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Jonathan sees the moment it happens.
Steve, the Demogorgon, him.
The hit.
Fuck.
Oh, no.
Shit, he’s bleeding. A damage to his chest. Fuck. Shit.
How much blood can one person loose before they die?
Jonathan presses his hand to the wound.
Steve screams.
„Fuck. Shit, I know. I know.” Jonathan tries to console him— or himself. Both, probably.
„Jon…”
He presses tighter on the wound. Shit, they need to bandage this. He’s gonna bleed out otherwise. Where is everyone!?
Steve’s eyes close for a second. Some blood has gotten on his face.
„Hey, hey, no— stay awake, Steve.” Jesus, they need to get out of here.
The blood pools in his hands. They feel sticky and warm, and so, so disgusting.
Steve’s eyes flutter. He’s gonna fall asleep.
They can’t let that happen. Jonathan presses harder on the wound. There’s a sound. It’s horrible. But the pain gets Steve awake.
He groans, trying to push himself upright. Jonathan stops him.
„No, no, stay down. Uhm, we can go get help. Fuck, where is everyone?” His voice cracks around the edges. He can handle blood, but like this?
Watching the love of his life bleed out? That’s a bit much. Even for him.
„Jon…athan?” Steve breathes, head lolling to the side. Shit.
„Yeah? Steve?” He pants. His head is full of
Don’t die now, don’t die now, fuck, Steve, don’t die now.
„Don’t take a selfie right now.” Steve smiles. It stupidly makes his heart flutter. „’m not… in the… the mood.”
The joke doesn’t land.
„Don’t die on me, Steve. Don’t let those be your last words— hey! No, hey, Steve!”
Too late. Too fucking late.
Jonathan knows it— he sees it. Sees the moment where Steve’s eyes loose that glimmer. The moment he looses his soul.
One hand still pressed on the wound, he slaps Steve; a red fingerprint is left on his cheek. Blood, red and drying.
He doesn’t react. Shit.
„No! No, fuck, no, no, no—“
Jonathan presses his hand down on Steve’s chest. The crack of Steve’s rib is burning into his brain. He pumps again. Crack.
No. There’s no reaction. No scream. No cry.
Just Steve. Limp. Blood on his cheek. Blood on his chest. That stupid smile from the joke Jonathan hadn’t laughed at. Couldn’t have laughed at.
And he’s dead.
Jonathan screams. His vision blurs and sharpens and it hurts, his heart, it hurts and he can’t— he can’t do this, not without Steve, not without him—
He screams until his throat is raw, he screams and everything hurts and he’s shaking and it’s never— never gonna get better, not without him, not without—
Steve gets woken up by Jonathan next to him, tossing and turning and hitting him lightly.
It’s not scary- not anymore. Jonathan does that, usually. It’s just gotten a lot worse over the last weeks.
Steve can’t help but worry.
So when he mutters „Steve…”, well, don’t blame him when his mind immediately jumps to the worst.
Steve turns around in his sheets.
The moonlight only does so much to light up the room, but still, he can see it.
The way Jonathan’s eyebrows scrunch up, his posture slightly stiff, him twitching around.
It doesn’t look like pleasant sleep.
When Jonathan starts crying— not loud, just silent tear after silent tear— that has him worrying more.
Should Steve wake him up?
Yeah, he should.
„Hey, Jonathan.” He turns over more, cupping Jonathan’s cheek. „Hey, Babe, it’s a nightmare.”
Jonathan’s eyebrows scrunch up. „Steve?”, he mumbles, another tear escaping. Steve wipes it away with his thumb.
„Yeah. Relax. It’s just a nightmare.”
He doesn’t seem to register that.
Okay.
„Jonathan.” He says, more firmly. Jonathan is still thrashing and mumbling, but it’s getting worse.
„Jon, it’s a nightmare.”
„Steve—“
„Hey, wake up. It’s a nightmare.”
This isn’t working.
So he shakes Jonathan. Just leans over him and grabs him by the shoulder, rocking him back and forth.
It’s stupid. It looks ridiculous.
But it works.
Jonathan grumbles, still half asleep, before shooting up in his bed and knocking foreheads with Steve.
„Easy, easy, easy.” He brings his hands up to cup Jonathan’s tear stained cheeks again, easing him to lay down.
When Jonathan’s eyes focus again, his breath hitches when he looks at Steve.
Before either of them can react, Jonathan has his arms around Steve, ear to his chest.
For anyone else, it might seem like a sweet hug. Steve knows what he’s really doing, though.
Searching for a pulse.
Christ.
„Hey,” he says, for the millionth time that night. „I’m alive. Relax.” His hand— now around Jonathan— wanders to his hair, cupping the back of his head, lying both of them down comfortably.
„So,” Steve whispers, „Wanna tell me what that was about?”
Jonathan shakes his head.
Okay.
„We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Jonathan shakes his head again.
„That’s okay. Wasn’t a question.”
He huffs at that, but doesn’t pull away.
Steve’s shirt gets a little wet from his tears. That’s okay. Steve doesn’t really mind.
