Work Text:
Jonathan has always been good at disappearing.
Not physically. He’s still there. Still breathing. Still standing in doorways and sitting at kitchen tables.
But emotionally? He knows how to shrink. How to make himself quieter. Easier. Lighter.
That Friday afternoon, the house is almost too still. Joyce is working a double shift.
Will is staying at a friend’s place.
Steve had texted earlier saying he’d be stuck helping his dad with something “important.”
Jonathan stares at the old storage box sitting in the garage.
It’s packed with tools and dusty junk no one has sorted through in years. It blocks the back door slightly.
It’s inconvenient.
In the way he sometimes feels inconvenient.
He exhales slowly.
—It’s not that heavy.
He crouches and wraps both arms around it.
He lifts.
The pain is instant.
A violent pull tears through his left arm and shoulder. Something shifts wrong.
There’s a sharp, sickening crack and the box slips from his grip, slamming back to the floor.
Jonathan doesn’t scream.
He never does.
He stays kneeling there, breathing too fast, his arm hanging at an angle that makes his stomach twist.
His eyes sting, but he swallows the tears down.
He didn’t want to bother anyone.
He won’t start now.
⸻
Urgent care smells like antiseptic and exhaustion.
A nurse gently stabilizes his arm in a temporary brace while he stares at the blank wall across from him.
—Is someone on their way? she asks kindly.
Jonathan hesitates.
—Yeah.
He’s not sure if that’s true.
At the front desk, they confirm his information.
—Full name… Jonathan Byers.
—Date of birth… April sixth…
The keyboard keeps clicking.
Jonathan’s gaze drifts to the calendar on the wall.
April 6.
His birthday.
Nineteen.
No one remembered.
He didn’t exactly remind anyone.
⸻
Steve arrives twenty minutes later, hair messy, breath uneven.
—What happened? he asks the second he slips behind the curtain.
Jonathan attempts a weak smile.
—Nothing. I’m just dramatic.
The nurse returns with the chart.
—No fracture, thankfully.
Just a bad strain and inflammation.
He’ll need the sling for a few weeks. And by the way, happy birthday, Jonathan.
Steve freezes.
Actually freezes.
—What?
The nurse smiles casually.
—April sixth, right?
Then she leaves.
The silence is thick.
Steve looks at the paperwork. Then at Jonathan. Then at the calendar.
April sixth.
Today.
Jonathan looks down at his lap.
—It’s not a big deal.
Something in Steve’s chest drops.
—Why didn’t you say anything?
Jonathan shrugs, small and automatic.
—I didn’t want to bother anyone.
That word lands like a punch.
Bother.
Steve grips the edge of the bed, guilt crawling up his spine.
On the drive home, he doesn’t turn on the radio. His thoughts are loud enough. How did he forget? How did work matter more than this?
Jonathan rests his forehead against the window.
He feels stupid for hoping.
He feels worse for being hurt.
⸻
Steve helps him onto the couch.
—I’ll grab some ice.
His voice sounds off.
Jonathan nods.
But Steve doesn’t come back with ice.
He doesn’t come back at all.
Ten minutes pass.
Fifteen.
Thirty.
Jonathan doesn’t text. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t assume anything good.
He sits there with his arm immobilized and the old familiar feeling settling in: you ask for too much just by being here.
Maybe Steve realized dating him is exhausting.
Maybe—
The door opens.
Jonathan stiffens.
Steve walks in carrying a small white box.
A paper bag.
And something moving in his arms.
—Don’t move, he says, slightly out of breath.
He kneels in front of Jonathan.
The box goes on the coffee table. Inside is a tiny cake, clearly last-minute. The frosting leans to one side.
Steve pulls a bent candle from his pocket.
And then the bundle in his arms meows.
Loud.
Offended.
A tiny tuxedo kitten with a perfect white star on its chest blinks up at Jonathan with huge eyes.
—Steve… Jonathan breathes.
—I saw him at the pet store when I left the hospital, Steve says quietly. He wouldn’t stop yelling. I figured… maybe we need something that yells when you don’t.
The kitten wriggles free and clumsily climbs into Jonathan’s lap like it’s always belonged there.
Jonathan blinks.
The kitten starts purring immediately. Loud. Determined.
Steve lights the crooked candle.
The flame flickers.
—I’m an idiot, he says plainly. No excuses. I let work distract me. I let everything else matter more. And you were here trying not to be a burden.
Jonathan’s throat tightens.
—I didn’t say it like that.
—But you thought it.
Silence.
Steve moves closer.
—Listen to me. You are not a burden. Not to your mom. Not to anyone. And definitely not to me.
Jonathan tries to keep it together.
He fails.
He cries the way he always does — quietly, like even his tears might inconvenience someone.
Steve wipes one away with his thumb.
Then another.
—I’m never letting you think that again, he whispers. Not today. Not ever.
The kitten lifts its head and meows as if in agreement.
Jonathan lets out a shaky laugh.
—He’s loud.
—Good. Somebody has to be.
Steve sings “Happy Birthday” softly, off-key and gentle.
Jonathan watches him like he’s something fragile and impossible.
—Make a wish, Steve murmurs.
Jonathan looks at the candle.
He wishes not to feel invisible.
He wishes to stay.
He wishes to believe this.
He blows it out.
Steve doesn’t hesitate.
He leans in and kisses him slowly.
Not rushed.
Not heated.
Just steady. Safe. A promise pressed gently into skin.
Jonathan feels warmth bloom in his chest.
The kitten wedges himself between them with a tiny indignant chirp.
Steve laughs.
—Okay, okay. We share.
Jonathan strokes the kitten’s soft head.
—What’s his name?
Steve shrugs.
—I thought you should pick.
The kitten gently bites Jonathan’s uninjured finger.
Jonathan smiles.
—Rocket.
The kitten meows louder.
—Rocket it is, Steve says.
Later, when the pain in Jonathan’s arm starts throbbing again, Steve helps him lie down carefully.
Rocket settles directly on Jonathan’s chest.
—That can’t be comfortable, Steve mutters.
Jonathan shakes his head softly.
—It’s okay.
Steve curls around him on his uninjured side, protective and warm.
The house is quiet.
But it doesn’t feel heavy anymore.
—Happy birthday, Jonathan, Steve whispers into his hair.
Jonathan closes his eyes.
Rocket purrs.
And for the first time in a long while, Jonathan doesn’t try to shrink.
He doesn’t try to disappear.
He doesn’t feel like a burden.
He feels held.
And that changes everything.