Chapter Text
It happens so fast, Jonathan misses it.
He's been in fight-or-flight mode before, numerous times, some of which also involved his baby brother and the boy who has been in his life for nearly as long as his baby brother, but it has always been against… well, the supernatural, the strangeness that had overtaken Hawkins the moment his brother had gone missing that horrible November night.
This, however? This is just about as human as a threat can get. Gunfire ricochets throughout the home that his mom had so lovingly decorated. Jonathan has his arms spread in a pathetic attempt to cover two teenagers who have, since the last time they faced the threat of death, outgrown him. Mike has a strong grip on his hand. Will, somewhere behind Mike, is hyperventilating so hard Jonathan can hear the strained tenseness of his breathing even over the roar of gunfire.
Jonathan wants to protect them. He's always just wanted to protect them, his baby brother and Mike as an extension, even beyond being his girlfriend's brother. Both of them are looking to him to get them out of this, and Jonathan can't fuck this up, he can't.
Except the agent they've been following, the one who promised to get them out, takes a hit directly to the chest and crumples. Jonathan reaches for him as an afterthought, but the guy – whose name Jonathan doesn't even know – wheezes for breath and shakes his head. "Just get out of here," he croaks, and then his chest stills and it isn't the first time Jonathan's seen real death but it hits harder here.
There's no time to process it. They're so close to making it out of this house, Jonathan can already hear the faint twang of Argyle's favorite song in the distance, steadily approaching the house with absolutely no clue what's going on, and oh, how Jonathan hates dragging his first ever normal friend into the mess that has become his life but in the moment, it's a bittersweet relief.
Behind him, Mike makes a horrible gasping noise. Jonathan can't afford to look back though, because if one of them is hurt–
–no, he can't think about it. Not until they've made it into Argyle's work van. Not until he knows they are safe.
Jonathan throws the door open. Argyle is pulling up to the curb, still blissfully unaware. The fresh air is a relief, but they still aren't safe, so Jonathan stumbles forwards, pulling Mike along with him, hoping and praying that Will is still clinging to Mike.
The van jerks to a stop. Jonathan throws the back tailgate door open, breathing the smallest sigh of relief that the back is cleared out and empty. He climbs in, drags Mike in behind him, and then offers his other hand to Will–Will, who has an arm curled around his stomach, who is still breathing in shaky, uneven gasps that betray his panic, whose eyes are wide in fear and oh, how Jonathan hates that too.
Will doesn't deserve this, he thinks almost hysterically. Why can't Will ever stay safe? Why does this shit keep happening?
The door slams behind them. Argyle has started asking questions, his voice rising, and all Jonathan can say, in complete unison with Mike, is a single plea. "Drive!"
Argyle, mercifully, slams on the gas.
And Jonathan sinks down against the seat, takes a deep breath, and takes a lingering look at Mike, who is staring at Will with horror in his eyes, and then over at Will, whose yellow shirt is now blossoming in red as his arm falls away from his stomach and reveals–reveals–
Fuck. No, no, no–
"Argyle, take us to St. Mary's," Jonathan instructs, first and foremost. "Right fucking now."
Then, he's moving, only wincing when Argyle swerves rough enough it nearly sends all three of them against the left wall of the van, shrugging off his overshirt without a second thought. "Will," he breathes, and it comes off panicked and frantic, because Jonathan has never been more terrified in his entire life. "Oh, fuck, Will–"
"Jonathan," Will mumbles, and he's taking smaller breaths, shaky and uneven. "I…"
"Shh, don't speak," Jonathan urges. He wraps his overshirt around Will's stomach, tying it so tight that Will makes a strangled whine, his fists clenching. "You're–you're gonna be fine, okay? We're gonna get you to a hospital and, and call Mom, and everything's going to be fine."
Besides them, Mike sniffs. There are tears in his eyes, when Jonathan spares a glance in his direction, and he reaches into their space, pulling one of Will's clenched fists into his own grasp, and–okay, yeah, Mike's been a bit of an asshole recently, Jonathan's watched his brother get his heart broken over and over again over the course of the past year, but in this moment, he's redeemed. At least, redeemed enough.
"Mm." Will coughs something vicious, and he slumps back against the wall of the van, his gaze fixing blankly into a point in space just over Jonathan's shoulder. We're losing him, Jonathan realizes, and he might as well have been the one shot in the stomach with the way his entire body lights in pain at the realization.
