Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together

            to make a creature that will do what I say

or love me back.

Richard Siken, “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”

 ― 

“If you could see one person one more time before the big bad Ruskies obliterate us,” Robin giggles, “who would it be?”

Her head lolls back against Steve’s shoulder.  She’s probably already forgotten what she asked him, is already sort of humming to herself and tapping her feet; but Steve has been feeling so wonderfully unabashedly honest for these last few minutes or months or however long they’ve been here, tied together in their Scoops uniforms and possibly dying from beating-induced brain hemorrhages or Russian poison that he says, without hesitating, “Jonathan Byers.  And I’d give him a big ole kiss.”

He does have enough inhibition left that he wants, just a little bit, to take it back; but Robin only dissolves into laughter again, which sets him laughing too.  Then she’s telling him that she’d like to see Annie Lennox because she’s just so fucking hot and even through his haze, Steve thinks that they understand each other. 

 ― 

Steve isn’t sure that he and Robin are ever going to discuss the truth serum night again.  

The rest of it passed in a blur of Henderson with a cattle prod and Nancy with a gun and a monster nearly killing them all, culminating in six of the ten of them being officially pronounced concussed by an overworked nurse who’d been told that all of them had been trapped in the mall during what was variously being referred to as  “the explosion,” “the earthquake,” and simply “the incident.”   

Steve’s parents breeze by long enough to ensure that they aren’t being sued and that it wouldn’t be profitable for them to sue anyone.  He allows himself to be inspected and fussed over for a few weeks until they’ve reassured themselves that he isn’t going to die in his sleep and move on to phase two, the Isn’t It Time To Look For Other Work? Phase, at which point he decides that at least a brain bleed alone, in his sleep, would be a peaceful way to go.  

The first thing that he does when they’ve finally left is call Robin.  The second thing he does is ask her out to dinner.  

He tacks on a quick, “I’m not coming on to you, by the way.  I have…”  At this point he pauses, considering: Truth serum induced knowledge of your proclivities? An understanding that I am not Annie Lennox? A taboo romantic preoccupation of my own?  He settles for, “I have a good memory.”  

He can almost hear her nodding over the phone line, slow and deliberate, mulling over her reply.  

“I have a good memory, too.” 

 ― 

They drive out of their way to a McDonald’s outside the city limits, where they fold themselves into a corner booth and try not to be conspicuous as those kids from the mall disaster .  Their pictures have been on the news for weeks, the grainy black-and-white ones from their Scoops ID badges along with high school yearbook photos and some candid shots of Robin with her clarinet, Steve with a basketball.  

“We look very all-American teen,” Robin had said.  She’d called him for  a viewing party of the first broadcast.  

“Truth in television, baby,” Steve had replied just as Jonathan and Will flashed across the screen, the anchor droning about two brothers once again caught in the crossfire of a tragedy .  He clicked the TV off.

Robin drags a fry through ketchup with what Steve would consider unnecessary force, avoiding his eyes.  “Did you see the for sale sign?”  

“They’re already selling the lot from the mall?  Isn’t it, like, irradiated now?”  

Henderson was the one who proposed that the mall have been irradiated by whatever was in those vials, correcting Steve (roughly three minutes after they were both shuttled through a CT scan and pronounced concussed) for calling the green stuff  nuclear : “It would be a radioactive substance, meaning the mall is now irradiated. ”    

Steve meditates on this and the bickering they’d done for a half hour afterwards, rather than what Robin is actually saying.  

Robin rolls her eyes.  “I’m pretty sure the mall is still being cleaned up by the JROTC, or whoever the fuck swooped in at the last minute to play G.I. Joe.”  She’s dragging around another french fry, or maybe the same one, making little figure-eights on her tray.  “There’s a for sale sign in Joyce Byers’ yard.  I passed it on my way home a few days ago.”  

Robin seems unsurprised by Steve’s lack of surprise.  “I assume you’ve seen it on your little stalker drive-bys, when you go toss pebbles at his window or whatever.”  

Now he is a little surprised.  He opens his mouth to tell her so, but she interjects: “I’ve passed you out there like, three times.  And I know you don’t need to drive past to get home from the grocery store or anything else you’re about to say, because Loch Nora was specifically built so you could avoid the peasantry as much as possible.”

  “I’m not stalking,” Steve says, and now he’s the one avoiding eye contact, “I’m attempting. ”

“ Attempting to stalk?” Robin asks, incredulous.  

