Chapter Text
✶
On early Friday morning, Jonathan wakes before his alarm. The windows are glinting in sky-pale pinks and blues, all within the crystalline frosting over the glass. The shapes are slow to thaw as the sun inches toward the horizon, and Jonathan awaits its arrival. Biding his time, he indulges in what radiance from the heavens above illuminates the body beside him. In a recent development, while residing in Jonathan’s bed, Steve began sleeping without his clothes. He argues his reasoning, stating that it was not for Jonathan’s enjoyment. Steve misses the freedom from when he had a home to himself—and Jonathan wasn’t one to object to his rediscovery.
That is, until Steve coerces Jonathan to follow suit. He makes a game out of it—the pair stay up, playing a card game that Jonathan ultimately loses to, as he is slowly made to strip each article of clothing he wore. Steve teases, but refrains from making advances after his winnings. He allows them to exist together, bare, while Jonathan tries to teach him how to properly shuffle a deck on the flat surface of a textbook conveniently placed upon his groin. Taking the cards in his own hands, Steve giggles as he bends them, causing the cards to fling from his hold, flying over Jonathan’s thighs, and crying out an affected, ‘Aw, no!’—a great excuse for Steve to dig into the crevice and fish them out.
Steve is fast asleep, soon after. His ribcage swells and deflates upon the mattress, and the duvet tangles in his thighs. Jonathan tucks himself into Steve’s warmth against his wide back, pressing his nose into his solid shoulder. Jonathan savors the sensation—thinking of how desperate he was to experience Steve in this way—how life impossibly let him. Jonathan digs in further, covering his face with Steve’s skin, languidly trailing his bicep to lull them. Secretly, Jonathan began tracing letters, making his own heart pound from shame, wondering if Steve received the message.
With his nail, he writes.
I love you. I love you.
Steve doesn’t notice. If he were never aware, it only mattered to Jonathan that he felt it, underlying and steadfast. Jonathan was thankful to be as close to Steve as he has become. He knew he’d never be Steve’s best friend—or ludicrously, beyond that—but Jonathan surmised that their current status was entirely enough. He’s granted Steve’s intimacy, his presence, his awareness—it’s more than Jonathan ever perceived to be possible.
Jonathan’s flesh touches him.
Did the last few weeks really happen?
Steve’s seen his body, and Jonathan has beheld the entirety of him—he didn’t have to imagine it all, anymore. In fact, he was mapping out the locations of Steve’s numerous beauty marks. Jonathan has a few favorite places, like on Steve’s palm, and plants his adoring kisses whenever he comes across them.
Jonathan learned how to pleasure Steve, too. He keenly gave Steve his mouth, as he loves the sensation of it. In the same vein, Jonathan knows Steve loves attention on his tip—he goes ecstatic when Jonathan uses his tongue or delicately traces its edges. Steve loves when Jonathan makes his movements subtle, yet intentional, causing his toes to curl whenever Jonathan drags out teases. Steve loves fervent words in his ear, to which Jonathan continues to work up the courage to send from his guarded thoughts. In particular, Steve eats up the nickname ‘sweetheart’ like it’s candy. Steve loves giving Jonathan a piece of his mind.
Steve becomes enthralled when Jonathan lets himself go—when he wholeheartedly takes everything Steve gives, no matter the depth or pace Steve drives himself into. Steve loves pushing Jonathan out of his barriers and riding his boundary—like he craves to make Jonathan loud.
Steve relishes the parts Jonathan would never give to anyone.
Steve loves being held from behind, as Jonathan commits to now. Steve falls in a daze whenever Jonathan rhythmically drags his fingers through his scalp or kneads his back. Steve tries to spin this frequent, supposed joke of settling onto Jonathan’s lap whenever he happens to be sitting at his desk. Steve will refuse to budge, despite Jonathan’s objection, due to his drained feet feeling pins and needles.
Jonathan thinks Steve excessively sprays his cologne, fully knowing how intoxicating it is to him. Jonathan can smell it in his own clothes, now. He’s thinking of giving his spare bottle to Steve, so he’ll never run out.
Steve always laughs at his jokes—or at the very least, they receive his sarcastic reply. It was like a battle of humor, trying to top each other’s wit. Jonathan thinks he’s never talked so much with another person outside of his family.
Without a frame of reference, Jonathan agrees that Steve is an excellent kisser, like the rumors he overheard—world-shattering, even. It was as if Steve found the power box in Jonathan, flipping the circuit breakers, and having a say over how his nervous system should be set. Jonathan can only hope he affects Steve just the same.
Unbeknownst to Steve, Jonathan’s world lies next to him, and he frets that he’ll lose everything he’s discovered. The feeling looms since he stopped jotting about Steve in his journal, like the facts that haven’t been recorded on paper will make it all any less real.
With his departure, he’s afraid this newly emergent world will cease to exist.
Actually, that’s wrong. Jonathan corrects himself.
Steve is the sun.
Jonathan makes his own face twist into his signature Cheshire smile, hiding it in Steve’s sleeping form.
You deserve so much better.
Maybe I could be a skinwalker—take on any form you want.
I suppose they are malevolent creatures, though.
I don’t want to be creepier than I already am.
Out of natural habit, Jonathan slips into an internal conversation with himself, worryingly thinking ahead.
You won’t forget me, right?
Or at least, you won’t make yourself forget?
Will you pretend I never happened?
Jonathan’s stare bores into the back of Steve’s head, looking upon the locks caught in the rising sun. Brilliant colors shine in his strands, like molecular rainbows, forming his deep, bronze hair. His gaze drops onto a sizable freckle on Steve’s long neck, circling it with his fingertip, careful not to tickle and stir the man.
He kisses it.
I can be a secret. You don’t have to get rid of me entirely.
Please.
Jonathan clenches his eyes shut, absorbing the radiance in his arms, taking his fill for the period he needs to leave Steve behind.
About an hour later, Steve wakes, disgruntled. Jonathan has come to find that he is not a morning person. Having dropped his repose, Steve only offers Jonathan low grunts and huffs of annoyance until fully roused. He straightens his forearms from his spot, squinting at Jonathan below through his tousled hair.
“You gotta get ready,” Steve drowsily informs, his speech slow and rich as honey.
“Mm-hm,” Jonathan only musters a hum, entranced by the glow reflecting off Steve’s body. He raises his hand to tuck his locks aside.
“Gonna shower?”
“Mm-hm."
“Want me to come with you?”
An unspoken request. You want to have sex one last time before you leave?
Jonathan languidly nods.
Steve bites his lip, maneuvering over the other man. Hair cascading around his face like a golden halo, he suggests, “Want me to get you ready?”
Jonathan’s face grows bashful, knowing his implication—a process they’ve conducted before. He answers by clumsily flipping over and burrowing his face into his pillow. He hears Steve reach for the small drawer in his desk, acting as a makeshift nightstand.
“Gotta get more of these,” Steve sighs, presumably to himself, as Jonathan listens along to the crinkling of the fetched packet.
”Where do you get ‘em from?” Jonathan mumbles into his own knuckles.
“Um,” Steve snorts, his groggy voice nearing Jonathan’s head as he leans over him, “My friends and I thought it would be funny to visit a sex shop. . . before going to college.”
A flash of jealousy burns Jonathan, picturing Tommy for a split-second at the mention—though, he decidedly drops it, reminding himself there was no competition to be had. He hurriedly calms, finding the present.
In a hushed tone, Jonathan jabs, “Ye—Yeah, because that sounds. . . normal.”
“I mean—it was funny,” Steve chuckles, remarking as if he wasn’t sliding his cool fingers over Jonathan, “I think you’d pass out from embarrassment if you ever stepped foot in there.”
“Yeah, probably,” Jonathan manages, before he mewls, as Steve enters two digits. He sighs, “Fuck.”
Steve jokes, “Good morning.”
Jonathan zeroes in on Steve’s prodding, arching his back into his working hand, before he’s sentient enough to reply, “Go—Good morning.”
Steve wedges his thighs between Jonathan’s, forcing the part. He ogles at the exposure of Jonathan’s ass, watching his own fingers disappearing within him, until he notices Jonathan’s flushed member pointing at him, flat against the bed.
He swallows down a moan, gaining composure to state, “They had. . . free samples. I just grabbed a couple fistfuls, stuck it in my pocket.“
Steve feels Jonathan’s laugh reverberating around his fingers.
Jonathan muffles into his pillow, “That’s so stupid.”
“I know I am,” Steve coos, purposefully slowing his wrist to drag over Jonathan’s nerves, drawing out his pleasure.
A string of curses leaves Jonathan, as Steve continues, “Wanted to fuck around when I got here. Never would’ve thought I’d use them all on you, though.”
Jonathan’s stomach dips amongst the butterflies.
He timidly asks, “D—Do you. . . regret using them all. . . on me?”
“Fuck, no,” Steve solemnly replies, circling his free hand around Jonathan, pumping at its awkward angle. Jonathan seems not to have anticipated his touch there—his tendons tighten, back folding outward with shock.
“Oh, my god, yeah,” Jonathan whimpers, neck curling from the pillow, as if to impossibly find Steve. He would reciprocate if his hands weren’t busy—instead, he settles by placing a chaste kiss upon Jonathan’s mussed, light hair.