"Come on, Will," Mike begs, and he's squeezing Will's hand, over and over again. "You can't–I just got you back, I just got you back, you can't leave me again, please."
"Sorry," Will rasps, and his eyelids are fluttering dangerously, even as Jonathan presses his hands over the space where he's tied his overshirt, unable to stop the tiny, weak sobs that spill out of him as his hands come back stained red with blood, Will's blood, his baby brother's blood.
All Jonathan ever wanted was to protect Will from the monsters of the world. How has he failed that one, singular job so spectacularly?
"It's okay, it's okay," he continues to soothe, even as tears stream down his face, as Argyle curses under his breath and the van swerves harshly once again. "Just keep your eyes open for me, yeah? C'mon, Will, just–just a little longer, okay? We're almost there, you're gonna be just fine, just keep your eyes open, please."
But Will's eyes keep fluttering, and his breathing just keeps getting weaker and weaker. Jonathan leans over to kiss his forehead. "I love you so much," he murmurs, and his voice cracks because of how much he means it. "I love you so, so much. Please, please hold on, just a little longer."
"Please, Will," Mike is pleading too, and his shoulders are shaking with silent sobs, pressing Will's hand to his chest. "Oh god, please."
Will's eyes remain half-lidded, and he stares up first at Jonathan and then glancing over to Mike with something almost longing; like he's memorizing their faces, absorbing the love he knows they're both showering him in. Something a little like sorrow flickers across his face, and then, more painful than anything else, acceptance.
" 's okay," he whispers, his voice weak and barely audible. "Love… love you guys too. 's okay."
"No," Jonathan denies, and everything in his entire body goes cold as Will's eyes slip shut. "No, no, oh my god, Will. Will, wake up, Will!"
But Will's chest goes still. The sound of his ragged breathing, once filling the otherwise quiet space, goes silent. The hand still in Mike's grasp goes limp.
And as the van suddenly slides to a stop, the distant sirens of an ambulance wailing in the background, Jonathan only knows one thing for absolute certain; he's failed.
"We're here!" Argyle spins around in his seat, and Jonathan can't bring himself to look away from the limp form of his brother, his baby brother, but he can imagine the look of surprise and panic that must show on his friend's face. "We're here–oh no. Is he dead?"
Mike makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. He's staring at Will too, with wide eyes full of a horror that no fourteen year old should ever have to experience, and Jonathan gets it because he's eighteen and he doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to face the reality of it, doesn't want to admit that Will is gone, gone, dead.
But what else can he fucking do?
"Mike," he whispers, and Mike jerks back, his lower lip trembling. "Stay–stay here. I'm gonna–I'm gonna bring him inside."
It doesn't even matter, bringing Will's lifeless body into this hospital when he's already gone, but Jonathan doesn't–he doesn't know what else to do. His mom is gone, all the way in fucking Alaska, blissfully unaware that one of her kids was all but kidnapped again and the other is–no. Jonathan swallows thickly, and he curls his arms around Will, gut clenching at how familiar it all feels. He used to hold Will like this all the time, and yet somehow he missed just how much his brother's shoulders have broadened over the past five months, how tall he's gotten.
"No, no I'm coming with you," Mike insists, and surely enough, as Jonathan heaves Will into his arms, Mike's already at his side, following him out of the van, arms curling around himself. Jonathan doesn't have the heart to yell at him, so he allows it.
The hospital lights are bright. There's blood all over Jonathan's shirt. Will's head is slumped into Jonathan's shoulder. It's so familiar, and yet so wrong at the same time.
There is a counter, a hospital employee standing behind it looking bored. She lifts her head to greet them, and then sees the blood that is staining past Jonathan's skin and into his very soul, and her eyes go wide.
"Help," Jonathan croaks. Somewhere between running out of a house that never felt like home and feeling his brother die in his arms, he's lost his voice. He's not sure if he's going to find it ever again. "Help, please."
The employee must say something. A trio of men in white coats come rushing out, and then another two with a gurney. One of them is pulling at Will's body, and helplessly, Jonathan allows it, his hands clenching at nothing as Will is left there on that rolling bed, limp and lifeless and with a torso blooming in red, seeping past the shirt still tied around his stomach.