“Jesus Christ,” Steve huffs.  “There’s no stalking, okay?  And I’m not tossing pebbles at his window, either.  I just wanna talk to him.”  

Robin considers this for a moment.  She’s put the french fry out of its misery and is now fiddling with her drink, squeaking the straw up and down.  She sticks her bottom lip out, and Steve knows what she’s about to do, but it doesn’t make it any less humiliating when she baby-talks,  “Does he know you have a wittle cwush on him?”  

“Oh, he knows,” Steve says, realizing too late that he’s accompanied it with a dramatic little eye roll and hand flourish.  

Robin, because she is both insufferable and a genius (or maybe Steve is just very easy to read), interprets this almost immediately to mean―“Are you like, dating him or something?  Because I didn’t even realize you knew each other.”  To her credit, she leans across the table for this, conspiratorially shielding her mouth with one hand. 

Steve considers continuing to speak in code―maybe wiggling his eyebrows or saying oh we know each other ; but an employee is mopping around them, which he recognizes from their Scoops days as a cue to get the fuck out and let them close, so instead he says, “We can talk about this in the car.”  

 ― 

Once they reach the car, Robin launches into full steam ahead interrogation mode.  For a while, it goes like this:

Robin, wide-eyed:   How long has this been going on?

Steve, grimacing and staring straight ahead: It’s kind of hard to explain.

Robin: Are you dating?  

Steve: I wouldn’t say we ever dated.

Robin: But he knows you like him?

Steve, scoffing: I would hope so.  

Robin: I thought that he was dating Nancy Wheeler.  I thought you might still be dating   Nancy Wheeler!

Steve: I don’t think he’s interested in Nancy Wheeler.  (A pause, in which he is fully aware that he looks like a miserable little puppy dog.)   I hope he’s not.

Robin, increasingly exasperated: How long has this been going on roughly ?

And then he says, “Do you remember when Tommy Hagan disappeared?” 

 ― 

Tommy Hagan disappeared on November 8, 1983 at roughly 1 AM, to be exact.

Steve had been upstairs at the time, busy deflowering Nancy Wheeler.  One minute Tommy was standing by the pool, probably cooling off from an argument with Carol, and the next he was gone― Like he just vanished off the face of the earth or something, Steve had told the police later.

The night had started out normally.   Swimmingly, in fact, because Steve had known for a fact that he was going to get laid.    

But this isn’t really a story about Tommy Hagan disappearing, the details of which everyone in Hawkins knows some bastardized version of, by now: The story of a chemical leak and a feral little Russian girl.  This is about Jonathan Byers, who comes in two nights prior, when Steve had practically floated into the BP to buy booze and cigarettes in preparation.  

He was expecting Eric, who was always so stoned he barely had a pulse and would probably sell Steve an atom bomb without ID if they were in the inventory.  

It had been a minor blow when he was met, instead, with the dead eyes of Jonathan Byers―who Steve mistakenly called Jason while attempting to charm him.  “Jason, buddy,” he said, gesturing towards the beer with a what are ya gonna do? I’m just a scamp. sort of shrug that was typically a hit with old ladies.  “You know how it is.”

“No,” Jonathan dead-panned, just as Steve caught a glimpse of his name tag, “I don’t.”

Steve could save this, he knew.  “Sorry about that.  It’s just that you look a little like that Jason and the Argonauts guy.  Good lookin’ dude, if I say so myself.”  He smiled.  Jonathan just looked at him―like he couldn’t even be bothered with glaring, like Steve was worth as much energy as a leaf blowing across the parking lot.  Which, fair; he wasn’t exactly Steve’s target audience.  

“I’m not selling you beer,” Jonathan said slowly, pointing out the NO ONE UNDER AGE  21 WILL BE SERVED sign above the register as if for Steve’s benefit, like he might not be aware.  

OK, so charm wasn’t going to work.  It was time for facts.

“I buy beer here once a week.  At least.” 

Jonathan continued staring.  At this point, he may have even been looking over Steve’s shoulder.  “We have cameras,” he said, and turned his back.

Steve imagined, in that moment, that he probably wanted to say more: Some of us need to keep our jobs, you know.  Not everyone’s dad has more money than God.  I don’t even have a dad.  But he didn’t say any of that.  He just leaned down and started stocking cigarettes, which was somehow the most infuriating thing he could have done.  

Steve would be grateful, later, that Tommy wasn’t with him that night.  His absence meant that there was no one there to encourage Steve to puff his chest and do his Do You Know Who I Am? Routine, no one who would goad him into dashing out with the beer.  So instead, because he was alone, Steve set the beer aside and grabbed a pack of gum. 