“Think I can make you go twice?” Steve heatedly proposes, maintaining the ebb and flow of his wrists, matching their rapid patterns. Angled downward in Steve’s fist, Jonathan’s tip bubbles.
He agrees in a high, shrill tone, “Uh-huh.”
Jonathan’s head drops back down, groaning Steve’s name in pleas, to which the man complies. Steve loosens his arm, pounding in his intrusion, causing Jonathan’s hips to rise, and his hands to bawl in the pillow under his face.
“Steve, fuck,” Jonathan cries out as his thighs attempt to clamp close, but Steve’s crouch remains in the way. Jonathan is propelling himself off the surface he lay upon, while Steve maintains his hold on his cock, relentlessly draining his orgasm.
Steve observes Jonathan’s form shake as he climbs back down, vocalizing small whines and pants, settling back down to the bed and reality. Steve slows, staying inside to savor his obscene, wet warmth.
Between bated breaths, Jonathan questions over his drumming heart, “Do we. . . do it too much?”
Undulating his fingers, Steve scoffs, “Says who?”
A sharp inhale hisses between Jonathan’s teeth, and Steve finally lets him go. Away from Jonathan’s view and potential judgment, Steve inserts his expense into his mouth.
He betrays himself when an audible pop resounds from his lips as he releases his own finger, causing Jonathan to double-take and glare at the man over his shoulder.
“Gross,” Jonathan mutters, raising an eyebrow.
Steve rolls his eyes, making use of his hands by massaging Jonathan’s angular sides. He admits, “I can’t get enough. Besides, I think I have what they call a ’high libido’.”
Jonathan wants to make a snarky remark, but Steve is closing in, whispering, “I think you have one, too.”
A smack transpires across Jonathan’s ass, emitting a yelp from his throat, “Steve!”
The man above him shares a combination of a groan and a cackle, swiveling off the mattress. Jonathan turns to his side to scowl, while Steve's bare feet touch the linoleum floor. He declares, “Now, I’m gonna fuck you useless in the shower—c’mon.”
Steve reaches for Jonathan’s ankles, dragging his weight toward the edge.
Red-faced from his brazenness, Jonathan grovels, “You know I have to drive three hours today, right?”
Steve boyishly grins, “And I hope you feel me in every pothole you hit.”
Gobsmacked, Jonathan shoves his shoulders, half-heartedly wrestling with Steve, until the taller man gathers him into his arms, pinning him down, and shoving in an ardent kiss. Ultimately, Jonathan gives himself to Steve in the third-story communal showers. When they arrive, Steve comments on its superior condition compared to the downstairs.
“It’s ‘cause all the frats on your floor,” Jonathan explains, hooking his towel onto the adjacent stall they are about to enter, “They ruin shit.”
“Yeah, sounds about right,” Steve resolves, freeing himself from his shorts.
While Jonathan sets their soaps on the provided shelving, Steve prepares himself to announce, “I think. . . I’m gonna leave the fraternity.”
Jonathan feigns his astonishment, shooting an incredulous look, “Oh, really?”
Steve dejectedly nods, folding his clothes. He sighs into the quiet space, “Probably will have a fight with Dad over it, but. . . whatever.”
Jonathan bends to drag his sweatpants downward, muttering, “Shit is useless, anyway. Don’t listen to him.”
Another wave of sorrow seeps into Steve’s features as he laments, “It’s just. . . I don’t think I want to see Tommy ever again.”
Jonathan does freeze at this declaration, however. Cautiously, Jonathan proceeds with his task, not wanting to jostle Steve’s vulnerability.
The other man nears, presumably waiting, as he stumbles, “Or, well—at least, never talk to him. . . again.”
Jonathan tries to breeze past the disgust that plagues him, summoning a nurturing tone, “Yeah, I. . . I know it’s not my place to say, but. . . I—I think it’s for the best.”
Dropping the subject, Steve releases a sound of approval, finds the knob to the showers, and twists on the water. The pair shuffle inside, allowing steam to engulf their limited space and heat to cascade over their forms.
Steve finds Jonathan’s intense eyes through the plummeting water, as he opens his, with lashes beading droplets. He flashes his smirk to lighten the mood, teasing, “Like what you see?”
“I think you know that one, already,” Jonathan wryly retorts, unamused. He turns from Steve‘s antics to reach for the shampoo bottle, until a grip at his elbow halts him.
“Not yet,” Steve murmurs, nudging his long nose into the crook of Jonathan’s neck, urging, “Need you.”
Steve’s hands travel from Jonathan’s sharp hips, skimming past his slim waist, then over his lean, pounding chest, littered with scars that continue to heal. He pulls him into an embrace, finding Jonathan’s earlobe against the water funneling upon their heads.
Jonathan melts in his hold, growing sensitive to Steve’s tender efforts. His lips work behind the shell of Jonathan’s reddening ear, before opening his mouth further to graze his hard teeth over Jonathan’s receptive nerves.
Jonathan drops his skull back onto Steve’s shoulder, nearly drowning himself in the shower head’s spray.
Steve lends a light bite, groaning into it. Departing, Steve deplores, “You’ll be gone today.”
Jonathan’s chest aches, but he summons an impassive tone, “It’s only a week.”
“I know,” Steve sighs, lowering his attention to the curve of Jonathan’s back, once more. He feels Steve’s hardness against him, swaying into Jonathan to relieve himself.
“Lean forward a little,” Steve orders, and Jonathan obeys, palms flattening against the tiled wall.
Their unanimous moans harmonize as Steve delves into Jonathan, tortuously slow. When his ring passes Steve’s tip, he draws back, before plunging further, inching his progress. Jonathan feels the tug of Steve’s delicate skin throbbing around him, wanting to accept him fully.
Steve is prattling his usual sweet nothings, filling Jonathan’s head with bliss, “Gonna miss this.”
Jonathan whimpers his agreement, leaning his head on his forearms, holding up his stance. Steve takes his time, conveying his length, as if to revel in experiencing Jonathan’s intake, watching the water run down the divots of his spine and sinewy shoulders, while his hands explore the glistening expanse.
Then, an idea captivates Steve. He rakes the shower curtain aside, causing a cool breeze, and the fluorescent lightning to shroud their carnal position.
Jonathan shoots up, constricting around Steve. He reprimands, “Wha—What the hell are you doing—!?“
“Look at us,” Steve demands, snaking his hand under Jonathan’s arm, then reaching to grip his wide jaw, angling his gaze toward the gap. On the parallel wall, the sink mirrors horizontally line—the tops of them are muddled with humidity, however, enough is left clear towards the bottom, reflecting a distant sight of their nude, interlocked statures.
Fixated on the mirror, Steve murmurs in his ear, “See how good you look on me?”
Jonathan feels as if the air is knocked out of his lungs, trying to gasp as the steam swarms them, as he confronts the forbidden visual that presents itself. In his perspective, a measly body slots against his god, and a face he’s lived with for too many years grotesquely skews in lust. Jonathan realizes, then, with his head paired alongside Steve’s, he has yet to see himself with the other man—it embarrasses him, like he is unfit for Steve’s divine presence. Jonathan feels he has somehow disillusioned the man to believing he is worthy of his intimacy. Although he can’t deny the view of Steve’s drenched torso oscillating into Jonathan’s opening.
“I—I look fucking stupid,” Jonathan hoarsely curses, breaking free from Steve’s direct. His hand bungingly tries to shove the curtain closed, struggling against Steve’s momentum.
Steve explodes in a string of chuckles, echoing off the encasing walls, startling Jonathan. He unwinds himself from Jonathan’s shrinking fame, balancing his outstretched arms on either side. Jonathan can practically feel his grin in his voice, as Steve gasps between titters, “I swear—you’re the only person who can make me laugh with my dick inside them.”
“What an honor,” Jonathan snarks, borrowing his face into the crook of his arm.
“God, Jonathan,” Steve grunts, oblivious to Jonathan’s mortification, grappling his sides. He chides, “You and your smart fuckin’ mouth.”
Steve picks up his pace, fingers digging into Jonathan’s hipbones, injecting himself in. Vulgarly, Steve moans, “You make it look so hot, Jon,” He tilts down, kissing his shoulder, “Like it’s heaven—like I’m giving it to you.”
Slowly, Jonathan calms, honing his focus on Steve’s rhythm.
“You’ll show me how good it feels, right?” Steve implores, deepening his force, “You promise me—one day?”
Mind occupied now with Steve’s wanton tone, Jonathan vehemently nods, promising, “Yes, Steve—when. . . whenever you want.”
Jonathan sobers with an impulse to share his dry humor, daring, “If—If you can get me to laugh with my dick in you,” He stifles his pants, vowing, “You can top my ’smart—ass’ status.”
“I’ll remember that, Byers,” Steve smiles against his skin, enfolding the shorter man, teasing, “I like a challenge.”
I know.
Having grown desperate, the pair drops their antics and conversation, and completely delves into their building pleasure. With the momentum made by Steve, Jonathan is further hiked up against the wall, growing placid to his every whim and fervent word whispered into his ear. The back of Jonathan’s eyelids turns white when Steve drives himself deep and finishes, causing him to drop the hand that had kindly assisted Jonathan to meet his end, too. Jonathan thinks Steve likes to fuck him in more ways than one, effectively overwhelming him.
When their cacophony dims, they ground themselves and wash, sluggish from their rush.