And then he's gone, wheeled away into the depths of the hospital even though Jonathan knows, he knows that there's not really anything a doctor could do to save him.
A tap to his wrist has Jonathan jerk back out of his stupor, and the employee is standing in front of him, a clipboard tucked under her arm, her expression kind but impatient. "Sir," she's saying, "I just need to ask you a few questions."
Wordlessly, he allows himself to be led towards the chair next to the receptionist booth. He doesn't take a seat though; instead, he stands next to it, sucking a sharp breath through his teeth when Mike collapses into the chair instead. Mike, who is shaking still, no doubt in shock, and–well, Jonathan doesn't really have friends, not in the same way that Mike and Will were friends, but Mike's been a part of their family for so long. So Jonathan swallows, ignores his hands still stained in blood, and presses two fingers against Mike's shoulder, a silent comfort.
The employee walks him through a few basic questions. Name of patient, relation to patient, how did he get the injury, everything that Jonathan dreads ever talking about. He answers each stiffly, doesn't focus on anything except for rubbing those two fingers against Mike's shoulder. It's grounding. He couldn't protect Will, and that will kill him a thousand times every single day, but he can protect Mike.
At the end of it, the woman looks tired, and she gives Jonathan a sad, sympathetic look. "Well," she says slowly. "We will need to be in touch with your parents."
Parents. Right. Jonathan digs his fingers into Mike's shoulder a little harder–Mike doesn't even flinch away. "Our mom, she's away right now," he says, and god does it feel pathetic. "Work conference. In Alaska. And our dad–he's out of the picture. Still lives in Indiana, and he doesn't… he doesn't have custody."
He ends up giving the employee their home phone number. She asks, when will your mother return home, and he answers, maybe in a few days, but he doesn't actually know. His mom is gone, left them alone again, and now Will is gone, again, and Jonathan is left there alone to pick up the pieces.
"I will give your home a call," the employee promises, and she still has that awful sympathetic look; like she knows, just as well as Jonathan does, that the news she calls about will be anything but good, anything but a confirmation of what he already knows. "And an officer should be here shortly to confirm the details with you."
Right. Because Jonathan had to lie about how Will had gotten shot in the first place; home robbery, he had said, because how could he tell the truth here? But god, he does not want to talk to the cops, he just wants–
–he wants to go home. He wants to curl up in his own bed and listen to the mixtape he made, the one he hadn't given because the dates had gotten all mixed up in his head and he hadn't even realized that March 22nd had come until it was already gone because he's the worst fucking brother in the entire world.
In the chair, Mike stands, his shoulders hunched enough that Jonathan can keep his hand there. Mike, who had flown here to spend his vacation from school with two people he cared about and then lost them both, one after the other. He can't stay, Jonathan thinks, and it's a sobering thought. I have to get him home.
Okay. That can be his new mission. Get Mike home.
"Could–could you send them to our place instead?" he asks the employee, because she's still standing there and Mike hasn't said a word but he's still shaking and if Jonathan spends even a second longer in this hospital waiting room he might just throw up. "I need to get him–" he gestures vaguely in Mike's direction, "home."
The employee only nods, and then Jonathan is taking Mike by the shoulders a little more fiercely and steering him out, out, out of the building, back to the pizza van where Argyle is still waiting for them.
~~
Somehow, they make it back to their house.
Argyle had protested this at first, as soon as Jonathan slid into the passenger seat; he couldn't stand to be in the back, not when he knows there's still stains of his brother's blood marking the entire space. "Are you sure, bro?" he had questioned. "Aren't there scary men with guns at your place?"
"They should be gone," Jonathan had replied, pinching the bridge of his nose to try and swallow his irritation. Argyle has been great, he had gotten them to a hospital – too late, but that isn't his fault – but his normalcy is starting to rub Jonathan the wrong way. He wishes Nancy were here, she'd probably know what to do. "Just get us home. Please."
Argyle hadn't said anything to that, just took off driving again, casting worried looks in Jonathan's direction every time they hit a red light.
Just like he had predicted, though, the vans are gone when they arrive back at the ruins of their house. Jonathan stares at it in trepidation, taking a deep breath. His own hands are shaking now; he's never been inside this house without his brother there to greet him, and he doesn't know how he's supposed to do it now.
For Mike, he reminds himself.