“Do you need to see my ID for this?”

 ― 

  By November 10th, the woods behind Loch Nora were crawling with cops, Will Byers had washed up in the quarry, and Steve Harrington’s father was obsessively combing the footage from their security camera.

Rather, he had charged Steve with obsessively combing the footage from their security cameras because, as he put it: “Your little friend goes missing after getting boozed up at my fucking house?  You better just hope he turns up soon, before the Hagans have us living in a single-wide trailer.”  

His dad always was afraid of getting sued by some vague entity or another, being taken for everything he had .  Maybe Steve was partially at fault for putting himself in so many suable situations.

So he popped the tapes in whenever he worked out or ate breakfast or took a stab at  his English homework, all while privately thinking that Tommy was probably at his brother’s in Michigan blowing off steam and hitting on college girls.  It was something they could laugh about later.  Carol would scream at Tommy and maybe even slap him; his parents would forbid him from leaving the house for a month, forcing him to shimmy in and out of the window for a few days instead of using the front door; and Steve would rib him for choosing the worst time to disappear, when the whole town was already whipped into a frenzy by an actual dead kid.  

It was as Steve lint-rolled his suit in preparation for that dead kid’s―Will Byers―visitation that he saw it.  

The tape from the night Tommy disappeared was rolling in the background, showing a sequence of events Steve knew by heart at this point: Tommy storming out the back door; Tommy screaming at something just offscreen, probably Carol; Tommy taking a slug straight out of a liquor bottle before tossing it at the back fence, shattering it.  That part always made Steve cringe, because he knew that bottle to be one of his dad’s, one of the few that would actually be missed.  Perhaps a little selfishly, it was one of the major reasons he wanted Tommy to get his ass home from Michigan as soon as possible, so he could cough up the cash to replace it. 

To his credit, Tommy walks to the back fence and starts picking up broken glass almost immediately.  At some point he seems to cut his hand―there’s no sound, but Steve could almost read his lips as he swears, god fucking damn it , before wiping blood on his jeans.  

At this point in the viewing, Steve stooped down to tie his shoe, already knowing what comes next: The power goes out.  He had realized it the very next morning, when he had to reset the clock on the microwave: It had frozen at 1:03.   By the time the cameras were rolling again, Tommy would be gone.

He watched from the corner of his eye as the outside lights started flickering on screen.  

At this point, Steve Harrington had gotten pretty tired of this fucking tape.  His dad had been too busy schmoozing Jim Hopper and Tommy’s parents to watch them himself; but Steve knew without even watching them―and especially having watched them half a dozen times in two days―that they couldn’t find the Harringtons guilty of anything besides being too trusting of their teenaged son.  Maybe even a little neglectful, if they wanted to get into legal terms.  

In that moment, resolved that he would find something to exonerate himself, he paused the tape.  

Tommy had sunk into one of the poolside chairs, still cradling his injured hand.  The lights, in that exact frame, were on, though Steve knew they’d shut off completely a few seconds later.   There were beer cans scattered everywhere, wet socks and shoes discarded in piles by the back door.  The patio table contained nothing of interest but a pizza box, an overflowing ashtray, and the solitary can of Coke that Barbara Holland had insisted on drinking instead of beer. 

 Quickly, almost as an afterthought, Steve scanned the woods―he was supposed to meet Nance at the funeral home at seven.  He didn’t want to be late and leave her alone to stare into a casket, even if he didn’t know the kid.  

The woods were, for the most part, a clump of fuzzy shadows vaguely resembling trees.  The only thing breaking up the shadows was a white smudge in the right corner, which Steve had already dismissed on a previous viewing as being a firefly that flew into the camera.  

He leaned towards the screen.  The smudge seemed different. He had seen bugs fly into frame on other tapes, their wings almost grazing the lens.  On closer inspection, this smudge lacked the definition those had had, with none of the microscopic details that should have been visible on a small thing flying so close.

 ― 

To his credit, Steve still pulled into Valley of Hope Funeral Home at 7:02.

“You’re late,” Nancy chided, but she still squeezed his arm and didn’t let go as they made their way in.  Her nails dug into his bicep.  When he leaned down to peck her cheek, he pretended not to notice that it was wet.  

The rest of the Wheelers were already inside.  Nancy’s parents hovered awkwardly by the refreshments table, sipping black coffee and making small talk.  Mike was clumped together with his friends, the three of them forming a sort of circle that didn’t fully close.  