He hugs him tighter when his words give up.
Just steady contact. His heart beating. Presence. Constant but not unwelcome.
A silence that doesn’t feel like dread. Doesn’t feel oppressive or heavy with unsaid things. Just them.
Lying together.
They fall asleep like that, limbs tangled, Jonathan’s head on Steve’s chest, and they don’t wake until morning.
When Steve does wake up, the space next to him is cold— Jonathan is already in the shower, the water is running, he can hear it, and then the events of last night come to him, and oh wow, yep, what a night.
He wonders what that was about.
He also wonders if he has the right to ask.
Which is ridiculous. Jonathan is his boyfriend. He has the right.
But he doesn’t wanna overstep.
Doesn’t want Jonathan to pull back.
He contemplates his options.
Ask Jonathan about the nightmare, and risk him pulling away, maybe yelling, maybe staying quiet, avoiding his eyes.
Or not asking. Letting Jonathan carry it all alone, like he’s done before. Like he could do again, because Jonathan isn’t fragile.
Not at all.
But just because he could, doesn’t mean he should.
Then again, maybe Jonathan doesn’t remember it at all.
Doesn’t remember the nightmare— the nightmares, because he’s been having them for weeks— and maybe he doesn’t remember the way he’d cry, the way he’d call Steve’s name, or Joyce’s, or Will’s.
Maybe that’s all forgotten as soon as the sun rises over Hawkins, and the sky isn’t red.
Maybe he’s being weird about this.
The shower turns off. Steve’s room goes silent— he hadn’t noticed how much noise that shower had made until it went quiet.
The door opens a minute later, and Jonathan steps out, towel around his waist, his hair still damp.
He’s adorable like that. Unguarded, mostly.
There’s still a stiffness in his shoulders, and his face is carefully neutral.
Which suggests that he does remember last night.
Oh god, it sounds like one of Robin’s sex jokes like that.
„Quit staring, Harrington,” Jonathan teases. Lighthearted. Okay. He can do that.
„I think I’m allowed to stare at my boyfriend,”
Steve quips back, grinning when Jonathan’s face goes slightly red.
He loves doing that.
„So,” He says, while Jonathan dries his hair and dresses himself. „So, you gonna tell me what that was about last night?”
Even though his back is turned, Steve can see the way he goes rigid for a second.
His shoulders get stiff, even more so, like bracing for a hit.
He stops in his motion to tug on his shirt, which doesn’t sit quite right yet.
And then he resumes. The shirt goes in place. His shoulders loosen forcibly.
Faked nonchalance. The Big Byers Special.
So it’s bad. So it wasn’t one of the ‘easier’ nights, was it?
See, Steve isn’t the best at reading people. At catching on.
But over time, Jonathan has become easy. No, no, not easy, but easier. Than most.
„Jon…”
„Leave it. ‘s just a nightmare.” He huffs, turning around, licking his lips. „Leave it.”
„Jonathan…”
„Don’t say my name like that.” Jonathan snaps. Oh. He’s triggered a nerve.
„Why?” Steve practically pleads— he just wants to help. Jonathan isn’t making it easy.
„Just,” Jonathan swallows hard. Steve totally isn’t following the motion. That would be inappropriate to the situation. Very. „Leave it.”
„Okay, so what? You just,” He hesitates. There’s no right words. „Wanna suffer alone?”
Oh, Jonathan is totally avoiding his gaze. His eyes flick around the room, and he rocks forward on his feet, then stops, like he’s caught. Maybe he is.
„It… sounds worse when you put it like that.” He shrugs.
„Ha, yeah,” Steve scoffs, „That’s totally your plan. Real clever, Byers.”
„Steve—“
„Can you actually just trust me for a second?”
„I don’t—“
„Don’t wanna talk about it, heard you the last three times.”
They both sigh.
„I— I just don’t feel like talking right now, okay?”
„But when will you ever feel like it? You— You can’t just bottle it all up.” His voice is rough around the edges.
Because each of his words land. Of course they do— they always did, with Jonathan.
„I’m… i’m not, I swear, I just—“ He breaks off, in lack of better words, or something.
Steve tilts his head in questioning, not rushing, pushing, prodding. Not with words, atleast. Not in the way he knows.
„It doesn’t matter.” Jonathan finishes. His voice hardens again— that edge disguised as steadiness is there again, when really all it is— all it ever was— is avoidance.
It doesn’t matter.
And that’s a complete, utter lie.
A lie Joyce or Will would have let go.
Not Steve, though. Never Steve.
„Jonathan, please, I just wanna help—“
„You can’t help me.”
„What? Who says that, we can talk—“
„Yes, yes, we can talk. And I’m telling you, it’s not a big deal.”
„Don’t you think I don’t notice? The— the way you can’t have a normal night’s sleep anymore? Because I— I do, and I want to help.”
„Geez, you’ve been taking lessons from Nancy or what?”
„What? No! No, babe, what? I care—“
„Oh, yes, Harrington cares—“ Jonathan snarls. Steve reels back, shocked but not surprised.