Steve suds Jonathan’s scalp, mumbling from behind, “Thank you for being my friend.”
Jonathan furrows his eyebrows, heart stuttering as he objects, “Don’t thank me.”
“Well, I mean—I’m not thanking you for that, I guess. I have plenty of friends, technically,” Steve backpedals, clarifying, “What I mean is that. . . you’re a good friend. You actually. . . see me, when most don’t. It means something to me.”
“I forced. . . seeing you,” Jonathan tries to argue, but the comment comes out odd.
“Still, no one else cares enough to even do that,” Steve settles, carefully rinsing Jonathan’s hair. He sighs, “Not to say you don’t have your expectations—but, at least, I think, you try to let me be. . . me.”
“I don’t even ‘try’. It’s not hard to do,” Jonathan defeatedly murmurs, losing himself in the pattern of the tiles ahead, “Yo—You’re just surrounded by a lot of shitty people.”
“And if I hadn’t found you, maybe I would’ve been alone,” Steve gloomily proposes.
Jonathan drops his defense, not wanting to spiral.
Eventually, they return to the dorm. Jonathan feels anew with the prospect of returning home, while Steve looks as though he wants to nap. He resists, toweling his hair dry, assisting Jonathan in packing—or rather, chattering on and handing him obscure objects while the other scurries around and attempts to concentrate. Jonathan is evermore patient with Steve, however. He grew up waiting, after all.
“You sure you have everything?” Steve checks, handling Jonathan’s backpack over his shoulder.
In the parking lot, they near the Ford, as Jonathan tiredly lugs his duffel bag to its rear. He struggles with the latch, opening the trunk.
“I think so,” Jonathan replies, shoving his luggage inside. He takes the bag from Steve, reassuring, “It’s only a week and a few days, so I don’t need much.”
Steve lists, “Toothbrush? Wallet? Your Walkman?”
Jonathan pats his pockets, nodding, “Yeah, I—I got it.”
Jonathan is dressed in hand-me-down jeans and his black corduroy coat, while Steve remains in his plaid pajamas and sweatshirt. Jonathan lights a farewell cigarette, opening the driver’s side door, leaving it ajar, as he leans his elbow against the roof. Steve stands on the other side, resting both of his arms atop the door, with soulful eyes glimmering at Jonathan’s sullen face.
“Hm,” Steve hums, tilting his head, chin pivoting against his wrist. He jests, “What am I gonna do without all this Byers broodiness?”
“The same shit you did before,” Jonathan retorts, offering his smoke, as they always share.
He wedges it into Steve’s pink mouth, vibrant from the harsh cold and his damp hair. Steve purses around it, and Jonathan retreats when he puffs.
“Maybe I’ll smoke the rest of your pot,” Steve breaks out into a smirk, biting his lip.
“Then I’ll probably find you face-first on the floor by the time I get back,” Jonathan chuckles, shaking his head in disapproval.
Steve joins him, his hot breath funneling from his nose. Abruptly, he grows dejected, losing his whimsy.
“I. . . I had fun,” Steve hesitantly confesses, with big pupils searching Jonathan’s. He murmurs like a child that’s been chastised, “You think. . . we’ll have fun when you come back?”
“I—If you still want to,” Jonathan shrugs, growing nervous.
“I do,” Steve softly admits.
Jonathan waves him off, urging, “I—I mean, just—think it over, while I’m gone.”
Steve plucks the cigarette for himself, showcasing a guarded expression to plainly state, “Nothin’ to think about.”
“Okay, Steve.”
A stagnant moment hangs between them.
His face cast to the ground, Steve exhales his smoke, ”Did you have fun?”
“Mo—More than I should’ve,” Jonathan scoffs at himself, pocketing his frigid fingers.
“You make it sound like you’ve sinned.”
“Feels like it,” Jonathan comments.
Steve catches his stare with his fierce one, bluntly asking, “‘Cause you let me fuck you?”
”No,” Jonathan swallows, kicking his boots. He answers under his breath, “Fo—For my greed.“
“You don't ask for much,” Steve shrugs, clutching the door.
“You seem to forget how selfish I really am.”
“Well, even if you are,” Steve exhales a cloud, comforting, “I think god will forgive you.”
Jonathan grimaces, questioning in disbelief, “Why?”
“Because I wanted you to look at me,” Steve tries to convince, gesturing his smoke, “Maybe I even prayed for it.”
“Prayed for it?”
Steve refuses to fortify the statement.
“I think he had mercy on us,” Steve diverts, nodding along to his own words, drawing a glow from the cigarette’s end, “Pinning us together like this.”
“Not that I entertain any of that shit,” Jonathan starts in a barbed tone, arguing, “But last time I checked, god doesn’t have mercy for f-ggots. In fact, I—I think he’s been putting us through the ringer, Steve.”
“You could be lookin’ at it all wrong,” Steve earnestly suggests, “Maybe he put us here, together—to have fun, for once.”
“Well,” Jonathan finds a way to convey his disdain without offending him, stammering, “Yo—You deserve to. . . feel that way. Still, though, I think he could’ve done better.”
“What, you don’t like me much, after all this?” Steve grows touchy, snapping, “Do I not live up to your ‘King Steve’?”
“N—No, I’m not talking about what I think of you,” Jonathan is quick to correct, ruefully explaining, “I’m saying you shouldn’t have. . . gone through what you did. It’s. . . terrible.”
“Oh,” Steve takes a moment to digest his words, inadvertently adding, ”What’s the saying? ‘God doesn’t give you more than you can't handle?’”
“You really believe in all that?”
“I don’t know,” Steve shrugs, blankly studying the pavement below, “Once in a while, I pray, and hope someone is listening. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”
“Sounds about right,” Jonathan sniffs, kicking his boots as he utters, “I—I never had a prayer, or wish, or whatever, come true, I think, in my whole, sorry-ass life. . . well—“ He immediately cuts himself off, attempting to reroute his train of thought, “An—Anyways, I—“
Steve is swift to catch on, repeating, “Well?”
Jonathan grows quiet from an intrusive memory engulfing his mind—the summer sun at orientation day, beaming down on Steve in his yellow sweater, dishing out his pearly grin, as he animatedly talks to the flock surrounding him.
A sobering, icy wind brushes through Jonathan’s hair, like a hand gripping and rearing his direction to remind him otherwise.
He only lives in your photos.
Since the darkroom, there was a peculiar truce made between them—something they never commenced aloud, but it always hung in the recesses of Jonathan’s conscience. He‘s never had a friend, but he knows those dynamics never entail treating another this way—to crave touch, to dig deep and explore, to claw in and see each other’s soul—and then, in the next moment, to dissemble, masquerading as a fraternal friendship, with impure kisses in between.
Jonathan tried to chalk it up as two queer men in a suffocation, indulging in what they’re suppressed not to want.
However, it never started that way—that yellow sweater, the click of his camera, those eyes finding his lenses. Steve is his obsession.
Jonathan did not dare to confront the fact that he understood why Steve yearned for their dynamic—he was grieving Tommy. But he didn’t want to destroy it, either—his only connection he has tethered to Steve’s heart.
How delicate and wrong.
How cruel life was to let him feel the warmth of the sun, to then be imprisoned in his shadow.
Steve was never yours.
He only lives in the white borders of your capture.
“Forget it,” Jonathan lowly mutters, clenching his jaw. His hands fall from his pockets, fumbling with his keys, circulating through the ones for his dorm and home, before locating the Ford’s.
Steve detachedly watches on until he concludes. Jonathan hears the shifts of Steve loosening his grip on the car door and releasing it, straightening his posture.
In his peripheral vision, he sees Steve stomp out the cigarette into a patch of ice.
Jonathan is too much of a coward to look him in the eye.
Steve settles it for him, summoning a weak, jovial tone, “Have a good Christmas, Jonathan.”
Then, Steve removes himself. His footsteps scratch against the salt scattered over the pavement, growing further away.
Jonathan’s limbs buzz from his pounding heart demanding air he does not give, with an approaching roar of static threatening bedlam in his rumination.
It’s not the week alone that terrifies him. It’s the unknown of what is meant to come after.
Their little escape from the world is over, with no more time left for their charade—to hide away, to be who they are, to fulfill each other's desires.
Jonathan can’t bring himself to regret any of it—if anything, he feels as though he’s wasted a precious opportunity. All of his snide remarks, his bickering, his resistance—he should’ve made himself malleable and placid for Steve’s every want and need.
Jonathan should have lain down and absorbed everything Steve was willing to give him. He didn’t take in enough—it was all too soon.
But it was nearly a month. You had it—you wasted it.
It won’t be the same.
Jonathan pictures Steve alone in his dorm, reflecting on their secrets, regretting them all—looking at Jonathan’s bed in disgust, feeling trapped in his unyielding world of want and photos.
He imagines Steve on Christmas, stone-faced.
You feel it too, right, Steve? The death of what we shared?
Leaving feels like an end.
Jonathan selfishly refuses.
“Steve?” His name unconsciously falls from Jonathan’s mouth—it makes his own head snap up, as if to bear the reaction of the other man who feels like sand slipping through Jonathan’s clinging fingers.
He was too quiet. Steve’s back is still turned away, growing smaller as he breaches the front steps of their dormitory.