Steve wouldn’t realize until much later what that meant, and how they must have felt.  

Nancy pulled him towards the Byers, never one to stop for coffee first, but seemed to lose her nerve once she made eye contact with Ms. Byers, leaving Steve to propel them forward.  

Glassy-eyed Ms. Byers didn’t seem to register their presence, her gaze directed somewhere over their heads.  Steve wasn’t sure if she was even blinking.  

Nancy straightened her back and released Steve’s arm, regaining her composure.  

“I am so sorry,” she said, before pulling Ms. Byers and then Jonathan into stiff, unreciprocated hugs.  Steve shook Jonathan’s hand and patted his mother’s shoulder.  Lonnie Byers was there too, hovering awkwardly, but Nancy wouldn’t even look at him, so Steve followed her lead.  

Soon, they were being pushed along by the ebb and flow of the other mourners, who seemed to consider the seal broken now and wanted to give hugs and reassuring shoulder squeezes of their own.  

They meandered towards the refreshment table, where Nancy leaned towards him and whispered, “They all slept in the basement floor last night.”  She nodded towards Mike and his friends, still in their circle.  “Curled up together.  I don’t know how we’ll ever convince them to be away from each other again.”  Her face crumpled.  

“It’s good that they have each other,” Steve said, meaning it.  He tried to imagine if it had been Tommy they pulled out of the quarry, if he really wasn’t just holed up in his brother’s apartment.  Who would stand in that circle with him?

Steve pointedly tried not to think of the tape, and what it could mean.

He needed a cigarette.  Barbara Holland had arrived at that point, looking at him with only a sliver of her typical hatred, and he passed Nancy off towards her as he went.  

Steve exited through the back of the funeral home and found himself face to face―or face to back, as it were―with a hunched over Jonathan Byers, retching into the bushes.

   The logical portion of Steve’s brain recognized this as a private moment of grief.  That portion of his brain tugged at his arms and legs from the inside, encouraging him to turn back to the door and go smoke out front, or in his car.  

Even on a good day, the logical part of Steve’s brain often lost the battle to his mouth.  This was no exception.  

“Jesus Christ,” he said, just as the door slammed shut behind him.  

Jonathan whipped around.  He wasn’t puking anymore, thank God, but was covering his mouth with one hand.  The other was clutching an unlit cigarette.  For a moment, Steve could only stare at him, hoping he didn’t look as slack-jawed as he felt.  

He had made a split-second decision not to mention the puking.  

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Steve said stupidly, holding up his pack of Marlboro Reds.  

Jonathan pressed his back to the wall of the funeral home, slid down until he was sitting on the curb, and buried his head in his knees.  

Steve would realize later that this was his second major cue to leave, with the first being the puking.  Instead, he sank down beside him.  

“Need a light?” Steve asked.  He was hesitant to light his own, unsure of the etiquette of blowing smoke in the face of the bereaved.

Jonathan didn’t respond.  Instead, he opened his palm and dropped his cigarette.  

Steve picked it up just as it began to roll away, pocketing it.  “You might as well throw away a whole nickel,” he said.  Jonathan still wasn’t speaking, but he did lift his head for a brief glare.  

Steve should have stood up, at that point.  Brushed off the seat of his pants and made his way inside to put an arm around Nancy, who had been slowly leaking tears all night.  He might go ruffle Mike’s hair for good measure, even if it just served to make the kid forget how much he missed his friend for a second to think instead about how much he despised Steve.    

But that would leave Jonathan Byers alone on the curb, pale and folded into himself.  He was shaking beneath his black suit jacket, Steve noticed.

“Kind of cold out,” Steve tried.  He slid his cigarettes back into his pocket, resigned.

Finally, Jonathan spoke.  “Why are you here ?” 

Steve considered this for a moment.  Because my girlfriend told me to be and to pay my respects to your dead brother seemed inappropriate, if true.  Besides, even though he typically existed on the periphery of his world, Steve knew that Jonathan Byers was smart; he would be disgusted, but not surprised, that the entirety of their small town had turned out to gawk at his family’s once-in-a-lifetime tragedy.  

He decided to give the honest answer: “I don’t know, man.”

For whatever reason, this did the trick.  Jonathan tipped his head back against the wall behind them, letting out a breath he must have been holding.  “I figured you and your buddies might want an up close look at my crazy mom.”  He breathed deeply again, then let it out.  He was skinny enough that Steve could swear he saw ribs moving under his shirt.  “Or my prodigal father.” 