„Yes! I do! I— I don’t understand, Jonathan, please—“
And then, Steve stands up, and Jonathan flinches, and oh, wow, okay.
„Jon—“
„I’m going for a walk.”
And that’s that. Jonathan walks out of Steve’s room. Not running. Not quite. But with enough speed that suggests he doesn’t want to be followed.
Which is why Steve definitely should follow him.
He makes a promise with himself. An hour. Then, he’ll start looking for Jonathan.
„Be back in an hour,” Steve hesitates, „Please.” He adds on.
Jonathan nods, a short motion almost hidden by his steps. Steve still sees it.
He takes Steve’s jacket. Just— pulls it off the chair and slips it on. Easy as that.
The door closes before Steve can even process that.
When he does, he has to sit down on the bed.
This boy.
His face is warm. Very warm. Pathetically warm.
His ears also. They’re like, on fire. Jonathan is a fire hazard.
„Get a grip, Harrington.” He murmurs to himself. „You just fought with him.”
And it’s true— they have just argued, and then Jonathan does such a small gesture, and here Steve is, blushing, replaying that moment.
Jonathan taking his jacket.
Christ, he is gone for that boy.
He makes his way to the bathroom, splashing water on his face to cool down. It only does so much.
He sighs.
He just wishes Jonathan would open up; trust him enough to do so.
Jonathan knows that going for a walk was a flimsy excuse.
Nonetheless, he’s out on the streets of Hawkins.
He walks by the Wheeler’s house. He walks by his own house. He walks by Hopper’s cabin. He walks to the grocery store, even though he buys nothing. He walks through the forest.
He walks, and he walks, trying to avoid that one place he knows he’ll go.
He still ends up at the quarry.
And he knows that’s bad. Really.
He knows it’s bad that he can’t seem to escape this place. That he should tell someone.
But he can’t help it.
The water is blue from where he stands. So very blue, compared to the darkness of the water when they’d found Will’s body— well, fake body.
It’s beautiful. The water. It haunts him.
He’d stood here countless times before, sure.
No time could compare to that night.
That feeling.
His mother crying in the background. Screaming and crying and thrashing but in her way. Insisting that— that thing wasn’t her son.
The night had faded, not into the background, but into a tunnel.
A dark tunnel.
Sometimes Jonathan thinks that, even though Will didn’t die that night, Joyce had lost a son here.
Him. He is that son. He died that night— or at least a part of him did.
But maybe he’s been wrong from birth on.
Maybe he’d died before his tenth birthday.
Okay. Wow.
Enough self pity. Before he ’accidentally‘ falls down the quarry and drowns.
Yep. He has to stop.
Anyway, he doesn’t know what time it is, so he should get home before Steve worries.
But the quarry is so very hypnotizing.
Jonathan sits down on the dry ground— it’ll make his pants dirty, but he doesn’t care.
All he wants is quiet.
(The quiet here isn’t the quiet he wants. But it’s the quiet he deserves.)
Steve is getting worried.
It’s now been an hour since Jonathan left. And that’s okay. That should be okay.
Jonathan is old enough to take care of himself. Or not take care of himself, because that’s what Jonathan usually does.
He left for a walk. That easy. Steve shouldn’t worry. And he doesn’t! Not that much.
He knows where Jonathan ended up. Probably. He’ll go looking in a minute.
He shouldn’t worry. Jonathan will still be there. In a minute.
But isn’t that what he and Nancy had said about Barb?
Christ. He’s gonna go insane. That was a stupid thought, from his stupid, stupid brain.
But it is true. They’d said that they would check on her in a minute. And then— oh god, and then.
He can’t do it. He’s going to go look.
Steve goes to grab his jacket. It’s missing. Of course it’s missing. Jonathan took it.
So he steps outside without his jacket. The wind is cold and harsh, playing with his hair. He forgot to do it this morning.
Normally, he’d go inside to fix that.
The fear of losing Jonathan— just like they’d lost Barb, only ten times worse, because that’s Jonathan— makes it hard to care for anything else, though.
He jogs to the Quarry.
The dry soil crunches under his shoes, and, as pathetic as it is, he slips a few times, nearly falling.
He recovers, though. It would be more dignified if his hair was styled.
Oh. Jesus.
Steve is right.
Jonathan is here. At the quarry. Sitting on the ground.
Gazing into the water. He’s way too close for comfort. Steve’s heart leaps.
He squints at the sun, and is reminded how early— okay, can you call it early? It was ten am when he woke up— it is.
„Hey,” he says, nearly whispers, so not to startle Jonathan.
He startles anyway, and Steve is grateful for the inches that sit between Jonathan and the water. The inches that sit between him and death.
„Hey,” Jonathan says back, slightly louder than him.
„I, uh.” Steve clears his throat. „It’s past—“
„What we agreed on,” Jonathan sighs. „I thought so. I’m sorry, I just…”
„It’s okay! It’s okay. Uhm. Come home with me?”
Steve absolutely does not ponder on the way he’d said home and they both knew what he’d meant. He isn’t that big of a romantic. He’s pathetic.