Mike follows, twisting his hands together. He hasn't said a word since he begged Jonathan to let him go into the hospital. Jonathan can't imagine what must be going through his head right now, but he also doesn't know what to say to help.
Instead, he takes another deep breath. "Mike," he says quietly, and Mike jerks around to look at him. "I want you to gather your things. I'm going to–Mom has a stack of money in a safe, for emergencies. I'm going to buy you a plane ticket to Indianapolis. You're going home."
"Alone?" Mike blurts out, his eyes going wide in panic, in fear. "But–no, I can't leave, what about El? What about…" he trails off, but the pain in his expression finishes the sentence almost better than words; What about Will? "What about you?"
"I'll be fine, Mike," Jonathan says tiredly. It's a lie. "I'll call your mom, explain… explain some of what happened. You have to go home."
But Mike is shaking his head. "I don't want to leave," he says, insists.
"Well, you can't stay here," Jonathan doesn't know how to argue with teenagers, he never really had to argue with Will and–and his arguments with Nancy had never been like this. "Please, Mike. Get your things. Meet me back by the van."
Mike looks like he's going to keep protesting, but Jonathan fixes him with his best serious look, and the teenager instead shuts up. Mike's lips screw up in a twisted half-scowl, and then he's storming into the house, the door slamming shut behind him.
Jonathan inhales, exhales. Then, he follows.
The house is empty, quiet. There's a trail of debris – shattered glass from windows, smashed vases and tipped over tables and chairs, scattered fluff and holes littering the couch and walls – that he ignores as best as he can, marching his way into the kitchen where the safe is hidden tucked underneath the sink cabinet.
His mom had never fully disclosed exactly how much money she had been given by Dr. Owens in the months before their move became official. It was enough for her to purchase a house here in Lenora, enough to pay for the moving van, enough to get Will fancy art supplies for Christmas and to give El actual furniture for her bedroom. The rest had been locked away in the safe, for emergencies, and she had a spare key for Jonathan; just in case, she had said.
Jonathan does not know how expensive plane tickets are, but he finds stacks of bills wrapped neatly once he gets the safe open, and he pockets them all. No point in leaving anything behind, there's no way he can stay here in this house when the police are on their way and all the windows are shattered.
He straightens up, steps into the hallway. Will's room is cracked open, and he can hear something in that direction; awful, choking sobs. Jonathan pauses, clenches his fists, and then walks down the hallway to lean against the entryway, taking the scene in.
Mike is curled up on the floor. His bag is sitting next to him, still only half-packed. He has a piece of paper clenched tight in his hands, and his shoulders are shaking dangerously as he cries. Jonathan's heart aches.
"Oh, Mike…" he rushes in, dropping next to his brother's best friend, the boy he's known since they were both five years old and Jonathan himself only eight. Ten years. He's known Mike for ten years. He hesitates, then commits, pulling at Mike's shoulders.
Mike goes easily, crumpling into Jonathan's arms. He's still sobbing, immediately clenching fists into Jonathan's shirt, shaking and falling apart. Jonathan curls an arm around Mike's lithe frame, wincing as it leaves streaks of red against teal, he hasn't even had a chance to wash his hands.
"I can't believe he's gone," Mike is gasping, burying his face into Jonathan's shoulder. "I didn't even–his birthday present is still in my bag and it was going to get left behind and now he's gone, and, and we just had such an awful fight because I was being the worst friend in the world and I promised him we'd be a team again, I was going to get him back, and now he's fucking dead and he died thinking I didn't care about him and I loved him, Jonathan I loved him."
Jonathan swallows back his own sobs building in his throat, shoving his own feelings deep down into his stomach. He can have his own breakdown later, he knows how to do that. "He knew, Mike," he says softly, instead, gently stroking Mike's hair like he's done for Will millions of times. "He loved you too, he knew."
But Mike is shaking his head, and when he pulls away from Jonathan's arms, his eyes are red and puffy and swollen, tears streaking down his face, wearing a look of heartbreak that is so painfully familiar. "I loved him," he repeats, aching and longing and sorrowful all at once.
Oh.
Jonathan blinks. The lump is back in his throat.
"I can't do this alone," Mike continues, and he wipes at his eyes, an effort made in vain as more tears replace the ones he's cleaned away. "I can't–don't make me go back there alone, Jonathan, please."
And Jonathan… well, he needs to get out of this house, he was going to rent a motel room, he can't stay here either, can he?