“I think going crazy is expected,” Steve said, trying to match Jonathan’s tone, which had turned weirdly casual.  “My  great aunt died last year and I thought my mom was going to jump into her grave even though she was, like, a hundred years old.”  

Jonathan wasn’t exactly smiling, at that point, but the corners of his mouth were twitching.  “Did your mom also say your great aunt had been kidnapped by a faceless monster that was living in your walls and accuse the coroner of burying a fake body?”  He paused for a second.  “Because that’s what I mean by crazy.”

Steve had nothing to say to that.

After a few moments of silence, it was Jonathan who stood first, dusting himself off and straightening his tie.  “Guess I’d better get back in there,” he said.  

Steve was still sitting on the curb, looking up at him.  He debated trying to continue the banter by saying you’re the man of the hour or something equally idiotic and borderline offensive.  He’d taken a pack of gum out of his pocket just for something to mess with once he’d given up on smoking a cigarette.  He started to extend a stick towards Jonathan from below, then realized how he must look and sprang to his feet instead.  “Want a piece?” 

To his surprise, Jonathan took it.  “Thanks,” he said, just as Steve remembered that this whole thing had started with Jonathan puking.  

“Your breath’s fine, by the way.  I just wanted to…”  Steve paused, because he didn’t actually know what his goal was, here.  He cleared his throat, looked down at his shoes, and pivoted.  “It’s pretty good stuff, Freshen Up .  They’ve upped the fresh, apparently.”

“So I’ve heard,” Jonathan said.  Then he disappeared back into the funeral home, leaving Steve on the sidewalk with one less stick of gum and an extra cigarette in his pocket, and the words faceless monster doing laps in his head.

 ― 

 Steve reviewed the tape again that night, frame by frame, until he could make out the details of the white smudge.  It had spindly, impossibly long arms and legs protruding from a body like nothing he’d ever seen; there was no glint of eyes, no mouth, no facial features he could make out at all; and it was moving, in the few seconds that it was on screen, towards Tommy.

He wanted to talk to Jonathan Byers.   

He pulled a dusty phone book from the top of the refrigerator and leafed through it, frantic, until he found the Byers’ number.  But when he glanced at the microwave clock and saw 2:13 AM blinking back at him, he couldn’t bring himself to call.  Jonathan obviously didn’t subscribe to this faceless monster theory, and was unlikely to be swayed by Steve Harrington, of all people.  It may even come off as a prank.

Steve dialed the Hagans instead and got Tommy’s mother.  When he didn’t say anything, she grew increasingly frantic: “Tommy, is that you?  Tommy, you’re scaring the hell out of us.  Please just tell us what’s going on, honey.” 

He hung up without speaking.

 ― 

Nancy had told him he could skip the funeral.  In fact, she encouraged it.  “It’s close friends and family,” she said, when Steve had called her the morning of to let her know he was going after all.  “You already paid your respects, Steve.  I have to go because of Mike.”  

“Jonathan’s a friend,” he said, hoping he sounded calm and collected, not like someone who had stayed up until sunrise winding and rewinding the same thirty seconds of security footage.  “I gave him some gum last night.  And I have his cigarette.”

“I’m sure he’s got more on his mind than cigarettes,” Nancy tutted.  But Steve could tell he was wearing her down; her voice was softer when she said, “It’s at Underwood at two, if you insist.  You can just meet us there so you don’t have to drive in the procession.” 

 ― 

The funeral would later be described, in polite terms, as subdued.  It was clear that there would be no jumping into the grave.  There was barely even crying, beyond the sniffles of Mrs. Wheeler and a girl from Will’s class, the latter of which apparently delighted Mike’s friends.  Steve spent most of it with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, fiddling with the loose cigarette and wishing he had taken a closer look at the open casket the night before, at what Ms. Byers called the fake body.      

The officiant called on the crowd to speak as flowers were distributed amongst them, to be dropped onto the coffin.  Ms. Byers was silent; Lonnie Byers gave a long, rambling speech about his boy ; and Jonathan said, simply, Will’s my brother.  He knows that I love him.  Steve saw Mike and his friends nod in silent agreement. 

Afterwards, he slipped away from Nancy under the pretense of giving Jonathan his cigarette.  She rolled her eyes, but there was a glint in them, like the gesture was so unbearably, profoundly sad that she couldn’t deny him.  She squeezed his hand before trotting forward to catch up with her parents.

Jonathan was still at the gravesite, watching the digging crew, when Steve approached him.

“Hey, man.”  Steve had not, at this point, planned what he’d say next.  It seemed tasteless to lead with the monster, so he blurted, “I liked your speech.”