Jonathan nods, tearing his gaze away from the water, then looking back for a second. His eyes land on Steve fast enough, though. That’s good.
He stands up, nearly giving Steve a heart attack when he pretends to fall.
„Asshole…” the latter mutters, but it’s lighthearted.
Since no one’s here, Steve slips his hand into Jonathan’s.
Jonathan’s cheeks get pink, just slightly. It’s adorable how he still gets flustered by simple acts of love.
(It’s also a bit concerning. Steve would bet money that Jonathan is touch starved. He tries to fix that every chance he gets.)
They walk back like that (dropping their hands when people can see) all the way to Steve’s house.
He pushes the door open and immediately grabs Jonathan’s hand again, leading him into his room.
He opens his closet and throws Jonathan a pair of his own sweatpants. He gladly accepts, pulling his dusty pants down and slipping Steve’s on.
He looks good in Steve’s clothes. He looks good in clothes that are slightly bigger on him.
Jonathan doesn’t always have that privilege, Steve has learned over the years.
He’s wearing his clothes as long as they fit, tight in places where they shouldn’t be, and yes, that has gotten Steve in trouble sometimes, but still.
He looks good in clothes that are maybe a size or two bigger than him. He always looks good.
Steve isn’t biased at all.
If he could, he would spoil Jonathan over the moon. His parents do have enough money, after all.
Alas, Jonathan is stubborn and prideful and maybe a bit self decrepitating, so he wouldn’t accept that. Plus, it would raise questions.
So he settles for sweatpants.
When they’re both in comfortable clothes, they sit down in the living room— Jonathan’s head is in Steve’s lap. Naturally.
They put on a movie, but it’s pretty much forgotten when Steve’s fingers sink into Jonathan’s hair. The latter sighs and, well, is asleep after minutes.
At first, it’s peaceful. Like always.
Jonathan relaxes. He goes limp, practically becoming putty in Steve’s lap. It’s cute, he has to admit.
There are dark circles under his eyes, proving Steve’s point further. Stubborn, sweet, currently asleep Byers.
Sometimes, Steve would like to keep him in a blanket, locked away from the world, safe and protected.
Geez. That’s a weird thought.
Sometimes, Steve should really shut up, and/or stop thinking altogether.
He tries to focus on the movie again. It’s an old VHS tape, one of his parents. A ‘classic’, which he is pretty sure is just racist and homophobic. He doesn’t even know why they chose that one.
But then, Jonathan starts shifting. At first, it’s just a slight draw of his eyebrow.
And then he starts, well, moaning.
Sure, chances are he has a wet dream. That would be very weird though, considering he’s groaning his mother’s name. Which would be…. Interesting, in lack of a better word. No, disgusting. That would be quite disgusting, in Steve’s humble opinion.
It’s a nightmare. Obviously, because he’s been having them for weeks, and weeks, and every time he’s avoided Steve.
It’s time that comes to an end.
„Hey, Jonathan,” He says, again, just like last night. Just like all the other times before.
(Jonathan doesn’t spend the night often anymore, but ninety percent— make that 95, actually— of the time, he has nightmares. Steve hopes it’s not because of him, but because of Jonathan’s brain. Does that make him a bad person?)
It’s not going to work. You’d think Steve has learned from all the other nights. Well, he’s still— as Robin would call him— a dingus, so…
Steve shakes him awake again. Just like last time, Jonathan shoots up, Steve dodging him successfully. Wow, maybe he is making progress.
„Mom—“
„Not your mom, but your very concerned boyfriend. Jon—“
„Can… can we go see M— Joyce? I just, I really need to check on her,” Jonathan breathes, and he looks so panicked, Steve wants to indulge him without a second thought.
Without a first thought, actually.
„Woah, relax, babe,” He eases, because he’s not really in a mood to see Joyce, much less interrupt her I-just-worked-four-shifts-straight-and-the-kids-aren’t-here-right-now sleep.
She deserves peace, too.
According to El, she’s stressing about everything, in general.
Mainly being paranoid about the apocalypse being over or not, but, well, they’re all coping (not).
She deserves her sleep. Especially now that the kids are all safe.
(Will is sleeping over at the Wheelers. El is sleeping over at Max’s. How he knows all that? Jonathan likes to go over it with himself. Just not in his mind.)
Enough about his boyfriend’s mother’s sleep schedule. It’s getting weird.
„Uh, Joyce is probably occupied right now.”
„No. No, please. Steve, I have to—” And just like that, Jonathan is up, pacing the floor of Steve’s living room, trying to keep calm.
„Jon—“
But Jonathan doesn’t hear it anymore. He’s slipping on his shoes.
„Where are your keys?”
What? This is moving way too fast for Steve.
„Woah, hey, Jonathan, let’s—“
Think about this. Oh well. Jonathan has found them.
„Thanks.” He nods to Steve, doesn’t even ask if he can drive his car, and slips on his jacket by the door. (His‘, not Steve‘s, his brain supplies helpfully.)
„Wait—“, He begins to say, but the door shuts.
Fuck. Another win for ‘communication is key’, huh?
He cant just wait here, can he?
