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Sunlight set in thin strips sculpted by the blinds, its hue growing pink as it diminished – it graced Jonathan’s face partially, making the particular patches of skin glimmer with a golden gleam, his skin looks so soft , Steve thought as he stared unabashedly. He could simply pretend that he was just listening to Jonathan very attentively, seeing his mouth move and registering the corresponding gravelly voice that echoed.
Jonathan was now in college, he moved out of his family home at the beginning of the semester, living on his own. Such independence impressed Steve, as he wasn’t able to achieve anything of the sort – presently in his parents’ house and being rejected from community college. He envied Jonathan perpetually, even in high school, though he was discreet about it – despite being an elite of sorts at sixteen, Steve recognized that his popularity would dissipate and ultimately be useless later – and he wasn’t mistaken.
In the back of his mind, Steve knew that Jonathan was certainly doing some things correctly; usually avoiding conflict and violence, studying consistently, achieving academic success. All of those were characteristics Steve was deficient in; being well-liked, regarded as charismatic and popular was genuinely obsolete the second he finished high school. No amount of charm would secure an acceptance letter or a future, a bygone reputation was of no use once he had to face reality. Steve wasn’t unintelligent, just not well suited for formal education.
Objectively, he wasn’t well equipped for making his life anything colossal, so he settled for minimum-wage jobs and babysitting teens who happened to be his only remaining friends, besides Robin. Peaking in high school had its consequences and life wasn’t withholding any from him – fighting horrors beyond human comprehension only postponed the mundane and bleak remainder of his life that awaited Steve. Now unresolved trauma was annexed to the humdrum of everyday life and it inevitably didn’t make the adjustment easier.
Other people his age were more akin to Jonathan – getting an education, gaining independence from parents and gradually making a place in the world for themselves. Steve had no clue how to do that, any of it. His peers were nestling, building lives of their own with partners and enjoying their youth – he couldn’t even manage that. Romance and everything associated with it used to be a no-brainer for Steve, confidently flirting and scoring dates and engaging in casual relationships of all sorts was painless and straightforward when he had some crutch to lean on; such as being popular and handsome.
At the moment, he was a seemingly average guy with a monotonous job at a video store - that’s all anyone saw upon first glance, an embodiment of mediocrity. His newfound absence of self-confidence doubtlessly didn’t help – Steve constantly felt out of place, as if he were a fugitive from the confines and regulations of society, betraying the expectations placed upon him and losing his sense of self. The past three years of his life left a lingering scar on his psyche, creeping in his subconscious and exacerbating antecedent insecurities. It made very little sense to him – anyone who survived this shit would probably feel like a living legend, all indestructible and shit – yet he couldn’t identify with that.
The scars served as a visible, palpable admonition of his literal battles - adorning his chest, his abdomen and arms – slithering like ivy, unruly and jagged, still not faded. It took months for him to recover, after numerous stitches and ages of changing bandages, many varieties of skin cream and insistent, salient pain to the lightest touch.
He subconsciously avoided gazing in the mirror, cringing at the thought of what would glare back in the reflection. Simply put, the scars he sustained made Steve feel ugly. Disfigured, tarnished, misshapen. Robin’s assurance that they made him look cooler, badass, dauntless and whatnot didn’t persuade Steve, he disliked seeing the scarred tissue. He never thought maimed, scarred skin could look alluring, but that stance was subverted today.
When Jonathan shed his soaked shirt earlier, Steve had to halt for a moment in order to recuperate – it was quite a sight to behold, all together. His pale skin and its nearly translucent glimmer, thinly veiling the movements of his scapulae as he hunched over and withdrew into himself, his hair tossed over his shoulders, which were rather angular. Then the scars; sundry shades of red or pink, glaring and scattered across his skin – it left Steve utterly stunned.
Sure, Steve had thoughts of harming himself, more persistently than he’d admit, but carrying the urge out as an act never crossed his mind – it was entirely different and incomparably more severe to him. He couldn’t pretend to understand Jonathan’s reasoning, all he felt was bewilderment and concern, with a hint of guilt. I could’ve prevented this, if only I asked him about it. – pinning it on himself was a surefire way to ameliorate the situation in his mind. Why? – was the main, unspoken question.