Jonathan glanced at him.  “I just wanted to tell the truth.”  Steve could read between the lines on that one, he thought: Unlike my shitty absentee father, who I am avoiding so I do not kill him.

And then there was nothing else to talk about but the monster, unless Steve truly wanted to go the returning your cigarette route, so he said, “I saw something really weird on my dad’s security camera last night.  Like, really weird.”

He thought that he saw Jonathan’s face grow even paler, then.  He must have known what was coming.

“I think I saw that monster your mom’s been talking about.”  

This was not, apparently, what Jonathan was expecting him to say, because now he gaped at Steve like he’d like to either slug him or start crying.  Steve forged ahead, rambling about Tommy disappearing and didn’t your brother go missing in the woods too and mistaking the monster for a smudge at first, a wayward firefly.

“So I don’t think your mom’s crazy at all,” Steve concluded, just as Jonathan gritted out, “Is everything just a big fucking joke to you?” 

“I have footage, man, I can show you-”  Steve was exasperated at this point, maybe drawing more attention to himself than he needed to be; but it was just them and the gravediggers.  Crazier things than two guys bickering at a funeral had surely happened on their watch.  “If you come to my house, I can show you the tape.  If this thing took your brother, wouldn’t you want to know?” 

The look on Jonathan’s face, now, was undisguised disgust.  “I’m not coming to Loch Nora so you and Tommy Hagan can jump out and toss me into your pool or kick my ass or whatever it is you’re planning, Harrington.  Frankly, you think I’d get a pass on this kind of bullshit for a while, considering.”  At that, he jerked his head towards the grave, still just partway full.  

“Tommy Hagan is fucking missing ,” Steve hissed.  “If you don’t believe me, I’ll have Nancy there too and…and Barbara Holland!  God, Barbara Holland fucking despises me way more than you do, trust me.  She doesn’t take shit from me, like, at all.”

Maybe Jonathan could hear the desperation in his voice, then.  Or maybe he just wanted to see how far Steve was willing to take it.  “So you’re going to have me, and your girlfriend, and her friend over under the pretext of us having a viewing party of your security tapes?  Where we’ll see…a monster?”  

Steve raked a hand through his hair.  This was fucking exhausting already.  “I’ll tell Nance we’re watching movies―she falls asleep during the first twenty minutes of every movie she’s ever seen, so it won’t be a super long wait or anything.  Once she’s out, Barb’s gonna make some excuse to leave and take Nancy with her.  Then I’ll show you the tape while they’re still in the driveway, so you can run out screaming for help if you discover I actually have some evil plan.” 

 ― 

Steve rented Flashdance and cooked them all a frozen lasagna for their trouble.  Only Nancy really talked, politely asking Jonathan about his classes while Steve hovered between the kitchen and dining room, always finding an excuse to go back for one more thing or offer to refill Barb’s glass of tea, which was full.  

After the second refill, Nancy cornered him by the sink.  “What the hell is going on?”  

She was whispering, thank God.  Steve hissed back, “Can’t I just be nice to a guy?  Have some faith in me.”  He tried to side-step her and slither out of the kitchen, afraid that Jonathan could walk in and mistake this for conspiring.  Nancy stepped back at the same time, blocking the way.  

“ Are you being nice to him?” she asked.  Her eyes were drilling a hole through his skull.

“Jesus, Nance.  I’m not a complete monster.”  He tried the pout strategy, sticking his bottom lip out.  “I’m really not.”

Typically, this was the part where Nancy would give in, breaking into a smile and swatting his arm; now, she only narrowed her eyes before spinning on her heel and stalking off.

 ― 

For the first time in history, Nancy Wheeler stayed awake for the entire movie.  

Under normal circumstances, Steve would be thrilled; if she was awake, they could be making out.  He didn’t give a flying fuck about following the plot of Flashdance (or most other movies, for that matter) if that was a possibility; but Nancy perched herself on the couch beside Barbara as soon as dinner was over, leaving Steve the choice of sharing the loveseat with Jonathan or sitting on the floor.

In what he hoped Nancy would interpret as a display of goodwill, he plopped down beside Jonathan with a “hey buddy” and a pat on the shoulder.  The pat was met with a genuine flinch , which Steve thought was dramatic―but whatever.  Steve was determined not to dwell on the fact that his own girlfriend seemed to think him capable of tormenting a guy whose kid brother had just died, and that the guy himself seemed to agree with her.  