So, yes, he puts on his shoes too, grabbing his jacket as only an afterthought.
Second time he’s outside today.
Still unmade hair.
Still following Jonathan like a puppy.
A stray puppy, if judging from his appearance.
Jonathan is already starting the car when he gets to it. He opens the car door and pulls himself in.
His boyfriend shoots him a weird look, as though he had thought he’d let him go alone.
„It’s— it’s really no big deal,” Jonathan says, once the car is started. „I can go alone. I’m… I’m sorry, I just have to see her, just— just to make sure that…”
„No, ‘s okay. Don’t apologize. But, seriously, we should talk—“
Jonathan hurriedly puts music on. It’s loud, and something by The Smiths. He has no idea which song, but he knows what this is.
Distraction. Clean. He’s even humming.
But that won’t fool Steve. Never has, not with Jonathan.
„Jonathan.”
„Geez, I’m driving. Leave a man be.”
Oh. Wow. Harsh.
„Okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to Jonathan. He doubts he can hear Steve over the music.
Jonathan is pretty sure he’s not fooling anyone.
Not with the music, not with insisting he’s fine, not with staying over less than usual at Steve’s.
It’s stupid.
No, really, it’s simply stupid, because what in the world is he scared of?
Talking about his feelings? That’s really fucking pathetic. Like, a whole new level.
God, he wished he had a joint right now. Which is silly. He’s quit smoking.
The last weeks have been driving him crazy.
Each night just being nightmares, terror, a dark room and not enough sleep, and he’s been… well, not fine.
It’s ridiculous. The apocalypse has ended. He’s fine, Will is fine, Joyce is fine, Steve is fine, Nancy is fine.
So, why can’t he let go the what ifs? What is so deeply wrong with him he can’t let go?
A lot of things, probably.
He tries not to confront it. Steve has been making that hard, lately.
He pulls into the driveway to his house, Steve stopping the music and getting out himself.
Jonathan is already at the doorstep.
He just needs to make sure Joyce is okay.
That— that she’s not dead, not eaten by a demigod, killed by Russian spies, not vecna’ed.
He knocks on the door, barely holding himself together, fidgeting. One knock. Two, three, four.
No answer.
Christ, he can almost see it— Joyce, eyes hollowed out and bloody, bones bent and broken at awful places, mouth deranged.
Lifeless, pale as a corpse. Like— like Will, when they’d pulled him out of the water, fuck, out of the quarry.
He can’t stop to think about that place.
Maybe it’s his lack of proper sleep. Whatever.
However, the door is still closed and all he can think about is Joyce, how she’d looked like in that dream, how that can’t be true.
God, don’t let that be true.
No one is opening that door. Shit.
He bangs his knuckles rapidly against it. Joyce has to open, simply because she has to. Simply because he wouldn’t know what to do if she doesn’t.
„Jonathan.“
„Why isn’t she getting the door? What— what‘s going on?” He rattles the doorknob.
Fuck. Fuck, don’t do this. Open up.
„Jonathan, she’s asleep.”
Right. Right. She has to be. Asleep. Yes.
„Jon—“ Steve begins to say.
The lock on the door clicks, and then Joyce steps outside— her hair is messy, and she’s wearing a pajama.
Jonathan takes a breath. Thank god.
Joyce isn’t sure what the hell is going on.
Her son is currently standing on her porch, looking, well, worse for wear.
She blinks. Steve is there. That’s unsurprising. He’s basically like her third son, now.
„Jonathan? What’s going on?”
Jonathan sighs, relieved. His eyes shine in that way that reminds her of Will. Otherwise, his face doesn’t give away what he’s thinking. (It hasn’t for a long time. Not for Joyce.)
He hesitates, like preparing for a sprint, then hugs— basically storms— her.
He cups the back of her head. That, also, reminds her of how she hugs Will.
„’m sorry.”
She frees herself out of the hug, if only to look at his face properly.
„What for, honey?” She pleads.
„Waking you up.” His voice breaks. Her heart breaks more.
She can’t remember when she has truly seen him distressed like that. Maybe in ‘83?
With regret, she realizes that he’s never given away much of his emotions— or maybe she hadn’t looked properly.
The tears threatening to spill run down his face now, but Jonathan’s grip is too strong for either of them to do anything about it.
„Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay.”
They let go, all too soon for Joyce. She doesn’t even know what happened.
„Is- is it urgent?”
„Ah, no, not really.” Steve puts in, sighing.„We’re sorry to interrupt your sleep.”
„It’s alright. I’d rather you come here, Baby.”
Jonathan wipes his eyes. A few tears escape nonetheless.
„I’m sorry,” he repeats.
„It’s okay,” Joyce reassures him.
She makes eye contact with Steve, who looks a bit worried as well as embarrassed about it, and motions the two boys to follow her.
Out of the corner of her eye, basically as she turns, she sees how Steve’s hand makes it to Jonathan’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
A lot of things make more sense, in that moment.
Steve always underestimates how much the Byers Home feels like, well, home.
He’s been here a couple times when helping out, killing monsters, or just visiting Jonathan in general— as ‘friends’, of course.