Steve couldn’t fathom why Jonathan would’ve gone to such lengths and extreme measures; he’s brilliant, cool, he has his shit together. Has a family that actually cares. – a twinge of discomfort struck him at the thought. Jonathan was outwardly fine, even beyond alright. Steve couldn’t identify any severe flaw or lack, any trigger, but Jonathan had evidently been keeping to himself in their recent, written exchanges.
Jonathan was handsome, gorgeous even – according to Steve. This observation was kept private for pragmatic and logical reasons, as he had no interest in being gawked at in disbelief and obvious disgust. Besides, he didn’t really intend to act upon it – a mere cognizance is all it was. It provoked something guttural and bewildering in him, so he didn’t venture into thoughts of that kind, shoving them aside and filing under “Stuff for Future Me to Deal With” – his strategy wasn’t exactly foolproof.
Jonathan was captivating in an extremely particular way that made attraction to him all the more exclusive and uncommon – sort of like his personality. Admittedly, he didn’t fit the mould of conventionally attractive; not noticeably tall nor muscular or athletic, dressed in oversized clothing that always looked somewhat dismal and dull, merged with his uncouth hairstyle and maladroit way of speech. If Steve and him were on a spectrum, they’d be at the extremes, opposite of each other. But Jonathan Byers was distinctive and specific, those owlish eyes and soft-spoken tone made him special to Steve.
Indeed, Steve could’ve been with any girl of his choice in high school, he was somewhat of a trophy and his attention alone was considered an accolade. Diving in headfirst, playing cat and mouse games, feigning disinterest, acting obtuse, disarming girls with ample attention – he’d experienced it all, nearly every manner in which charming someone could function. The novelty of it all wore off over the years; flirting, dating, having sex – it burned him out. Asudden, Steve had no justification or evasion from the entirety of his identity and it frightened him. Having women perpetually draped over his arm, taking them out on dates, everything his love life had consisted of – it all dissuaded from the possibility he wasn’t fully hetero, postponing his confusion. I know I like girls, I like being with them and I think they’re pretty and hot and whatnot. I, Steve Harrington, like women, so I’m straight. I am so completely straight.
At sixteen, Steve wasn’t exactly informed about the existence of bisexuality – he lived in Hawkins, after all. A tiny town where conservatism prevailed and most families religiously attended church. His parents, though frequently absent, were a stark example of that norm. Steve was acutely aware of their standpoint on the matter, he knew the kinds of derogatory terms his father unleashed upon any effeminate man, masculine woman, or the concept of same-sex marriage.
For years, Steve would feign deafness at his words, until they began to painfully strike a chord with him. His father had referred to him as every abbreviation and synonym of faggot, though he knew his son drove around town with girls and had the reputation of a playboy. It was as if he saw through Steve’s facade, which terrified him – maybe it’s the hair, or the music – he couldn’t figure it out, anxiety pooling in his stomach and pounding in his ribcage. Denial wasn’t working so well, after all.
He remembered his first encounter with Jonathan, whose name he wasn’t aware of at the time – not a single word exchanged. A gaunt boy stood across the hall, his back to the wall, gazing blankly into the distance, an absent expression on his pronounced features. Eyes so dark they might’ve been pitch black, slender hands folded across his chest, all his clothes slightly large on his frame, ill-fitting and some indiscernible, dim color. Lips pursed into a tight line, etiolated complexion making him appear ghastly and despondent. His gaze shifted to Steve, their eyes locking, as if he had somehow sensed Steve’s stare. All the air in Steve’s lungs was instantaneously expunged for a terse moment, his head felt light and his limbs decrepit. Months would pass before the two spoke for the first time.
In the meantime, the entire debacle of Will’s disappearance occurred, making Jonathan’s presence known in Hawkins High, consequently turning him into a target. Essentially, Jonathan Byers was perceived as a freak of some sort, an outcast who had no desire to fit in nor conform to the soulless and vain culture of high school, which only unnerved and enraged its popular students. Suddenly, being introverted and peculiar was adequate reasoning to bully him relentlessly.
To this day, Steve was uncertain why he acted that way – maliciously making snide remarks, callously insulting and ridiculing Jonathan until he hit a breaking point. He’d nod along when Tommy or Carol made vile comments, agreeing that Jonathan was indeed a freak, weirdo, creep or whatever unimaginative insult they’d label him as.