The movie was promising enough: Jennifer Beals was hot as usual, playing a welder by day and a stripper by night.  What’s more, she’s a stripper who hooks up with her boss.  It would have been right up Steve’s alley, typically.

But instead he spent the entire hour and thirty five minutes thinking about that fucking security tape, how desperately he wanted Jonathan to see that he was honest and right ; and maybe a little bit about how he wished he wouldn’t have flinched when Steve touched him, because Jesus Christ―what did he think Steve was going to do?  

By the time the movie ended, Steve was just determined to keep Jonathan from dashing past him as he ushered Nancy and Barbara out the door.  

As soon as he heard Barb’s engine turning over, he dashed to put the tape in.  “Just one more second of your time, I swear,” he said over his shoulder, where Jonathan was shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot, one arm already in his coat.

For Jonathan’s benefit, he replayed the scene from the beginning: Fight, cut, smudge.  He rewound it twice before turning to Jonathan, who seemed unfazed.  

“You might have to get closer to the screen for this,” Steve said.  Jonathan stooped down.  “Right there.  You see that thing? It’s about to start walking. ”  

Steve hit play.  Lights flickered on screen and the monster moved and Tommy was right there , beside Steve’s fucking pool.  Then there was nothing but his and Jonathan’s wide-eyed reflections in the black, blank screen.  

Jonathan looked strangely relieved.  Steve took this to mean that he was buying in.  He had actually (loosely) prepared a speech, this go-round: “So there’s your mom’s monster, man.  And if it really is just kidnapping people, or if your brother’s somehow hiding from it, then that means-”

Jonathan cut him off.  He was standing again, buttoning his coat.  “I was out in the woods that night, looking for Will.  I took some pictures.  So if this monster is actually out there, and can be caught on camera…maybe I have something.” 

 ― 

They pulled into the Byers’ driveway just after midnight, where the first thing Jonathan remarked on was the absence of his dad’s car.  “Thank fuck,” he huffed.  

The second thing was a note tacked to the fridge, written in red crayon: GONE WITH HOPPER.  BACK SOON.  I LOVE YOU!!!  The I LOVE YOU was underlined three times.  

This was met with an eye roll and, “Jesus Christ, what now?”  

“Maybe they ‘re hunting monsters too,” Steve suggested.  Jonathan, apparently deeming this unworthy of a response, set off down the hallway and motioned for Steve to follow.

Jonathan’s bedroom was, in short, a wreck.  

Steve tried to be discreet about picking his way across dirty t-shirts and discarded textbooks, but of course, Jonathan noticed.  “It’s not usually like this.  But my brother doesn’t usually die either.”  He did throw up air quotes around die , which Steve took as a step in the right direction.  

Jonathan seemed able to navigate the room perfectly in spite of the disaster-state.  He pulled a box from beneath a pile of dog-eared paperbacks and made his way to the bed, already sorting photos as he walked.  

“Can we not do this in the kitchen?” Steve asked.  He wasn’t keen on the idea of plopping down on Jonathan Byers’ unmade bed.  

Jonathan looked at him, head cocked.  “I must be the first person Steve Harrington’s refused to hop into bed with.”  But he scooped up the pile of photos and headed for the kitchen anyhow.

“I don’t hop in bed with just anyone,” Steve called after him, scurrying to catch up.  They were in the kitchen faster than he’d anticipated, used to his parents’ sprawling house, and he narrowly avoided running into Jonathan’s turned back.  “I have standards.  Real standards.” 

Jonathan stayed hunched over the table, already back to the task at hand.  “I’ve heard all about your standards.  I think it’s admirable that they have to be breathing.”  

Steve wasn’t sure why this exchange made his stomach flip.  He’d made queer jokes with Tommy before, shit about forgetting their girlfriends and moving to San Francisco, spoken with a lisp for emphasis; half the basketball team had snapped his ass with a wet towel at some point and he’d snapped theirs; they’d all seen each other showering, changing―naked.      

But Tommy was Tommy, who’d been fucking girls since seventh grade.  And this was Jonathan Byers, one of the guys they singled out as an actual queer from the moment they learned what that meant, though Steve had never seen any proof of it.  It was more about how quiet he was, how he actually seemed to give a fuck about books and music and all of the other things you were meant to be too cool for in public.  

More than anything, Steve realized, it was about how he didn’t fight back.  How they could kick, and kick, and kick him.

Steve dragged himself over to the table, simultaneously unwilling to keep up the banter and unable to say what it was that was in his head now, which sounded something like sorry or don’t be afraid of me.  