Jonathan panics, calling out through the distance, “Steve!”
Steve’s shoulders flinch at the echo, and he whirls around to shout back, “What?”
Jonathan takes in his pale, weary expression and gulps.
He shivers—from the cold or his static, he can’t discern. Nails digging into his palms, he strains his voice, straining to beckon, “Do you. . . want to come with?”
Steve is elbow deep into the conjoined pocket of his hoodie, trying to hold on to what little warmth he visibly has. Jonathan notices his cheeks are flushed as he shuffles back to the front of the Ford, returning to his normal volume.
”I. . .” Steve struggles, bewilderment apparent on him, as he points out, “Your family doesn’t know me.”
“My M—Ma offered. . . when I told her what you did for me,” Jonathan finds his excuse, watering down the desperation in his tone, gabbling, “I’m sorry I didn’t bring it up—I just. . . I didn’t know if it was too weird to ask you.”
Steve’s eyebrows meet, while contorting a frown, “Why would it be weird?”
“I don’t know. . . “ Jonathan lies, shoulders meeting his ears, until he sheepishly prattles, “I mean, I wouldn’t mind you being there. I–I guess, it’s just embarrassing ‘cause my house is. . . well, my house.”
Steve bites his bottom lip, lightly kicking the tire of the Ford with his slipper. He quips, “The Byers live out of a tuna can or somethin’?”
Jonathan huffs, “Or something.”
Steve finds the inside of his cheek, gnawing. Jonathan feels guilty for distressing him—he’s hardly seen Steve so uneasy. Steve breaks from contemplating his options, verifying, “Would there be enough room for me?”
“We can sardine you in,” Jonathan faintly jokes, clutching his jeans.
“You’re not. . . just asking me to be polite, right?” Steve’s gaze and tone drop, “You actually want me to come?”
I want you to embed yourself in my ribcage.
“Ye—Yeah, Steve,” Jonathan tries to disguise the falter in his words.
“And. . . you think your mom and brother would be okay with that?”
Jonathan reassures, “I don’t think my Ma would’ve brought it up if—if she didn’t think so.”
Steve takes a few more moments of consideration, questioning, “Do you think they’d like me?”
“Everyone likes you, Steve,” Jonathan sincerely consoles.
Steve lends a tiny gush of air resembling a laugh, heartening, “Give me a minute to pack?”
“Of course,” Jonathan nods, freeing himself from his rigid stance. He nears Steve, expressing, “I—I’ll come up, too. Help you out.”
They linger until Steve breaks into a smile to agree, “Alright.”
✶
“What are you doing?” Jonathan questions, sharing a glance of disapproval at the passenger seat, hands gripping the wheel.
Barreling to their destination, they travel on a long stretch of highway, with the Ford’s suspension periodically groaning from the rough pavement, and the tires producing a constant drone. Forests whirl behind Steve’s silhouette in his window, as he cranes his neck to find the tiny mirror of the open visor above.
Refusing to meet him, Steve raises his fingers to his own face, scoffing, “Lookin’ at myself, nosey.”
Jonathan chastises, “Are you picking at it again?”
“Leave me the fuck alone,” Steve quickly curses, rebuking, “I don’t wanna have a gigantic zit on my forehead when I meet your mom.”
“She doesn’t care,” Jonathan exasperates, hands splaying from the wheel in gesture, “You realize she’s raised two teenage boys, right?”
Steve forcibly chuckles, “Okay, ‘Mister Flawless Skin’.”
“Flawless?” Jonathan repeats in disbelief, his boggling flicker between Steve and the road, “Do you not see the acne scars?”
Steve rolls his eyes, dropping his focus from the mirror, “Where, Jonathan?”
“On my cheeks.”
Steve leans his elbow into the console to survey the man’s claim, scanning his features, zeroing in on Jonathan’s skin—it was all rather tame and smooth, besides the natural texture you’d find on any other human.
Recoiling back, Steve guffaws, “I have to squint and be two inches from your face to even notice.”
Jonathan outstretches his arm to shut his visor, tutting, “Cut it out.”
Glaring, Steve huffs, “It’ll be your fault when your family thinks I’m ugly.”
“Yo—You’re not. . . you’re beautiful,” Jonathan stammers, chest inflating, until he deflates, “O—Or handsome—whatever.”
Steve snorts, cocking his head aside, “You’re pretty, too, Byers.”
So you’ve said. Jonathan thinks of the time he was looking up at Steve perched on his chest, as the man flicked his wrist to share expense into his mouth.
‘So, so fucking pretty.’
Jonathan grows red-faced, clicking his tongue, “Pretty?”
Steve inflicts a muted tone, mimicking him, “Or handsome, whatever.”
Jonathan bites back a humorous grin, contorting his face into a sheepish expression.
Steve senses his fluster, deciding to let up, “I like. . . your eyes.”
Jonathan raises one of his long eyebrows before he mutually states, “I—I like your eyes, too.”
“What about them?” Steve impishly demands, as if he’s dragging out gossip from Jonathan’s cagey mind.
Resting his arm at his window, Jonathan presses his blush into the back of his hand, maintaining his steer with the other.
“They’re big,” Jonathan nearly whispers, trying to feign a casual tone, “Catches all the light.”
Steve’s smile widens, drumming his fingertips on his knees.
“Yours are small. . . and sharp,” Steve imparts, describing, “Like you never miss a thing.”
“Sounds creepy,” Jonathan sorrowfully laughs.
“But you’re soft, too,” Steve argues, shaking his head, “You’re both.”
“Both what?”
“Sharp and soft.”
Jonathan’s chest flutters, as if his arteries tore and plummeted his heart into his stomach—the sensation matches Steve’s words.
“You’re. . . bright,” Jonathan murmurs, gaze fixated on the windshield.
“What does that mean?” Steve quips, fiddling around, “I’m not stupid?”
“N—No, like,” Jonathan sighs, expending his nervous energy, “Everywhere you go, it. . . lights up.”
Steve chortles, “Like a fuckin’ Christmas tree?”
Jonathan nods, more solemn than intended, “Yeah. . . like a Christmas tree.”
Presumably, Steve digests his words for a moment.
Eventually, he off-handedly breaks, “I’m gonna nap now.”
Jonathan removes the urge to remark how infantile he comes across, suppressing his laughter.
He watches from his rearview mirror as Steve fits between the seats, reaching for Jonathan’s blanket from the back—an item he requested to bring along for the ride, expressing his exhaustive state. Steve tugs it through, spreading it over himself, curling in his seat. Steve’s shoes drop to the floor as he rests his temple on the console, knocking into Jonathan’s arm.
Jonathan hesitates before awkwardly lifting to lay his limb over the side of Steve’s posture. He curls in his forearm until he finds Steve’s forehead.
“Touch my hair?” Steve quietly requests, but his low voice betrays him, reverberating in the confined space.
I shouldn’t.
Jonathan gulps, attempting to pay a decent amount of attention to the road, as he uses his free hand to thread into Steve’s hairline, combing through his locks.
His fingertips buzz.
Steve’s sigh expels over Jonathan, while his socked feet find a comfortable position against his car door.
“You sleep enough?” Jonathan politely asks. He watched Steve soundly sleep last night, so he is baffled as to what was draining the other man.
“I dunno,” Steve croakily replies, slowing the pace of his breath. He lends a big yawn before he slurs, “I think you’re slowly killin’ me.”
Jonathan pales, shifting to reveal Steve’s expression for any hint. He disconcertedly presses, “Wha—What do you mean?”
A bump on the road causes Jonathan’s head to fly back upward, proceeding to drive.
Steve snickers, “I mean. . . you‘re suckin’ the soul out of my dick, then you got me on this bird food diet. I’m breaking out, now, too.”
“It’s not the end of the world, Steve, it’s just one pimple—“
“I’m losing all my muscle mass, livin’ off all this fuckin’ oatmeal and canned soup,” Steve whines, pressing his nose into the tendons of Jonathan’s wrist. He jabs, “How are you alive, Byers?”
Guilt engulfs Jonathan, while he clutches Steve. He laments, “Do you. . . think you lost weight?”
“A little,” Steve confesses, like it’s a joke, though it only inspires Jonathan’s frown to deepen.
“You can eat whatever you want, when we get there,” Jonathan promises, encouraging, “I—I can cook. We have a kitchen and everything.”
“There is no way in fiery hell Jonathan Byers knows how to cook.”
Jonathan switches lanes, before he’s ready to express his own shock, “Why is that so hard to believe?”
”I can’t picture it,” Steve mirthfully says, eyes closed, “I feel like you burn anything you touch.”
“I think you’re projecting,” Jonathan jokes, resuming his stroke on Steve’s scalp, “I’m decent at it. I made breakfast and dinner all the time, growing up. . . Mom worked late and Will needed to eat, you know?”
“It’s been a long, long time since anyone’s cooked for me,” Steve mumbles, almost submitted to his drowsy state.
“I’ll make you something nice,” Jonathan promises, bringing them closer to home, allowing Steve to sweetly dream up an ideal, homemade meal.
Peanut butter. Meatloaf. Protein. Gross, though. Steve’s eyebrows furrow, and he falls asleep.
✶
“We’re almost there.”
Startled, Steve slurps, drool pooling from his lips. He groans, “Shit.”