Steve would still keep his gaze affixed to the back of Jonathan’s head in class, he’d still scour the hallways for his presence, clandestinely glance at Jonathan in the changing room, hoping he’d be in time to catch a glimpse of his bare form. A majority of the people in high school would’ve been appalled had they known – at best they’d mock him unendingly, at worst they’d assault and excommunicate him. The jutting vertebrae on Jonathan’s naked back, his ashen cheekbones, antiquated button-ups and unkempt bowl cut weren’t infatuating to anyone other than Steve. Until he caught Nancy’s eye.
Nancy had never been meant for Steve and he only became more cognizant of it as their relationship collapsed over time. She was far too intelligent, articulate, she was organized and determined, with actual goals to achieve. Her priorities misaligned with his; Nancy didn’t base her worth on the opinions of others and she was distinct, fully formed and unlike any girl Steve had ever dated prior. The relationship he had with Nancy was a solitary experience, never to be repeated again.
He could relate to Jonathan in a way – we just wanted different things . Nancy longed for academic prestige and was on a steadfast track to fulfill her ambitions, while Steve remained stranded and perplexed. She wanted genuine love and possibly a lifelong bond, which he couldn’t provide – his heart was elsewhere, as was his mind. Steve didn’t solely crave different things, he longed for something entirely separate and unreachable to him, unsure of what it was he really ached for.
He had grown incredibly attached to Nancy, shared trauma and whatnot likely played a pivotal role in that. Yet, Nancy wasn’t the one for Steve, nor was he for her – it was devastatingly fortunate. He reminisced upon seeing her with Jonathan for the first time, how his insides coiled in malaise, a knifelike jab that scorched his entire body. His attention wasn’t focused on Nancy, as he’d later realized, but on Jonathan, whose arm intertwined with hers. Steve coveted for it to be his instead.
When the Byers family moved away, Steve was partially relieved – with Jonathan at a sizable distance, his mind could be put to rest. Except it wasn’t ; Jonathan’s absence only made his presence in Steve’s thoughts more persistent. In the dead of the night, when he awoke drenched in cold sweat, Steve’s mind wandered to an idea of comfort in an effort to recede his rushing heartbeat and restore his breathing. He didn’t imagine his parents barging in, concerned and full of understanding, hugging him compassionately – he had no clue what that was like.
It wasn’t Nancy either, nor Robin or any of his other friends. It was invariably Jonathan, for reasons Steve couldn’t fathom or want to confront. Soft hair tickling his skin, lean arms squeezing until all the chipped and torn fragments inside him aligned once again and he could try to fall asleep anew. Jonathan’s soft and hushed voice, consoling him, convincing him he was safe, that his terrors were merely a figment of imagination. Steve would wake from nightmares most of the time, nearly every night. He never mentioned it in his letters or during phone conversations, deeming it too vulnerable.
Jonathan was here, in the flesh, sitting next to Steve on the bed. His hair was still damp, cascading to his shoulders, amiss and unbrushed. It had ostensibly grown longer since Steve had seen him, no trace of his signature bowl cut remained. His hand would dart to his forehead every so often, swiping strands of hair away from his eyes. The motion drew Steve’s attention to Jonathan’s eyelashes, unusually long and layered, obscuring his irises from the angle he was currently looking at. Jonathan’s eyes were one of his eminent features, owl-like, observant and often the only readable part of Jonathan's demeanor.
Jonathan leaned over the bed's edge, forgoing the mostly empty pizza box and its grease-stained cardboard on the floor and grabbing his bag, hoisting it into his lap. Steve silently watched as he rummaged briefly, pulling out a mustard-yellow envelope and setting the bag aside. Jonathan's knee bumped into his own when he scooted closer, a welcome contact.
He was showing Steve a series of photographs, mostly of his new town, its vacant streets and oddities. A roller skating rink lit by neon signs and fluorescent lighting, a ditch converted into a skate park, artistic graffiti on an abandoned, nearly demolished brick wall, a double rainbow arching over a row of houses – all of the shots seemed expert and impressive to Steve, though he didn't know much about photography. Jonathan’s eyes lit up whenever he complimented some small detail or took the photo into his own hand to examine it closely, that was enough for Steve.