Even when he grimaces at the memories of that night- that night when he came to apologize and was tangled into something else entirely, there’s new memories to make up for it.
It’s warm- not in the literal sense, not always. But what it lacks in real warmth, it makes up for it with the metaphorical kind.
(He still avoids the singed carpet piece. That one is one too many.)
Joyce leads them into the kitchen, and they have an easy conversation, though Steve can still see the worry in her eyes.
It’s thinly veiled.
„So,” Joyce begins, „you slept good?”
Half of Steve expects Jonathan to say the truth. Half of him isn’t surprised at all when he lies through his teeth.
„Yeah. We had, uhm, movie night.”
„That’s nice,” she continues.
„Yeah. But, we actually came here for a reason, right, Jonathan?”
Maybe he’s an asshole for doing that. He doesn’t care.
„Right,” Jonathan confirms, avoiding his— both their eyes. Joyce sits down.
„Okay. Tell me.”
„It’s really no big deal, I just—“
Steve coughs into his hand.
No big deal. It would have been no big deal, except he’s been having these nightmares for- for weeks, or so.
And he’s avoiding Steve, but it’d sound a bit selfish if he would voice that to Joyce.
„Jonathan.” Joyce starts, „Whatever drove you here on a Saturday, at one p.m, crying, is a big deal.”
„Sorry,” he apologizes again. Joyce reassures him that he has nothing to be sorry for.
„I’ve been having Nightmares,” Jonathan confirms, „for- a while.”
„Nightmares?”
„Yeah. That sounds- ridiculous, I know.”
„No, I- uhm.” Joyce breaks off.
„So you didn’t sleep good.” She says, instead.
„No. No, sorry.”
„It’s okay. Why- would you lie to me?”
„It wasn’t on purpose, mom.”
„That’s another lie.” Joyce reminds him gently.
Jonathan sniffs, avoiding her eyes, looking at his hands instead.
„I guess it just— I just think it’s ridiculous.”
Steve suddenly has the feeling he should leave— Joyce doesn’t know that they’re together, and he probably doesn’t classify as family.
Joyce’s eyes confirm it.
She sends him a quick glance and he stands up, pressing a reassuring squeeze to Jonathan’s shoulder (which he isn’t so sure if that’s platonic, but please, it’s a shoulder. Let him have that comfort.), then going into Jonathan’s room.
The door creaks a little, when he enters. But the room is clean, safe for a few shirts and mix tapes lying around.
Steve sits on Jonathan’s bed, waiting.
A bit of the conversation drifts over to him— the walls have never been particularly thick, not here.
„You could have told—“Joyce.
„Steve—“ Jonathan.
„What—“ Joyce.
„I’m sorry I—“ Also, Joyce.
Just little snippets like that.
He looks around the room a little more— Jonathan’s desk is cramped, full of papers and books and essays.
There’s a missing poster under it, near the trash can. It’s crumpled and the edges are frayed, and it’s probably years old.
Wait.
This is a copy of Will’s missing poster from back in ‘83.
Why in the world would Jonathan keep this?
Steve stands up slowly, brow furrowing.
The paper feels old and used in his hand. The ink is sun damaged in some places.
He brushes over one of the wrinkles in the paper.
Will’s face stares back at him. The grin feels like mockery. Like back then. Like King Steve and Loser Jonathan.
The grin feels like a stupid reminder that this is how it’s all started.
Steve can still remember that morning when Jonathan pinned one of these copies to a board in school.
How he’d made fun of him.
And he hates, hates himself for it.
Jonathan forgave him. Said it was a small thing. Compared to what, was left unsaid.
Probably compared to this stupid fucking poster in the first place.
He’s- angry, he realizes. Steve is frustrated.
Not- not angry at Jonathan. More like, angry for Jonathan.
Does that make sense? He doesn’t care.
The poster is in his hand. The goddamn poster.
He wants to confront Jonathan. Ask him what he thinks he’s doing to himself.
Surely Joyce won’t mind.
Before he can think his actions through, he’s out the door, Poster in hand. Fuck this.
„Jon?” He doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care if Joyce hears.
Jonathan sniffs. He’s not exactly crying. He’s not exactly fine, either. Him and Joyce are- well, they don’t look like Steve interrupted them.
„Yeah?”
„What the fuck is this?”
Joyce’s eyes widen slightly. Jonathan’s head, which was turned away from him because Joyce and him were sitting at the kitchen table, still, turns to him.
His tone is angry. He knows. Still. Steve has the right, doesn’t he?
The poster is in his hand. It’s crumpled, yeah, but unmistakable.
Joyce clocks it immediately. She gasps.
Jonathan’s eyes go from Steve to the missing poster, to Steve and back to the paper again.
„I…” He breaks off. „Where’d you find that?”
„Under your desk. Don’t tell me this is what I think it is,” Steve all but begs.
Distantly, he registers how weird this must seem to Joyce. He doesn’t care. They have all seen weirder things.
„Did you go through my stuff?”
„You’re getting off topic.” Steve grits through his teeth.