He unfurls, straightening his spine, popping a few joints, knocking into Jonathan’s elbow. The other man, driving, tugs his sleeve over his palm before haphazardly using it to swipe at Steve’s jaw, while maintaining his projection on the wheel.
“Muh—Stop it!” Steve sputters, snatching Jonathan’s wrist and dragging it downward.
“You’re the one worried about appearances,” Jonathan mutters, glancing down to clean the pool on the surface Steve lay upon.
Once more, Steve is filling the visor mirror, eyebrows clenched together.
Jonathan despondently clarifies, “You look fine.”
“How far are we?”
“Ten minutes.”
Steve perks up, clearing his somnolence. He studies the window, eyeing the dwindling population of structures and buildings, replaced by endless fields and desolate trees. He points out, “Middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”
Jonathan hums in agreement.
Steve clutches his legs, “Um. . . is it too late to ask the ‘do’s and don’t’s with your folks?”
“Uh. . . be nice?”
Steve exasperatingly huffs, “No shit, dipshit.”
“You’re asking the socially incompetent one.”
“It’s your family.”
Jonathan struggles, filtering an answer, “They, um. . . Ma’s a little nutty, and Will is. . . quiet. Just, um. . . you know—do the thing you do.”
Steve scoffs, “The thing. . . I do?”
“Yeah—the, uh,” Jonathan waves around, “‘Charm the pants off anyone you lay eyes on‘ thing.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Steve guffaws. ”I love when you make shit up, Jonathan. Truly, you live in your own little world.”
“I literally have watched you do it—over and over.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“Yo—You pay attention to anyone long enough, they go all doe-eyed, hanging off your every word,” Jonathan animatedly describes, boiling over, “I mean, what are you so nervous for, anyways? I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I don’t do well with ’family’, Jonathan,” Steve lowly mutters, using his fingers to quote the word, as if it were make-believe.
“Every girl at our school would jump at the opportunity to bring you home to their folks and parade you around like a trophy,” Jonathan contends, snorting at his own descriptions, “I mean, you’re like the poster boy of what you wanna bring home to your mother.”
“Do you?”
Jonathan blanches, before he hurriedly collects himself, coolly replying, “I—I think my Ma nearly keeled over when she heard the word ‘friend’ come out of my mouth.”
Smooth one.
“Hm,” Steve hums, blatantly remarking, “Too bad I’m a f-ggot, though.”
Tightening around the wheel, Jonathan's eyes grow wide, driveling, “I—I never told her that!”
Steve grows incredulous, retorting, “Talkin’ about the girls, Jonathan.”
“R—Right,” Jonathan too soon deflates, swiftly growing agitated, “Yo—You like girls, too, though.”
“Wow,” Steve dryly drawls, “I’m sure that’s what wins all the parents over.”
Jonathan trips into a great pit of shame, as though he’s tainted the perfect man beside him. Furthermore, he frowns when he notices Steve digging his nails into his knuckles.
To combat this, he clumsily reaches for his smokes, changing the subject to ask, “Share one with me?”
Steve releases himself to roll down his window.
“My Ma already likes you, Steve,” Jonathan tries to reassure, “You helped me. Remember?”
Steve exhales a plume of smoke, letting it disappear into the opening.
Suddenly, he swells with intent, declaring, “I’m putting on my ‘Queen’ tape, and I don’t wanna hear shit about it.”
“O—Okay,” Jonathan quietly accepts, “I. . . I hid it in the door.”
“I know.”
Steve remains in his seat, face plastered at his side’s window, humming along to his songs, soothing himself.
He grows quiet when Jonathan makes a sharp decline and turns, causing the tires to crackle from the change of terrain, finding a driveway. When Steve sees ‘Byers’ hand-painted on the rusted mailbox, he assumes they’ve made it. At the clearing, Steve takes in Jonathan’s childhood home—a humble dwelling, compared to his multi-story house. A part of Steve nags with guilt at the comparison of hogging all that space to himself, while presumably, Jonathan’s family is cooped up in the smaller structure presented before him.
The driveway was plowed and the walkways were shoveled, leading to the weathered facade under the steep veranda—an unused clothing line tethered to one of its pillars. Jonathan rolls under the tall canopy of branches and alongside a green Ford Pinto, parking beside it, turning off his ignition.
“Cute lights,” Steve mumbles, glancing over the colorful, glowing bulbs nailed in the roof’s trim.
“You should tell my mom,” Jonathan pointedly remarks.
Steve allows himself a deep breath, exiting the car.
The porch’s wooden planks creak underneath their approaching footsteps. Jonathan kicks a sheet of ice, causing it to skid across, clearing the path for the man following him. He mumbles to himself, “Gotta get salt from the shed.”
Then, he clears his throat, peering at Steve’s blank expression.
“Yo–You ready?” Jonathan asks.
Steve pauses his vexation to urge, “Go on.”
Jonathan offers a lop–sided smile before tapping his knuckles against the worn front door.
“Couldn’t you just waltz in? It’s your house,” Steve berates.
Jonathan argues in a hushed tone, “It’s the surprise.”
The door handle twists on its own, and it squeals open. Steve and Jonathan lower their gazes to meet Joyce, as her choppy hair catches the outside breeze. Her jaw drops, lurching forward to gather her son.
As she embraces Jonathan, she gushes into his shoulder, “My boy.”
“Hi, Ma,” Jonathan strains to greet against Joyce's tightening hold.
Another voice belts from behind his mother, “Jonathan!”
A young man with a striped shirt and equally bluntly cut hair wedges himself beyond the doorframe, face beaming with joy. He becomes entangled in their hold, circling Jonathan.
“Hey,” Jonathan takes him in, muffled as he comments, “Christ, did you get taller? It’s only been a few months.”
Their laughter rings within the confines of their hug.
“Where the hell did he get the genes for this?” Jonathan huffs, shaking his head atop hers, “He’s as—as tall as I am.”
“I know, isn't it crazy?” Joyce pulls back, exclaiming as she angles her gaze upward at her sons, “He hit a growth spurt! Now both of my boys are taller than me.”
As the banter subsides, Joyce and Will take notice of the lingering silhouette behind them. Promptly, Steve removes one of his pocketed hands to hold one out to Jonathan’s mother.
“Hi,” Steve introduces with a dazzling smile and a slight tilt of his head, “I’m Steve Harrington.”
There’s the charm. ‘Own little world’ my ass.
“Joyce—it’s nice to meet you,” Joyce takes it, shaking, “Thank you so much for. . . your generosity.”
Confusion sweeps over Steve’s face until he resolves.
“Oh, the car—yeah,” Steve struggles, understating, “Jonathan’s. . . a good friend of mine, so. . . it’s no trouble.”
“I really appreciate it,” Joyce beams, before clasping the top of the younger man’s bowl cut, disheveling it. She announces, “This is our Will.”
“Ma!” Will winces, lurching from her coddling. He frets, speaking to Steve, “I’m. . . Will.”
Jonathan snorts.
“So, I’ve heard. Jon talks a lot about you,” Steve mentions, taking his hesitant hand to shake, “It’s nice to meet you, Will.”
Will offers a timid nod, mumbling, “You, too.”
Is Will blushing?
Sparing him, Jonathan quips to his mother, “So. . . are we sleeping in the doghouse, or are you guys gonna let us in?”
Joyce rolls her eyes, releasing her sons to head toward the door.
She remarks to Steve, gesturing, “C’mon in, sweetheart.”
“Thanks,” Steve slightly bows his head as Joyce grants him passage inside. Will follows suit. Jonathan pauses when his mother points.
Her thin eyebrows strewn, Joyce mouths, ‘handsome’.
“Ma,” Jonathan lowly scoffs at her, stepping through the doorway, “Stop gawking.”
Upon entering the house, while standing upon the entrance mat, Steve abruptly clasps his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, causing him to flinch. However, Jonathan calms when he realizes the taller man is utilizing the balance to take his boots off.
Jonathan tips to take off his own, muttering to the man, "Kn—Knock me over, why don’t you?”
Steve opens his mouth to fire back, but Will inadvertently interjects, “Sorry if it stinks in here. Ma complains it’s too cold to smoke outside.”
From the wide open entrance of the kitchen, Joyce groans in a shrill tone, “Christ, Will.”
Jonathan rubs a hand over his face.
“I’m not bothered,” Steve tentatively reassures, as his socked feet find the carpet.
A white blur weaves through furniture, catching Steve’s distractible eye. Nails clatter against the hardwood floor, before it finds their gathering—upon hearing their voices, a terrier mix dog approaches, sniffing over their legs as greeting.
Steve immediately melts down, gasping, “You didn’t tell me you had a dog!”
Jonathan grows sappy at the sight of Steve allowing their pet to examine him, accepting his affection.
“That’s Chester,” Jonathan murmurs, leaning down beside Steve to lend his own acknowledgement, cupping the excited dog’s face. He smiles back, “Hi, boy. Been a while, huh?”
Chester’s observant black eyes look up through his white curls, happily opening his mouth to pant at the attention.
Steve scratches his ears, cooing.
“He’s a rescue,” Will chimes in, patting Chester’s head, surrounding the ebullient dog, “We found him as a puppy.”
“On the side of the road,” Jonathan informs with a frown.
Steve lends a soft pout, babying his tone to croon to Chester, “Aw, you’re a tough boy, then, huh? So cute.”
