Chapter Text
Hawkins, Indiana.
1980.
Hawkins Middle School, 2:51 P.M.
Jonathan stared at the ticking clock on the wall before glancing back at the civics teacher. Just a few more minutes of class were left, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. He didn’t want to go home, and he didn’t want to stay at school either. He shrugged his shoulders to his ears, hunching in on himself as he desperately attempted to block out his classmates whispering beside him. ‘Freak’ that, ‘creep’ this, ‘quiet’ that. All directed at him. He knew, because it was a daily routine with them now—rumors about his brother, about his family, his mom, his dad.
He lowered his head, waiting for the bell instead.
Finally, the noise flooded his ears, and he scrambled upwards, hands twisting and curling along the straps of his backpack. He slid out of his seat, mentally noting the last few words his teacher was yelling about some test tomorrow. He kept his head down as he slowly made his way to the door.
Jonathan peered his head out, grimacing instinctively at the louder, mashed noises of kids screaming, for reasons he still never understood.
He just needed to get out, walk over to the elementary, and pick Will up to go home. He was nearly running.
“Hey, Byers! Where’s the fire?”
The voice was like a cheese grater. Jonathan didn’t need to look up to know it was Tommy. He was fourteen, fueled by cheap hair gel that smelled like gasoline. Jonathan hated it. Hated him. He had an unexplainable need to be the loudest person in the room. Tommy stepped into Jonathan’s path, flanked by Carol.
“I’m juh… just going home, Tommy–“ Jonathan muttered, trying to ignore the fact that he ever so stupidly stuttered. He tried to sidestep. Tommy was close, towering over Jonathan.
Tommy shoved him back against the locker. The metal clanged painfully. “Home? To that shack in the woods? You gonna go take pictures of roadkill?”
Tommy grabbed the strap of Jonathan’s bag, tugging it hard. “What’s in here? More weirdo stuff?”
“Leave it alone,” his voice was tight, quiet.
He wasn’t a fighter, more of a survivor, and survival sometimes meant taking the hit until the predator got bored.
“I think the freak needs a lesson in manners,” Carol was unfazed, using a nail filer. The way she was so uninterested somehow made this even more humiliating. “Didn’t I see you staring at the back of Nancy Wheeler’s head in the cafeteria? You’re a little stalker, aren’t you?”
“I… wasn’t staring–“ Jonathan whispered.
“He was totally staring.” Carol chimed in, not looking up. “It was gross.”
Tommy’s expression grew bigger, a disgusting mix of an attempt at intimidation and a weird, wicked grin. He grabbed the front of Jonathan’s worn jacket, bunching it in his fist. “I knew it. Probably gonna use that camera on her next. We should break that camera, save everyone the trouble.”
“I don’t have it on me.” He lied, heart hammering in his ribs as he snapped his head up.
“Let’s check the bag then–“
“A bit desperate, don’t you think, Hagan?”
The voice came from behind them, echoing off the linoleum. Eddie Munson was leaning against a water fountain a few feet away. His hair was a chaotic nest of curls, and he was wearing a flannel shirt three sizes too big, unbuttoned over a black tee. He didn’t let go, but he cut his gaze to Eddie.
“Shut up, Munson, this is a private conversation.” He spat the name out like it was poison.
“Doesn’t sound private,” he said, sauntering over after pushing off the fountain. He moved with a strange, theatrical rhythm. “Sounds like a broken record, really. Same tactic every day. ‘You’re a freak,’ ‘I’m gonna break your stuff,’ blah blah. It’s a snoozefest, man.”
He got in Tommy’s personal space, a bold move for a kid who’s skin and bones. He peered at Tommy’s hands on Jonathan.
“You really want to be the guy who spends his Wednesday afternoon touching Jonathan Byers?” Eddie asked, raising an eyebrow. “Been wondering why you’re so obsessed with him sometimes, Tommy. It’s getting a little weird.”
A couple of kids down the hall snorted quietly. Tommy’s face flushed a deep, angry red. He looked back at Eddie, then at Jonathan, and then at Carol. The comment hit a nerve. If there was anything he feared, it was being uncool.
He shoved the boy one last time, nearly knocking him over. “Wh.. Whatever. You two be freaks… together. Or something.”
“See you later, Tommy! Don’t forget to study!” Eddie called in a mocking tone as Tommy and Carol turned the corner.