„Why did you go through my stuff?”
„I didn’t! It just- it was under your desk.”
„Well, why’d you look there?”
Steve scoffs. „I didn’t do it on purpose. It just caught my eye.”
„Steve—“
„Why would you keep this?”
„Jonathan,” Joyce breathes, „Why would you- I, we could have—“
„You’re making a big deal out of this. It’s just a poster.”
„A missing poster of your brother.”
„Yes.”
„That’s not just a poster, Jon.”
„Steve, please, let it go.”
„No! No- can’t you see? Can’t you see this is killing- killing you, killing me?” Steve is shouting. He doesn’t care. He cares about Jonathan. He cares about solving this, now.
„No, I don’t see why you’d care!”
Jonathan is standing up too. The chair scrapes back, and there’s sweat on his forehead.
The air is stuffy, way too heated for their already heavy argument. Here, every word can hit bullseye. It depends on them.
Steve wipes sweat from his eyebrow with his free hand. The other clenches around the goddamn poster.
He’s breathing heavily.
I don’t see why you’d care.
Seriously? Is- is that true?
Can Jonathan not see, see how much he means to Steve?
„What?”
„I don’t see why you’d care.”
„Jonathan—“ Joyce interferes again, but the air steals the sentence. It barely weighs anything.
Fuck.
Is this-
Did he fail?
„Jonathan…”
„I don’t see why you can’t- drop it.”
„Why I can’t— Jon, please, can’t you see? Man, I- I really… This can’t go on. We have to talk.”
„We already had this conversation today,” Jonathan reminds him.
„Yeah, and you walked away.”
That, too, sits heavily in the room. The truth is a thick layer in the air. Jonathan’s chest heaves with the heavy breaths he’s taking.
„Fine. Fine, what’s there to talk about?”
„The nightmares you’ve been having—“
„They’re just nightmares.”
„Just- nightmares. Yeah. Yeah. Right. Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”
Jonathan gasps. Actually gasps.
„I didn’t think you’d notice,” he admits.
This just has to be proof of what an awful boyfriend Steve is.
„Seriously? Do I- do I make you feel like that?”
„No! No, I just…”
„This has got to stop, Jonathan. Yes, I noticed you were avoiding me. I noticed the bags under your eyes, and I noticed your fear. I noticed your bullshit lies.”
„What?” Joyce mutters behind them, but for Steve, she’s barely audible. Every sense is focused on Jonathan.
„Steve…”
„No! No, I’m done. Done with- with this, with whatever you’re not telling me, or, I don’t know, whatever you’re avoiding. I’m not gonna let go, you know me better than that.”
Jonathan does know him better than that.
„I’m sorry. It’s really nothing.”
„’s that why you keep running off to the quarry?”
It’s a low blow, he knows, especially in front of his mother. He doesn’t care. It needs to be said.
Jonathan takes a sharp breath.
Steve waits for an answer. It’s never gonna come.
„Huh?” He prompts again.
„No.” Jonathan says, but he’s lying. They both know it.
„The quarry? Sattler’s Quarry? What- what do you mean running off?” Joyce voices. She sounds- distressed, but not half as much as Steve feels.
„You gonna tell her, Byers?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
„Then why do you keep going there?”
Silence, once again.
„Jonathan?” Joyce asks, her voice shaky.
Jonathan shakes his head.
„It’s nothing.”
„I don’t know, Jon. Is it nothing?” Steve asks.
„It’s just,” he wipes his eyes, „at first it was just nightmares, I swear. And then- I guess I couldn’t stop thinking. And the nightmares got- worse. They got worse ‘n’ I just… started going on walks to clear up my head but I always ended up at- at the goddamn quarry. I didn’t want to worry you.” He confesses. His voice breaks around the edges.
Steve hesitates, then hates himself for hesitating and hugs him.
It’s different than he would hug Robin or Dustin or- or even Nancy and Joyce might see it but again, he doesn’t care.
„And I- I kept the poster,” Jonathan breathes against his shoulder, barely loud enough for Joyce to hear it, as Jonathan stands with his back to her.
She does hear it though, because her eyes widen just slightly. Steve and her make eye contact, for a second.
„Not on purpose, at- at first. But then, I just, I just couldn’t stop thinking about it, ‘n’ I- I don’t know.”
Steve hugs him tighter. He looks back to Joyce again, over Jonathan’s shoulder, who’s already looking at him.
She knows, then.
In that moment, she knows. Maybe she already knew before, and thus only confirms it more.
She sees how Steve is shaking— just slightly— and how they fall into the hug and how Jonathan has melted into it.
And she recognizes it, he knows. From where, no idea.
„I’m scared,” Jonathan says, breaking the short silence.
„I’m scared to go to sleep, and- and to end up at the quarry again. ‘s pathetic.”
„It’s not pathetic, Jonathan.” Joyce says.
Jonathan buries his head into Steve’s shoulder. His sniffles turn into a sob.
„It is. I- I mean, this shit with the upside down is finally over, no one died, and my subconscious can’t stop thinking about- the what-ifs.”