Jonathan blanches, wanting to pinch himself until he bleeds for the involuntary twirl of his intestines. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Relieving his stress, Joyce calls out from the other room, “You want coffee, boys?”
Chester’s fuzzy ears stand, removing himself to locate her, as if he could drink a cup of his own. Steve rises with a sulk.
“Yes, please,” Jonathan replies, sighing out the rest of his nerves, “Fuckin’ missed coffee.”
His mother chastises, “Language! I’ll start a pot.”
Expectantly watching the pair, Will extends his arms, offering, “Should we. . . give Steve a tour?”
“I—I think I’ll need one, too,” Jonathan chortles, scratching his neck, “It’s been a while.”
Steve rolls his eyes, directing his thumb towards Jonathan to share with Will, “This guy, huh?”
Will simpers.
“You guys are conspiring against me, already?” Jonathan glowers at Steve, who grins back.
“Totally,” Steve replies, meeting the younger man’s gaze, “Right?”
Will reddens, again, shyly nodding.
“Go on, show him around,” Jonathan urges.
Will guides them to the neighboring living room, directing them to a pail perched on an end table. A drip resounds from the collecting water.
“Ignore that. The snow melts and it goes through the roof,” Will explains, “It kinda stops at night.”
Jonathan grimaces, craning his neck to gauge the water stain on the ceiling, remarking, “We didn’t get that repaired?”
Steve squints up with him.
With her parental hearing capabilities, Joyce distantly yells, “I haven’t had the money!”
“S—Sorry,” Jonathan bellows back.
They drop their stares. Steve busies his attention by nearing the television set sitting by the wall, reading over a few of the VCR spines laid atop.
“This is the living room,” Will informs, directing toward the sofa, “Don’t sit on that arm—you’ll fall. It’s broken,” He kneels to the floor, distractedly mentioning, “Dustin keeps sitting on it and breaking it.”
“Sounds ‘bout right,” Jonathan nears Steve, noticing a bulky console on the floor beside his brother, noting, “That’s new.”
“Oh, yeah—Mike gave me his, since his grandparents got him the new one,” Will says, with the top of his head facing them, as he rummages through game cartridges. He inquires, “You like ‘Atari’, Steve?”
“Fuckin’ love ‘Atari’, man,” Steve replies, before silently beseeching Jonathan, ‘I don’t know’.
Aiding him, Jonathan observes, “I didn’t know you loved video games so much, Steve.”
Steve drops in understanding. He nods, “Oh, yeah, I do. Super fun.”
“We can play, then,” Will kindly offers, and asks another question, “Um. . . do you know anything about D&D?”
Steve sniffs, “Sorry, what?”
“Dungeons and Dragons,” Will clarifies, looking up at him, “It’s okay if you don’t know.”
Steve sheepishly curls his lip, inviting, “Can you show me?”
Enlivened, Will agrees, “Yeah, totally.”
The younger boy continues to lead Steve through the uncharted expanse of their house. Steve’s eyes follow the photo frames tacked on the wall, pausing to theatrically gape his mouth and point at the visual of an adolescent Jonathan.
Steve gasps, “Look at that moody little face—“
The other man swiftly hushes him by planting his palm over the photo, ushering him along, “Go!”
“This is our hall,” Will’s humorous voice echoes from afar, and Steve breaks from their commotion, hurriedly retreating to find him.
“That’s Ma’s room—we don’t go in there,” Will retorts, politely closing her door, before arriving at another, “Steve, here’s my room.”
Steve and Jonathan pause in the doorframe, looking over the young boy’s space. In the perspective of his older brother from growing up alongside Will, Jonathan has watched this room take on a variety of furniture, posters, and toys, circulating or changing in layout. A version of Will’s room seeded itself into Jonathan’s consciousness—like a corrupted neuron that refused to stop firing—often setting the stage for his nightmares. When his father was present, Will had more colors and interactive novelties in his dwelling, catering to his younger cognitive abilities.
Now, the boy’s older. He still has his fantastical and imaginative complex, but has traded his ‘G.I. Joe’ and ‘Play-Doh’ to indulge in paintings and books. He’s even taken on a few of Jonathan’s belongings—his cassette stereo and tapestry, hanging over the window.
Jonathan faintly smiles at the music tapes littered over his dresser, feeling a sense of pride for having passed down his tastes. I’m infecting Steve with it, too, I suppose.
“Wow, it’s so cool in here,” Steve comments, slowly entering, eyes roving with his hands on his hips.
Will bites his cheek, nervously examining the state of his bedroom. He admits, “It’s messy.”
“It’s alright. What teenager’s room isn’t?” Steve shrugs, until his head stills, aligning with an easel propped tall beside Will’s nightstand. He gasps, pointing, “Holy shit, is this one of Will Byers’ esteemed paintings?”
“Oh, jeez,” Will's voice cracks from strain, palming the back of his neck. Glancing toward his brother, he asks Steve, “Um. . . Jonathan told you?”
The quiet man purses his lips, offering his silent apology on Will’s behalf.
“Yeah, you’re really talented,” Steve praises, squinting, hands on knees to admire the detail Will visibly strives for.
“Really talented,” Jonathan echoes from the entry he leans his shoulder against.
“I’m still learning,” Will swells with an inhale, deflating, “Painting’s kinda hard. . . I’m more used to drawing things.”
Steve perks up, finding Will’s timid gaze. Fingers clasped together, he requests, “Can I. . . see? I like lookin’ at art stuff.”
Jonathan internally debates the truthfulness of his statement—then, he remembers how Steve snooped at the arts building. The abandoned museum, in a way, contained work that piqued his interest, too.
Steve must be an aesthete. Ironic.
Detached, Jonathan secretly warms at his own ideas, as Will offers Steve a seat upon his bed, adjacent to the desk chair he sits on. Will pulls out his sketchbooks, handling them, skipping through pages he would rather not reveal, but permits Steve to see a few, explaining their contexts—characters, side stories, intentions.
Swinging his legs, Steve attentively listens along, gushing with compliments and questions.
Seeing as they’ve found a rhythm and the scent of fresh brew wafts into his senses, Jonathan requests, “I’m gonna get myself some coffee. I’ll be back. Is that okay?”
Between the pair, Will awaits Steve’s agreement before he nods. His brother knows Jonathan would never leave him alone with anyone he didn’t trust.
His socked feet slide across the tiled floor, reminding him of early school mornings of zipping around to cook breakfast for his family. He handles the fresh pitcher of dark coffee for himself, pouring it into a kitschy mug he hadn’t thought of for some time.
As he swirls in a tablespoon of sugar, his mother remerges. She grabs a mug for herself, nudging their shoulders, asking, “How are you doing?”
Jonathan splashes milk into their cups, shrugging, “Alright. . . how about you?”
She purses the curl of her thin lips, winking, “I’m just excited, I guess. It’s your first time having a friend over.”
God, I’m not a child!
The spoon loudly tinks as Jonathan tosses it into the sink, while raising his eyebrows and keeping quiet.
She presses, “And I’m proud of you for inviting him along. I know that’s a big step for you.”
Jonathan’s chest quickly inflates, as if trying to dispel the growing discomfort within him. He clears his throat, “I–I’m gonna go back and check on them.”
“Sorry,” Joyce huffs in surrender, calling out from behind as he rushes towards the hall, “I’m glad you’re back home. Miss you!”
“Missed you,” Jonathan shoots over his shoulder, before returning to Will’s doorway.
The pair has hardly moved, seemingly engrossed in the character sheets visuals Will created for his friends. Will’s bowl cut jostles, and Steve offers a timid smile when they peek up at Jonathan’s presence.
“We should show Steve Castle Byers,” Will proposes, brimming with ambition.
“I—I dunno, bud,” Jonathan replies, eyebrows drawing together, “It’s a little cold out.”
“Castle Byers?” Steve simpers, dipping his head towards Will, “For your highness, Princess Jonathan?”
Will openly laughs at Steve’s comment, and Jonathan can see he’s grown relaxed. Although Steve is sociable, he never expected him to be gracious towards anyone deemed ‘less than’—he would never agree with the sentiment, but he understands Will similarly struggles as he had in school. People are brutal when they want to be.
Witnessing Steve Harrington sit beside his outcast younger brother, in his childhood home, incongruent to that vivacious image he projects at the college, and admittedly, in Jonathan’s mind, something stirs in his chest, and it feels more comfortable than his mother’s prodding.
He looks so human.
“No, hah. We made the fort together, a few years ago. It was meant for me,” Will explains to Steve, flipping through some pages until he finds what he is searching for—an older doodle of his vision for Castle Byers, and in which Jonathan had tried his best to uphold.
It was meant to hide him—to give him somewhere safe to run to. Jonathan gloomily thinks. A shame-ridden part of him hopes Will never realizes that purpose. He wasn’t meant to.
“Oh,” Steve nods, kidding, “So, are you the king of it, then?”
Will scoffs, sheepishly rubbing his neck, “I—I never thought about it like that.”
“I think I’d know one if I met one,” Steve’s tone grows pompous, displaying a false, conceited expression to brag, “They call me ‘King Steve‘ at school.”
In the distance, Jonathan huffs out a little laugh, feeling vicarious embarrassment.
Will’s face twists into a deep frown that attempts to mask his grin, slowly admitting, “That. . . That sounds kinda lame.”
