Chapter Text
The air was cold and brittle, although Jonathan's hands shook with the camera with chill, he knew his subject so well it mattered not, as he could still get clean shots with his subjects predictability. He knelt in the snow, Jeans wet with January frost. His breath came out in plumes that rose high into the night sky. This was the 4th time in the last two weeks.
Jonathan had told himself to stop, he wanted desperately to, he knew this was as wrong as an addiction but his subject was simply too perfect to deny. Focusing his lens, he captured the beauty through the window from where hed crouched in the bushes night after night, a perfect view to the bedroom. The view he craved, Steve Harrington.
The wrongness of this action was not as wrong as how much Jonathan found pleasure in it, because if it was, he wouldn't have been doing this the last few years.
It had started innocent, 8th grade.
Jonathan had been gifted a camera for his 14th birthday, it was expensive as Joyce, his mum had started working extra shifts at Melvalds and could afford him it whilst there were still two adults in the house, though as usual Lonnie started on her saying it was "a present for Faggots." Oh how right he was. Jonathan had decided to go outside, to learn his new camera. He walked in the forest, parallel to the road, though still far enough in to not be spotted by a car, if his dad decided to look for him.
He soon had come across the Harrington house, as they were mearly neighbours. Jonathan knew of Steve Harrington, and had done since the beginning of the year when he'd called him a creep and a queer, that had hurt. He saw Steve in his pool splashing around with his friend, Tommy.
Jonathan raised the camera and took a shaky shot, it was blurred slightly and askew, Jonathan still keeps it under his pillow.
He knows its wrong. Stalking. But refuses to admit it, and yes it is addictive, knowing such personal things about the boy who torments him, sitting in his bushes collecting photos. Two hundred and five. He knows because he counts them every night before bed, and promises himself that if it ever reached three hundred, he'd get help... he said that about fifty, and a hundred, and two hundred, he never stopped.
The dampness on his jean was something he'd grown accustomed to over the last 3 years. He knows Steve's bed routine, front and back, and could tell you exactly how he gets his hair the way he does.
Jonathan bought a can of Farrah Faucett once. He sprayed it onto a rag and sniffed it, inhaling the artificial fumes of Steve, it was wrong but it was as close as it allowed himself to get.
Steve was alone tonight, no Sarah, no Carol no Nancy. Those were his favourite three who he'd cycle on rotation, each having no clue of the other, and yet here Jonathan was with physical proof of each. Jonathan preferred Steve alone, better shots. He was on the phone in the window, Carol if Jonathan had to guess by the way Steve puffed his chest out, unlike with Nancy where he'd act cute and dumb. God his Steve was a Slut.
That caught Jonathan off gaurd, when had he become his Steve? Not that Jonathan minded that thought. If only he wasn't so invisible, then Steve really could be his.
Jonathan considered once or twice to kidnap Steve, tie him up when he went swimming at night, his parents were never home. He'd write postcards to all three girlfriends to say he'd gone on a surprise holiday, Jonathan after all had become a master at imitating Steve's handwriting.
Jonathan would tie him up in the shed to a pole, watched him do everything, help him, feed him, water him, allow him to rest, all with his permission of course. Jonathan could even use Chester's old clicker, make him depend and then Steve would never leave him. Although Jonathan's plan would be defeated when his mother needed the lawnmower and found Steve, bound and needy.
Eventually Steve went to bed and Jonathan reluctantly went home too, although its not light he could get many shots when the lights were off.
He came in through the window, the door made much too much noise and Will may hear him. Under his bed Jonathan had a biscuit tin, where he lay the photos out together. The counting took him 34 minutes alone. Two hundred and twenty three.
That of course included the ones he was yet to develop.
He went to bed giddy. Perhaps tommorow he'd wear his clash t-shirt as Steve usually called him a queer when he wore it. Softly he slept and thought of Steve.
~~~
The red light of the darkroom hummed above Jonathan's head, he had been developing photos when Steve had barged in looking for somewhere to make out with Nancy. Locking eyes Steve saw the photos.
"What the fuck!" He pushed towards Jonathan in disbelief. "Have you been stalking me creep?!" Nancy picked up a photo in curiousity.
Sharply he plunged a scalpel into her eye that he kept for editing the photos. She screamed and wailed and flopped on the floor, as dead as Jonathan wished for. He turned to Steve's terrorfied eyes, finding only humour in his tremors.
Jonathan grinned like a Cheshire cat and inspected the way the crimson dripped from the scalpel. Steve backed into the corner watching Jonathan lick the blood up as if it were a prize, he spoke suddenly stalking closer, grin still present, "Yknow Steve, I thought you were into sweet girls but Nancy is as sour as my dad was... wanna taste?"
Steve shook his head rapidly when Jonathan came forward and kissed him, he tried to gag as he tasted Nancy's blood on his tounge. Jonathan straddled him, making sure he couldn't escape. "Sour I know... I'm sure you'll taste sweeter." He looked down at the shivering form who begged not to kill him.
Jonathan cut him off with a finger to his lips.
"I won't kill you pretty boy, only make everyone know your mine." He traced the scalpel up his face and pushed it into his cheek, Steve screamed and winced as Jonathan held him down.
He carved a crude 'JB' marking what was rightfully his. He kissed the new scar and sucked some blood up, "I was right, you are deliciously addictive. And now you're mine forever."
~~~
Jonathan sat up with his alarm, he had that dream every night, he had a huge boner, the idea of Steve being his, overwhelmed his core. Quickly he took care of it before getting dressed in his clash t-shirt and Jeans that showed off his most prominent feature, his ass. He then woke Will and his mom and cooked them pancakes, before heading to school.
He walked through the doors and was immediately bombarded with sneers. It took only a minute before being pinned against a locker by Steve. He spat in his face and smirked, Carol hung off his arm, "Thought I'd told you not to wear that shirt, makes you look like a fag." She giggled and smirked too. As much as Jonathan longed to bite back, he knew he had to play his role, he huffed out in apathy, "I'm not scared of you Harrington, leave me alone." He only smiled wider, "Whatever queer, have fun sucking rainbows." He slammed his head into the locker and walked off laughing. Oh Steve and his empty threats, that's something Jonathan could promise on, a threat.
He make his way to his dark room, finally alone, he placed his blank canvases in that baths, watched as he slopped the solutions with hands that did not seem to tremble then though did now. Nervously looking around incase he were to be caught. He watched features twist in his eyes, Steve perfect and pure. Clipping them up he admired them as if they were ornaments in a row. He smiled to himself at his work.
Waiting for them to dry, he admired the scalpel on the side of the tray, he wondered what it would truely be like to taste Steve.
Soon he packed the dry photos into his message bag, he'd add them to his collection tonight. Will didn't have DND tonight so Jonathan couldn't leave the house, although he had enough photos for the week, and his brother did mean alot to him. He loved his brother, but he loved Steve more.
The bell rang and Jonathan made his way to English literature class. He sat in the classroom by the wall, Steve sat three rows ahead, two columns to the left. Mrs Elliot was talking about Shakespeare and his Sonnets, love letters that he produced to the world.
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please.
That was it. A letter decorating his love to Steve he didn't need to adress it, he could slip it in his locker and Steve could know how much he cared. With a sudden intrest he began to write his first poem, he wanted Steve to be impressed but needed to keep it fair, or that would ruin the fun of it. Something so obvious it was invisible, making sure it stayed fun. Looking at the boy he smiled to himself, soon hed be his, one way or another.