Somewhere down the line, Steve’s eyes darted to Jonathan’s face, inspecting it instead of the photographs. The dark circles underneath his eyes only seemed to eclipse over time, their hue reminiscent of ripe bruises, giving his entire face a crepuscular, dreary appearance – like an indie vampire , Steve thought. At times, Jonathan looked like a lost puppy to him, doe-eyed and bearing a perturbed expression, making him appear innocuous and arguably odd, concealing his trenchant gaze and analytic nature. Steve had developed a sixth sense throughout high school, geared specifically towards Jonathan’s piercing gaze – it sent shivers down his spine, aimed at his back in the middle of a class, disintegrating him in the changing room, puncturing him in the parking, making the hairs on his neck rise along with his pulse. He called them Jonathan Looks, as they were unique to him.
A glance befitting that category was aimed at him momentarily, silence inundating the room, Jonathan’s hands folded in his lap. They’d gone through all the photographs, he returned them to their envelope, leaving it on Steve’s desk with an explanation that they were a gift of sorts. Steve hoped the warmth surging to his cheeks wasn’t noticeable upon hearing that, uttering thanks to Jonathan.
With a flick of the light switch, the previously dim room lit up; dusk had passed and night had properly fallen. Jonathan’s first night at his house, twenty remaining. The vacant guest bedroom was intended for him, Steve had even changed the sheets and made the bed, smoothing the covers to flatten any creases. He removed all of his family’s obsolete belongings, lugging them to the basement instead, wanting to make room for Jonathan and his comfort.
The doors to their respective rooms were situated exactly across from each other, thus Jonathan could simply slide off Steve’s bed at any chosen moment and retreat to the other room. Glancing at his watch, Steve noted it was nearly eleven pm, inciting a yawn. He had a morning shift tomorrow, a guaranteed eight hours of doing virtually nothing since it was a Sunday and simultaneously chatting with Robin. He predicted Jonathan would still be asleep when he left for work, making a mental note to shut the door and avoid waking him up.
Steve jolted, eyes suddenly shot open, his breathing rapid and unsteady. Chilled sweat trickled down his neck, he felt frozen yet searing, the weight of his body immovable and the pressure on his chest cavity immense. His heart fluttered insanely fast, echoing in his ears and causing his head to spin. Attempting to straighten himself into a sitting position, he sensed a genuine weight atop him, emanating warmth and shifting rhythmically, a lumped outline in the darkness. Regaining cognizance, Steve realized that he was lying in his own bed, the familiar softness of his pillow and the recognizable outline of his desk soothing his nerves. No tentacles suffocating him, no Vecna pulling him through the gate, the world as he knew it wasn’t coming apart at the seams and he didn’t have to rush into action and risk his life once again – everything was alright, he was secure and unharmed. Steve tried to reassure himself, yet he kept hyperventilating, incapable of calming down.
It was particularly awful this time; Vecna chasing after him, constantly within arm’s reach, producing terrifying noises he’d never heard before, Steve continued running through a shadowy landscape, frantically trying to evade Vecna. He slipped and just about tripped a handful of times, picking up the pace after each mishap, sprinting so fast yet moving unfathomably slow. The tenebrous atmosphere looming over Steve only became dimmer and more ominous, Vecna fell silent and Steve felt the tips of his gruesome claw-like nails prickle his skin, his stamina wavered, legs turning numb and lungs ablaze. On the verge of collapse, Steve felt a frigid hand grip his forearm, its touch slimy and rigid, in the dream, he shrieked in terror.
The panic was extremely real, despite it being a figment of his imagination. His hysteria soared due to the uncharted weight upon him, mind brimming with utter fear. Whatever lay on him now stirred, much to his horror.
"Steve? What's wrong?"
A raspy yet gentle voice emerged from the dark, undoubtedly Jonathan's. Upon realizing it, Steve nearly let out a laugh, but he was far too breathless. His entire body trembled and shivered, limbs incapable of movement while he concentrated on breathing. Jonathan was now sitting upright, looking down at him, bared in likely the most vulnerable position possible. The sudden attention only magnified his panic, eyes darting around the gloomy room wildly, body still quivering. He felt naked, more exposed than earlier, when he’d revealed his scars, though he wasn’t shirtless or intoxicated now.