Jonathan can’t hold back his snickers, swallowing the reaction into his mug.
Steve looks between them as if he’s been mobbed by the Byers brothers, yelping, “What?”
Jonathan highly hums, “Nothing.”
“Fine—what’s cooler than a king, then?” Steve playfully rolls his eyes, leaning back on his arms against the plaid covers.
Will replies, “A cleric.”
“Explain it to me.”
Looking upwards, Will sighs, “It’s a role in D&D—it’s like. . . a healing spellcaster. I try to protect the group.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” Steve raises an eyebrow towards Jonathan, to which he pretends to miss. He swiftly returns to Will, reckoning, “That’s very noble of you.”
“They call me Will the Wise,” Will expresses in a theatrical tone.
“Will the Wise,” Steve repeats. “That does have a ring to it,” He turns to the other man, once more, “How about Jonathan—does he have a role?”
Will reopens his binder, pointing towards a sheet, “Look how fuckin’ ridiculous this is.”
Now, he’s cursing. Definitely opening up. Jonathan refrains from reprimanding him.
Steve starts belting with laughter, “Jonathan the Brave. Why is he all maxed out?”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Will cries, hitting the binder.
Jonathan’s face turns pink, recalling, “I told you—I had lucky rolls.”
“What a cheat,” Steve tuts, reading over his character, “A rogue, huh?”
“Oh, uh,” Jonathan fiddles with his coffee, murmuring, “Rogues sounded cool to me. All stealthy and sneaky.“
Steve starts, “Man, really—?”
“Will!” Joyce’s voice booms through the walls, “Mike’s on the phone!”
Will immediately shoots up from his chair, causing it to tip and clatter. He collects it, apologizing, dropping his binder, and rushing out, “Sorry—I gotta get this!”
His urgent footsteps thud back down the hall, leaving the conversation stagnant.
Steve appears bewildered, but it fades when left to their own devices. He shoots a knowing smirk towards Jonathan, teething his lip, requesting, “What about your room?”
Jonathan’s chest deflates, feigning reluctance, trying to hide his amused smile by sipping his coffee. He raises his finger, wagging it, sauntering backwards through the open doorframe. Steve chuckles, rising from his seat on the bed, trailing along.
Jonathan’s free hand finds the doorknob, hesitating, before twisting himself to look at Steve and implore, “No—Now, don’t get too excited—“
“Shut up, Byers,” Steve cuts him off in a hushed tone, placing his hand over his, turning the knob. He lunges his weight forward, knocking into Jonathan’s backside.
They fly through the opening.
Jonathan hisses, “Steve, my coffee—!”
Steve maintains his grasp on the man’s waist, twirling him around, until their forces close the gap behind, isolating them from the outside world.
Jonathan cradles his mug to his chest, as Steve steps forward, flushing his front over him. Swiftly, he finds his lips, consuming Jonathan’s gasp.
He attempts to cry out Steve’s name, but the man is relentless with his mouth on him. When he breaks for air, Jonathan mutely berates, “Kiss me quieter!”
He wants to mess with me. He likes that it’s wrong.
As if Jonathan could predict it, the taller man flashes his infectious smile, darkly chuckling in mischief. He obeys, lightly pressing his lips, dampening the moist noises. Jonathan mewls, before shaking his head to deter Steve, ordering, “No more."
Steve nudges his nose against his, lowly whining, “That’s not very brave of you, Jonathan the Brave.”
When Steve is only met with a glare, he pulls away with a hefty sigh to roam the rest of the room.
Jonathan peers into his drink, debating if his clean–slate tolerance of caffeine was proving too much for his pounding heart.
Suddenly, the rate descends when he realizes Steve is surveying the drywall near his closet.
The surface is riddled with fist-sized punctures. Steve lifts his fingertip to skim over the roughened edge of one hole.
Jonathan clenches his hand around the handle of his mug. He whispers, “Sorry. . . I—I forgot all about. . . that.”
He gulps, avoiding Steve’s reaction, as he explains, “I was. . . stupid.”
“Not stupid,” Steve objects, before dropping his hand to survey the trim of Jonathan’s closest, noticing pen marks measuring years of height growth between the two brothers. He croons, “Kid definitely caught up with you, huh?”
Jonathan hums in agreement, sipping.
Steve saunters, eyeing his posters, listing off, “‘Evil Dead’. . . ‘Joy Division’. . . ‘R. E. M.’—oh,” He snaps his fingers, singing his reference, “‘This one goes out to the one I love’—those guys, right?”
At his side, Jonathan chuckles, “Yeah, those guys.”
“Oh, my god, I’m becoming so cultured,” Steve gloats, lowering himself onto Jonathan’s old bed.
Jonathan jokingly refutes, “Not without my help, of course.”
Steve settles his feet over his, weakly kicking the other man’s ankles. He agrees, “Very true.”
On Jonathan’s nightstand, a red object catches his eye. He picks it up, gasping, “I think I had one of these growing up!”
Steve peers into ViewMaster, holding it up toward the light fixture above, and flickering the lever. He giggles, “Is this fuckin’ ‘Winnie the Pooh’ in here?”
Jonathan blushes, contending, “I—I have all sorts of ‘em—not just that one.”
“Cute,” Steve snorts, dropping the obstruction from his face. Jonathan opens the drawer beside him, fishing out the circular slides. He prattles, showing off a few, “Look, we got. . . wild cats. . . lighthouses, tractors, Canada. . . oh, look, ‘E.T.’”
Steve’s laughter bubbles in his chest, asking, “Why so many?”
“That stupid thing was my favorite toy,” Jonathan elaborates, “I dunno, I just. . . I liked lookin’ at all the stuff. Still do, sometimes.”
“It’s like your camera,” Steve confirms, rotating the ViewMaster in his hands, before he settles it back into its rightful place.
”I—I guess so.”
“Too bad there’s not a ‘Steve’ slide.”
“Shut the hell up,” Jonathan half–heartedly threatens, “I’ll find a way and make one, asshat.”
Steve threads his fingers into Jonathan’s belt loops, tugging him forward until he is standing between his seated thighs. Steve leans his head back to say, “You don't need that thing to look at me. I’m right here.”
Jonathan swelters, settling his coffee on the nightstand and returning to mimic the ViewMaster. Pinching one eye closed, he flicks his finger, pushing the imaginary lever, imitating, “Psh, psh, psh.”
Steve’s stomach somersaults from endearment. He murmurs, “You’re too much.”
Jonathan’s face twists into his sheepish smile, dropping his antics. He swells with intent to talk, but a voice beckons, “Jonathan, can you help me with dinner?”
“Yeah, Ma,” Jonathan dejectedly yells back.
Steve drops his hold, and the other man gathers his mug, meandering back toward the hall. Before slamming the door to obstruct Steve’s path, he playfully snides, “Told you I cook, bastard.”
Steve darts to fling it back open, cackling, catching up to Jonathan’s race.
“You’re not allergic to anything, are you, Steve?”
“No, ma’am.”
The windows viewing the outdoors darken, and the incandescent light bulbs within the house illuminate each room in warm yellow hues. Joyce prepares a simple dinner on the stove, to which Jonathan aids in chopping the meat and vegetables. Steve brought their luggage inside from the trunk of his Ford, dropping it into Jonathan’s childhood bedroom. His face heats as he undresses in its confines, donning on his previous pajamas. Plunging his hair through his hoodie, Steve is captivated by the perforated wall, once more. He fits his own knuckles into the remnants of Jonathan’s past aggression.
Steve imagines the bitter faced teenager from the photos he found tacked on the wall.
He would’ve kicked high school–me’s ass. Steve thinks with a shiver, struck by the parallels of Jonathan Byers. Remorse possesses his heart.
When he returns, Jonathan is setting plates on the dining room table. He notes how the man is still dressed in belted jeans.
“I can get the other stuff,” Steve mutters, making headway to the kitchen counter.
He attempts to protest, but Steve faintly commands, “You should get changed. I’ll go score brownie points with Ms. Byers.”
Jonathan’s nose crinkles, “Just call her Joyce, you kiss–ass.”
“Oh, I’ll kiss your ass five ways ‘til Sunday, Jon.”
Mortified, Jonathan swats at his chest, harshly shushing him, before he withdraws.
Entering the kitchen, dinner wafts into Steve’s senses, causing him to salivate. When he finds the source—a hot glassware of breaded chicken on the stovetop—he has to dial back his excitement. Instead, he asks Jonathan’s mother the location of their oven mitts.
She stops mixing a pitcher of iced tea to hand them over, “Here you go.”
“Thank you, Ms. Byers.”
As Steve gloves his hands, Joyce raises a benevolent eyebrow, stating, “Jonathan must be comfortable with you.”
Steve notes how her wry expression comes across similarly to her son’s—all expressive through their wide eyebrows and beady-eyed alertness.
They never miss a thing.
Steve purses his lips, coyly sharing, “I’m. . . glad you think so. I know he’s. . . you know.”
“A wallflower?” Joyce supplies, stirring the large spoon she held, clinking the ice cubes. She nods, “I’m really happy he has a friend up there—at college. He’s. . . had a rough time.”
Knowingly, Steve laments, “I’m sorry.”