"Okay," he relents, still brushing a hand through Mike's hair. "I'll go with you. Back to Hawkins. Let Mom deal with this mess when she gets home."
"Mrs. Byers is going to be so mad," Mike mumbles, and then he shudders. "What–what are we going to tell her? How are we going to tell her?"
"You're not going to tell her anything, okay?" Jonathan glances around his brother's room, and the ache in his gut is back because everything in here is just so painfully, heartbreakingly Will. How is he supposed to leave this behind? Will would want me to stay with Mike, he thinks, and he knows it to be true, but it doesn't lessen the sting. "You're gonna let me handle that."
Mike sniffs, but he nods, rubbing at his eyes again. "Sorry," he grimaces. "Didn't mean to ruin your shirt."
It was already ruined. Jonathan does not say this, he just manages a thin, wry smile, and he gives Mike one last pat on the head before he stands up. "Let me pack a bag for myself," he says instead. "Argyle will drive us to the airport so we can avoid the cops. It's…" it's not going to be okay, nothing will ever be okay again. "We're going to make it through this."
"Yeah. Okay." Mike grimaces again, and then he starts mechanically continuing his packing, his gaze darting around Will's room warily.
Jonathan breathes a small sigh, and he steps back once, twice. Time to pack a bag for himself, he thinks; and besides, he should give Mike some privacy. "Five minutes," he says, and then he leaves, fleeing into the safety of his own bedroom.
~~
Jonathan packs his own bag.
He washes his hands, changes his shirt. Not all of the dried blood comes off. He pretends it's paint, just to give himself some peace of mind.
Mike joins him outside, wearing a yellow shirt that doesn't fit him properly. His bag is noticeably bigger. Jonathan doesn't say anything.
Argyle drives them to the airport. He steps out of the van to wrap Jonathan in a tight hug as he drops them off.
Jonathan doesn't end up making any phone calls. He doesn't know how he's supposed to tell Karen Wheeler why Mike is coming home so early into the trip, not over distance.
He doesn't know if El is okay, wherever she is. He hopes she's doing alright, hopes she's being taken care of.
He doesn't know what's going on in Hawkins, a threat large enough to scare even Dr. Owens. Whatever it is though, he thinks, it can't be any worse than what has happened here.
They manage to find a direct flight to Indianapolis, two seats right next to each other. Mike clings to Jonathan's arm. Jonathan pretends not to notice.
The entire flight, Jonathan covers his ears with a pair of gently worn headphones, walkman resting in his lap. The tape he clicks into it reads For Will in smooth letters. This is the closest he's ever going to be to his brother ever again.
Finally, as the world falls away when the plane takes off, with Mike staring out the window holding one of the stuffed tigers Will had kept on his bed, a stranger on his right, Jonathan closes his eyes, and he lets the tears, for the first time that day, slip silently down his cheeks.
Later, he will have to be strong again, for Mike's sake. Later, he will get to have a real breakdown, the moment he sees Nancy and has to admit to her both that he's lied to her and that he's never going to be the boyfriend she wants, not when he might have to plan his second funeral for his brother. For now, though, all he has is the tinny sound of The Cure streaming in his ears and the heavy ache in his gut to keep him company; and the knowledge that nothing, nothing, will ever be the same again.
~~
(In the stillness of a hospital room, a doctor leads the woman in the uniform inwards.
"He'll need direct care for awhile longer," he says. "He was clinically dead for five minutes, and the road to recovery won't be easy. Are you sure about this?"
"We'll give him all the recovery time he needs," the woman says, her lip curling. "And we'll need to run our own tests to confirm the... anomaly."
"Of course, ma'am," the doctor says. "I have to ask though... have you ever seen something like this before?" He gestures to his clipboard.
"Not directly," the woman answers. "My colleagues have, though. But don't worry about it; we'll have it all handled. One of my men will handle the, ah, extradition paperwork."
She takes the clipboard, humming to herself, as the doctor nods and bows, turning to speak with one of her men trailing them.
"William Byers," she muses, scanning the paper clipped to the board. "How perfectly you have fallen into our lap."
In the bed, hooked up to a monitor, torso wrapped in bandages and an IV bag injected into his arm, Will lays still, quiet, unconscious still but breathing nonetheless.
Dr. Kay smiles. She has work to do.)