Definitely not in Steve’s gut.
„It’s okay.”
He’s staring at Jonathan’s lips. He should look away now. That would be good. Before he does something he might regret.
There’s no signs between them. No- no avalanche, as Robin had said. There’s no deep friendship or connection and there’s nothing to read into.
So why does he feel like this?
God, fuck his life.
„Steve…”
„Yeah?” His eyes briefly meet Jonathan’s.
The latter sucks in a sharp breath, and—
Surges forward to kiss him.
Their lips meet, just like their eyes had done seconds before, and it’s heaven and hell at the same time, because holy fuck he’s kissing Jonathan, and holy fuck he’s kissing Jonathan- who is a guy- and also basically his arch nemesis.
They pull away just as fast, chests heaving.
„Holy shit,” Steve breathes. They’re still so close, close enough Steve can feel Jonathan’s breath against his face, and it’s good, it’s so fucking good.
„You taste like blood,” Jonathan mumbles, more to himself than to Steve, eyes narrowed, „Do you have, I don’t know, internal bleeding?”
„Jonathan, we just kissed.”
Steve gets front row seats to watching Jonathan take that in.
„Fuck,” he breathes, „I’m sorry.”
„What?” See, now he’s confused, because between all the fights and the split lips and the black eyes, he’d always wondered how Jonathan would taste, if he’d groan, maybe bite his lip, or -
Ahem. Anyway.
„I’m sorry— that, that was stupid, I really don’t know what came over me, I—“
„D’you want me to kiss you again?” Steve interrupts, really just blurts into the room, and Jonathan nods so he does, and—
Holy shit. Holy fuck, this is good.
He could do this all day.
Steve’s hands come up to cup Jonathan’s face, tilting into the kiss at the same time that Jonathan snakes his hands around Steve waist, and Steve opens his mouth to taste Jonathan better, bite his tongue playfully.
They share a few kisses, long, deep, absolutely satisfying to the butterflies in Steve’s gut, before Jonathan pulls away.
„Please brush your teeth.”
Steve laughs, because fuck it all, he just kissed Jonathan Byers and he never wants to stop. He immediately winces after, covering his eye.
„And I’ll get you a bag of ice.”