Taken aback by his solemn tone, Joyce attempts to lighten up, “Sometimes, he’s got that. . . impenetrable wall,” She chortles, waving her splayed hand over her face to demonstrate, “So, if it’s any consolation—you being here must mean he thinks highly of you. And in that case, I’m happy you’re here, too.”
Steve abashedly cups the oven mitts together, murmuring, “Thank you. . . for letting me stay.”
“It’s no problem,” Joyce reassures in a tender tone. She gathers the pitcher, gesturing, “You mind setting the chicken in the center? I also got a bowl of green beans in the pot to bring, next.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Haven’t been ordered around by a mom in a while. Steve cozies at the thought.
They find a newly dressed Jonathan and Will chatting at the round table, as the older brother dances a fork in his fingers, animatedly explaining, “You don’t have to like the guy—he’s an antihero. He sucks, but the story is interesting. I—I just figured you’d like the world-building in it.”
“It’s alright, I guess, it’s just. . . grim,” Will pokes his tongue out, tipping himself in his wooden chair.
His mother tells him to drop the legs back to the floor, to which he complies. She muses, “What are you guys talkin’ about?”
Will turns to Joyce, blatantly replying, “Jonathan mailed me a book. It sucks.”
“I—I’m sorry, I don’t exactly have a library at my dorm,” Jonathan defends as he pretends to be wounded, dropping his fork.
“I liked ‘The Dark Tower’. Why didn’t you give me somethin’ like that?”
“That’s not any less grim than Thomas Covenant!"
“At least Deschain is a gunslinger. Covenant has leprosy, and his wife left with the kids—and he’s a terrible person! There’s that horrible scene with that—“
“Okay, boys, settle down. We’re gonna eat,” Joyce directs, pouring iced tea into their cups. She pauses at Steve’s, silently questioning.
Steve sputters, “Yes, please—thank you.”
She fills his glass.
Seated next to Jonathan, Steve wedges his sweaty palms underneath his legs. He’s unable to discern why he has grown timorous, watching along to the domestic scene unfolding before him—a chatty table, filled with steaming dishes and a family eager to lovingly reunite with one another. Being the spectator, Steve wills himself not to butt in, allowing the Byers to speak freely.
However, at the start, Joyce immediately offers, “Do you pray, Steve?”
A wry, intrusive idea strikes him.
“Not always, but may I?”
Jonathan shoots him an incredulous glare as they interlock hands. Steve’s grip is tighter on Jonathan, compared to the cradle of his mother’s thin fingers. However, Steve can feel their similar structure.
Will appears perplexed, but like her eldest, Joyce exchanges a singular look to communicate her demands.
They all close their eyes.
Steve inhales, praying aloud, “Dear heavenly father, we thank you for this food and your blessings. I know we don’t talk often, but I figured today would be a good day to let you know I’m grateful—especially for my new friend, Jonathan Byers,” Steve’s smile covertly grows as Jonathan digs his nail into his wrist.
Steve severs his laughter, continuing his insinuations, “I’ve had a lot of fun with him, and I feel very privileged to meet his family, too. . . and for passing that dreadful statistics class last semester, so. . . thanks for makin’ it happen, captain,” A strangled guffaw leaves Jonathan, so Steve quickly concludes, “And, um, happy birthday. . . soon. Amen.”
“Amen,” The Byers family says in unison, varying in tones.
Bedazzled by his charisma, Joyce swoons, “That was very sweet, Steve.”
Jonathan looks appalled. Steve swiftly sets a portion of chicken onto his plate as atonement and begins filling his own.
“So what are you majoring in?” Joyce begins her interrogation, easing their guest into conversation.
For the next hour, Steve details himself, weaving in his effervescent charm, having Will and Joyce spirited and vocal by the time their plates are cleared. He finds they share the same sense of humor—the Byers‘ collective weakness is sarcasm. Jonathan chimes in, often battling Steve and his mother from oversharing, while Will takes advantage to poke fun at his older brother.
Steve slowly learns it's not too difficult to include yourself in a family dynamic when it’s established on sincerity, rather than the pressure of perfection.
At the end, Steve assists Jonathan in collecting the remainder left upon the table—although Joyce is quick to instruct her youngest son to take over, insisting on their manners for guests. As part of the Byers routine, they settle in the living room to catch a late-night program—Joyce decides on ‘M*A*S*H’, flickering through channels. Adjacently, the ceiling continues to leak into its pail, but the sound is drowned by the volume of the show.
Given limited seating, Will and Joyce situate on the broken couch, while Jonathan and Steve settle on the floor. During the episode, as the rest of Jonathan’s family maintains their focus on the television screen, the men below grow close enough for the static clang of their fabrics to zap skin, and bask in their tepid body heat.
Steve exchanges a sly glance Jonathan’s way, ever so often, as the other man lowly tuts, quick to sway him.
However, when Steve’s pinky joins his, Jonathan reciprocates.
By the credits, Joyce yawns and stretches, waking her youngest son, who cuddles into her side. She announces her removal and farewell, suggesting to her children, “I know it’s your guys’ winter break, but you shouldn’t stay up too late.”
Jonathan had nodded off, waking at Steve’s gentle tug on his hand. So, he croakily accepts, “Yeah. . . ‘m probably gonna sleep. Tired after all the driving.”
Will sulks, presumably expecting his brother's attention, but surrenders, “Hang out tomorrow?”
“Yeah, bud,” Jonathan promises, patting his shoulder.
“Goodnight, Steve,” Will waves, to which the other man repeats. Then, the youngest disappears into his bedroom.
Dozy, Jonathan half expects Steve to follow him—but clarity strikes when his mother returns with an air mattress to spread on the floor. They fumble with the air pump, inflating the makeshift bed for their guest. Looking up from his crouched state, over the loud drone of the machine, Jonathan shares a humorous expression of disapproval, to which Steve replies with a shrug.
Jeez. I’m too needy. Jonathan winces.
He supplies extra comforters, making Steve’s bed. He blushes, as the action feels reminiscent of dragging the dorm mattress off its bedframe, whenever the pair wanted more than sleep.
His mother lends him one last embrace and stumbles off to bed. Steve and Jonathan are left in their lonesome.
In the bathroom, they hunker over the sink, bumping hips as they brush their teeth and rinse their faces. Steve makes obnoxious, suggestive gag sounds around his brush, causing Jonathan to slam him into the wall with his side. Steve chortles, toothpaste foam flying.
In the living room, Steve tucks his body under the quilt, noting how it mildly smells of Jonathan. He adjusts his head on the pillow, and the mattress below him jumps, as Jonathan sits on its edge.
Jonathan sarcastically drawls, “Should we g–get on our knees and pray again, before bedtime?”
Steve chuckles, simpering down to flirt, “I’ll get on my knees for you, sure.”
Jonathan rolls his eyes, flexing the tendons in his jaw, trying to mask his amusement.
Deflating, he brushes Steve’s long hair from his temple, whispering, “If I remember right, this air mattress has a tiny hole in it, so. . . b—by morning, you’ll probably be on the floor.”
Rubbing his feet together, Steve snorts, “‘S okay.”
Jonathan frowns at the leaky ceiling and constant pattering. Pinching Steve’s cheek, he rues, “I—I’m sorry if that drives you crazy, too.”
“Nah,” Steve murmurs, closing his eyes, “Sounds nice.”
Jonathan scoffs in disbelief, resting over Steve’s ribcage. He quietly argues, "It's probably uncomfortable bein’ here. This place is a shithole.”
Steve languidly denies, “No. . . ‘s cozy.”
Can’t help myself.
“Liar,” Jonathan condemns, leaning down to press a small kiss against Steve’s slack mouth.
Steve moves with him, embracing his shoulders, relishing the soft texture of his long-sleeve shirt.
Friends don’t kiss every chance they get.
Jonathan breaks off.
They don’t kiss at all.
Steve pulls him back in for another.
Light footsteps scurrying across the floor startle them, catching their attention. Steve gasps, patting his stomach, “Chester, c’mere! Yeah, that’s a good boy.”
Steve scratches Chester’s ears as the woolly dog curls over his blanketed torso.
Jonathan can’t believe he’s jealous of a dog.
“You wanna sleep with this mutt?” Jonathan asks, patting Chester.
“Won’t be lonely tonight,” Steve smiles as he gazes at the snoozing dog, longingly sighing, “I never had a doggie.”
“No?” Jonathan sniffs, “I—I’m more of a cat person. Chester’s good, though.”
“Does not fucking surprise me,” Steve gruffs, maintains his pets, “You act like one—all sassy, and skittish, and shit.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jonathan sneers, “You act like a dog—all slobbery, and hyper, and shit.”
Steve giggles, tucking his face into his hoodie, protesting, “And loyal, and cute, and—“
Jonathan rolls his eyes, closing his sentence off with another kiss. A gush of air leaves Steve, and they finally part.
“Not a damn word, Chester,” Jonathan swears to the dog, and gives a peck atop his head, “Or you’ll be sleepin’ in the doghouse—for real.”
The terrier merely raises its droopy eyebrows before closing his eyes.
Jonathan stands. He leaves a lamp on, and tells Steve to get him if he needs anything, and wishes him goodnight. Steve’s voice softly echoes in response, rather than being imagined in his head.
He finds it hard to fall asleep, he realizes, as his body is now accustomed to having another beside him.
✶