Steve was unable to distinguish Jonathan’s movements, merely hearing the sheets rustle. Asudden, he felt his head being elevated, a pair of cold hands grasping either side of it cautiously – it was then lowered onto some surface, equitably pliable and firm, which then shifted slightly. A hand nestled in his hair, fingers running through his tangled locks, dampened by sweat, tenderly caressing it. His focus rested on the foreign sensation, averting his mind from the nightmare he’d just endured – Steve’s breathing pacified, now stable. Occasionally, Jonathan cooed quietly, assuring him that everything’s fine, you’re safe, it’s okay, I got you. He went limp, back no longer arched against the mattress, hands released from fists. Everything is alright – he felt at that moment, utterly tranquil. Jonathan’s touch was tender, feather-light and soothing, making Steve melt as his anxiety dissipated. Jonathan hummed a tune quietly, some somber melody, murmuring the lyrics softly.
“ Hearing you in my sleep
Feeling you, your cadence seeps
Whispering in flashback
The specters of your memories
Fall in glistening showers
Such a tender descent
Intones this haunting lament
The sweetest chill
Fearing you but calling your name
Icy breath encases my skin…”
The song was foreign to him, but he liked it, perhaps because it was Jonathan singing, in such a hushed, gentle way nonetheless.
“Which song was that?”
“Uh… Sweetest chill.”
“It’s nice, I like it.”
Had he spoken further, something inside him would’ve surely shattered in his current fragile state. So Steve remained quiet and attentive to breathing.
Eventually, Steve comprehended that he was lying in Jonathan’s lap, head resting snugly on his thighs, being pet and comforted in the middle of the night in his bed – it was tangible and very real. The sudden awareness jostled his heart, accelerating after being so somber moments prior. T hink, fast. Do something. Move. Not a single part of Steve desired to shift from this position, yet his mind screamed urgently. Fucking shit.
“Hey, uh, should we… move? So your legs don’t fall asleep.”
His voice nearly cracked, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain and timid. Jonathan’s palms lifted his head once again, lowering it onto the pillow, which Steve found less comfortable than the previous one. He didn’t anticipate Jonathan lying down on his side to face him, sensing the tiny gust of air on his cheek as Jonathan exhaled. We’re too close. So close, shit. Jonathan’s breath hit his face as he spoke, splintering Steve instantaneously.
“Are you okay? I’m sorry if I can’t help…”
“Yes and no. You’re helping. I just… I have nightmares often.”
Steve intercepted, rushing to explain, speaking over the thumping of his heart that echoed through his head. Why am I this nervous? A nightmare, big deal. Whatever, he’s probably had them too. It’s normal. This is normal. We are normal, doing completely normal stuff friends do and acting so nor-
His doomed spiral of thought was interrupted when he felt Jonathan’s hand reach his, taking it. Jonathan entwined their fingers, fumbling in the dark, it was chaste and genuine and it dissolved Steve to his core. He felt Jonathan’s grip tighten for a second, pulsing – he reciprocated the squeeze. A myriad of indiscernible thoughts coursed through Steve’s head, he certainly couldn’t fall asleep in this state. Do something. Anything. This tension will be the death of me.
Hastily, he extends his unoccupied arm, reaching for Jonathan. His hand settles near Jonathan’s hipbone, in a crevice adjacent to his waist. Steve holds his breath and pulls Jonathan towards him in a single swift movement. Their hands remain interlaced, Jonathan’s forehead settled against Steve’s chest, while his chin rests atop Jonathan’s head. Despite his exhaustion and exhilaration, Steve notices how soft Jonathan’s hair is. Neither utters a word, their breathing harmonized.
Steve is awoken by the blaring of his alarm. His entire being resists getting out of bed, revolting against movement. Steve tries to remain composed when the realization sets in afresh, not wanting to disturb Jonathan’s slumber. His hair is splayed on the sheets, a serene expression on his face – combined with his ashen skin, it gives him an almost angelic appearance. Steve allows himself to gently brush over Jonathan’s cheek with the pad of his thumb before he must get up to prevent being late to work. He isn’t certain why Jonathan spent the night in his bed, but he’s undeniably grateful.
He puts effort into being silent and unobtrusive, going about his usual routine, sporadically glancing over at the bed. Jonathan’s still asleep when he exits the house, leaving an explanation in the form of a sticky note on the bedside table.
Pulling into the Family Video parking lot, Steve sighs vehemently, sensing a stifled scream in the back of his throat. He kills the engine, interrupting The Smiths mid-song. He’s unsure whether he’s absolutely ecstatic or utterly mortified, perhaps Robin will help him conclude. Under his breath, Steve hummed the melody he heard last night, reminiscing upon Jonathan’s soft voice and tender hand grasping his.