Jonathan straightened his jacket. Shit. He’s so late. Will’s probably waiting for him. He winced, feeling the harsh sting of metal lockers on his back. Eddie was kicking a piece of gum on his shoe.
“You– shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured. His voice sounded small even to his own ears. “He’s gonna come for you now.”
Eddie stopped, looking up. He gave a sharp, jagged grin. “Let him come, I think I’m failing gym anyway. What’s he gonna do? Give me a bad reputation?” He shoved his hands in his pockets, walking to the exit. “Move quick, Byers. Hyenas come back in packs.”
Jonathan didn’t really hesitate, sputtering out something he didn’t even understand, and ran out the doors.
He squinted at the harsh sun, the adrenaline from Tommy humming uncomfortably under his skin, before jumping on his bike, escaping to the elementary with a wobbled start. His hands shook on the handlebars, the echo of the locker slam still vibrating in his spine.
The air outside was cold enough to bite his lungs, but it helped a little. The further he got from the school, the more the noise melted behind him– the bell, the shouts, a coach's whistle. Out here, it was just the crunch of his tires on gravel on the edge of the road and the wind sneaking under the collar of his jacket.
Jonathan's back shifted, burning and aching. His mind was speeding as he raced towards the school. Eddie shouldn't have done anything. Jonathan could've just let it happen, could've taken another hit or two, and have it over with. The way he spat the words at him sat at his stomach, gnawing at him ruthlessly.
Whatever.
Whatever. Happens every day, so why does he care now? Why does he care now that he knows someone else has seen his pain? Why does he care now that someone stood up for him? Why does he care that someone cares? It's all so stupid.
Will's waiting.
The houses blurred past in dull browns and grey. He knew them all by heart now, the one with the tire swings, the one with Christmas lights still hanging half-dead in February. Normal houses. Normal families. Regular dads who only scolded about report cards and mowing the lawn, not about– Jonathan growled.
He swallowed, pushing the thought down. Not now.
Hawkins, Indiana.
1980.
Hawkins Elementary, 3:21 P.M.
Jonathan skidded into the bike rack outside the elementary, shoving the kickstand so hard it nearly tipped over anyway. His legs felt like jelly when he jumped off.
He checked the time on the cracked watch Joyce had found at a yard sale. He was late– of course, he was late.
A knot twisted in his stomach as a memory flashed, too quick and sharp. Will was sitting on the curb outside the school last winter, hugging his backpack to his chest while Lonnie's car idled at the far end of the lot. His dad leaning on the hood, cigarette in his mouth, shouting something Jonathan couldn't hear but didn't really need to. He biked faster then, too, heart in his throat, praying Will wouldn't get in that car. Praying his father would accept his offer of taking Will instead.
"Come on, Will," he muttered under his breath now, foot tapping relentlessly on the ground. "Please still be here."
He scanned the small crowd of kids, most being gone by now. He spotted Will after what seemed like hours.
Will and Mike Wheeler were standing closer than anyone in the yard, tucked in a corner by a shaded awning—one with a mop of curly hair, loud-mouthed, and the other quiet and observant.
Mike was holding a small, silver-wrapped piece of candy, breaking it in half with focused precision. He handed the larger piece to Will with a look of intense, 8-year-old devotion.
“Saved it for you.” He carried his voice a little louder than the other yelling kids, “I didn’t let Troy get any.”
Will took the candy, and Jonathan swore he saw his brother’s face change a shade. Maybe a little. Or the ride over was getting to him, and whatever the hell happened back at school. “Thanks, Mike. You didn’t have to.”
Jonathan saw the way Mike looked at Will, almost like Will was the only person on the field that mattered.
“Will! Hey, Will! You ready?” Jonathan called out. The two boys jumped slightly; the conversation that was going on was cut short. Will’s face lit up, hand brushing Mike’s sleeve as he lingered.
Mike watched Will walk to Jonathan, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Mike didn’t move until Will was safely back on the bike.
Jonathan began to pedal away, glancing back. Mike was still watching them, looking lonely, the second Will was out of arm’s reach. He was interrupted by Lucas, as Jonathan remembers from Will, who seemed to be out of breath and holding something up to Mike. It looked like a test, maybe, but Jonathan snapped his head back to the road instead.