„That,” Steve says, „Is called PTSD. ‘s normal for the shit we’ve gone through.”
„Still stupid.”
„No. Natural.”
Jonathan doesn’t say anything after that.
„You know you can always talk to us, Baby,” Joyce says, laying a careful hand on his shoulder.
He buries his head further in Steve’s shoulder. A stupid attempt at muffling his sobs. Steve doesn’t want anything more than to tell him that he doesn’t need to do that— not here.
He doesn’t. He just holds Jonathan.
Joyce still has her hand on Jonathan’s shoulder as she meets Steve’s eyes.
What now?
The question isn’t spoken aloud in the room. Jonathan isn’t aware of it existing at all.
‘Get him to actually rest’ Joyce mouths.
‘How?’ He mouths back.
She has the decency to look a bit, well, embarrassed.
‘I don’t know’
…’Me neither’
‘You’ll figure something out?’ Joyce shrugs apologetically.
Steve wants to scream back ‘I thought you were his mother’. He doesn’t.
He nods, instead, and Joyce— Joyce nods too, before kissing Jonathan’s head and then going to her own bedroom.
Steve can only guess what she’s thinking. Probably, that Jonathan doesn’t want her comfort. That he’s got Steve now. Maybe that she’s missed her chance.
And that’s true- a little. Just a tiny bit, in Steve’s heart.
But Steve is new to this thing too.
„Let’s go to your room, no?”
Jonathan nods, a small thing, and they stumble back into the room.
Steve tries his best to aim for the bed, even as his knees knock against the frame.
They do sink into Jonathan’s bed successfully. Steve’s ankles only bruise a bit.
Joyce knows she isn’t— wasn’t— the best mom. She was way too tired, too broke, and too emotionally unstable for that.
She just thought that her kids would tell her things.
Like- like the Thing With Steve. Steve had been coming over more and more- even sometimes helping out with groceries or other money-related things.
He’d stayed over more, the two of them usually going into Jonathan’s room, music playing.
Jonathan had— when asked— said it was just him being kind. A good friend.
Oh christ, it’s even more obvious, looking back on it.
They weren’t ‘friends’, were they? How could she have missed this?
She’s not as observant as she thought she was. Not with Jonathan.
Joyce buries her face in her hands.
Someone help them all.
Steve’s head is reeling. He’s not good at this; not good at being someone’s rock, at comforting people.
But he wants to be. He wants to try, at the very least.
He’s thinking about what to say, exactly. How to not make Jonathan run.
In a way, he’s like a foster dog, is he not? Steve can totally see the comparison.
Jonathan’s head is lying on Steve’s chest, and he’s fiddling with his hands— he’s nervous, that’s obvious.
„D’you, uhm,” He mumbles, muffled.
„Hm?” Steve holds him a bit tighter; quiet reassurance.
„Nevermind.”
„Listen, Jon, it’s okay. You can talk to me. That’s all I want.”
„Don’t have the words.”
Steve chuckles. „Me neither. I- I don’t know what to say, but… I’m not going anywhere.”
Silence.
Then:
„Thank you.”
„You don’t need to thank me. I want to do this. You hear me? I want to.”
„I just— I keep having these dreams of things happening that, that didn’t even happen. I mean, just, y’know? I keep dreaming of people dying and… it just. It reminds me of… of November 6th. And when I saved you from dying, at… at…”
Jonathan takes a breath.
„I don’t know. This is stupid.”
„No! No, it’s not stupid. Listen, I’ve been… I’ve been reading some magazines and books and stuff. And- all that? Symptoms of PTSD. I mean, not really surprising, but… It’s okay.”
„I just wish it’d stop.”
„Is there anything that helps you?”
Jonathan hesitates.
„Oh god.” He mumbles after a second.
„What?” Steve is already alarmed— his muscles pull tighter. What.
„This is gonna sound so sappy,” He says, hiding his face.
Oh. Steve relaxes again.
„But- you help. I’m, yeah. I guess you do.”
He helps. He’s able to help.
„Yeah? How? What- what do I do?”
„I don’t know. I guess, I guess I just. I trust you.”
Steve’s in heaven. Probably. Very likely.
„Yeah?”
„Mhm. Yeah.”
Steve kisses Jonathan’s forehead.
„Glad you feel that way.”
„Mhm.”
They’re both tired, emotionally spent. Steve can start to feel his eyelids droop.
„No more secrets. Or running.”
„‘Kay.”
„Promise me.”
Jonathan hesitates— it’s a hard promise to keep, he knows, but still.
„I promise I’ll try my best.”
That’s more like a compromise, but it’s okay.
„‘Kay, then. G’night, Jonathan.”
„’s not even night,” Jon criticizes, but he falls asleep anyway.
Steve kisses his forehead, before going to sleep as well.
Joyce checks in on them later that afternoon; they’re still cuddled up together, sleeping soundly.
The sunlight falls on both their faces, and they look happy. Happier than Joyce has seen them, happier than she’s seen her son in a long time.
She knows not everything’s alright— she’s not naive. But, looking at her son, she knows they’re pretty damn close to it.