Instead, he wordlessly sorted through stacks of photos as Jonathan passed them over, setting aside anything that seemed to contain promising, monster-shaped smudges.  

 ―

They settled on a pile of six photos, all taken within roughly the right timeframe and location, to enlarge in the school’s dark room the next morning.  When Jonathan expressed doubt as to how they’d get into the school on a Saturday, Steve said simply, “Do you remember last year?  Squirrels in the cafeteria?  Trust me, I can get us into the school.” 

Jonathan didn’t argue with that.  But he did say, later, while he was shuffling across the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee: “I always felt bad for those squirrels.  You know they probably rounded them all up and killed them.” 

Steve, of course, didn’t know that.  He’d never much thought about the squirrels at all, once he and Tommy had set them loose.  

“I like to think they’re still in there somewhere,” he said.  “Maybe living in the ceiling, y’know.  Skittering around.”

Jonathan turned to him then, with a look not unlike the one Nancy had given him earlier that night―narrowed eyes and mouth set in a thin, hard line.  

It was almost 2 AM.  They’d given up on sleep, so were choosing instead to drink coffee and mill around the house until they plucked up the courage to drive to the school.  It was almost 2 AM and Steve couldn’t take the looks and the flinching; especially because he was trying, for the first time in his life, to help.

But maybe the helping was selfish, too.  

Maybe he didn’t really believe that that body was a fake, because if the monster did exist it had probably ripped into Will Byers like tissue paper; maybe he just wanted to help because the absence of a body meant Tommy could still be out there; maybe if Tommy washed up in the quarry tomorrow he’d give up, go home, and never look at the photographs and the tapes again.

He’d probably never speak to Jonathan Byers again, either.  

“I know you think I’m an asshole,” Steve said.  He’d intended to launch into a defense and how he wasn’t , but he came up short.  

Jonathan had his back to him again, busying himself with washing and drying two mismatched mugs.  “I think your pal Tommy’s a psychopath,” he said slowly.  He was gripping one of the mugs by the handle now.  “But you, I think that you just…don’t consider other people.”

Steve wanted to object, but Jonathan wasn’t finished.  “You know how people typically won’t go out of their way to step on an ant, but they also wouldn’t feel sad about it if they saw that they did?  How if you told them how many ants they’d stepped on in their life without even knowing, they’d just shrug?  I think you’re like that.”

 ― 

A half hour later, they were driving to the high school in silence.

Steve was still trying to formulate a response to Jonathan’s earlier speech.  Something like, You’re not an ant to me.  You’re really cool, actually.  Sorry that I shoulder-checked you and spitballed you and―was it you I did this to?―told everyone you had a crush on the lunch lady in seventh grade.

But there was a Jonathan Byers in his head that fought back with him, who told him that the only reason he wasn’t an ant anymore was that he had something Steve wanted.  

He was still arguing with this hypothetical  Jonathan when his headlights illuminated the dying cat, and he slammed the brakes just in time to keep it from becoming the dead cat.  

For some reason, it was at this moment that Steve briefly felt himself capable of redemption.  

“Should we move it so it doesn’t just keep getting hit over and over again?” he asked, already unbuckling his seatbelt.  The cat was still twitching in the road; it must have been orange at some point, though it was now mostly covered in its own blood.  Steve had an old sweatshirt in his back seat, he thought.  He was already strategizing how he could wrap it around the cat to keep from ruining his coat and jeans.  

“I think moving something when it’s injured actually makes things worse,” Jonathan said, though he was shifting in his seat too.  “But maybe we could try to-” 

The headlights flickered.  

And then there was something else in the road, hunched over the cat with its back to them.  It seemed unfazed by their presence, at first, busying itself with eating and dragging its kill away from the road.    

“We have to go,” Jonathan hissed.  

That was when the headlights sputtered back to life, still blinking rapidly.  

The monster turned towards them and roared, once, as Steve gunned the engine. 

Ms. Byers had been right: There was no face, only a head that unfurled like petals to reveal the gaping, bloody void of a mouth.  

 ― 

“Fuck,” Steve said.  This was probably the hundredth time.  He pounded the steering wheel, for emphasis.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck! ”

They had driven past the high school at this point and were circling the same few blocks over and over again, somewhere in the suburbs of Hawkins.  An old man flipped his porch light on and stepped out in his bathrobe, craning his neck towards the car.  

“We’re drawing attention to ourselves,” Jonathan whispered, as if the old man was going to hear him.   “We need to get out of here.” 

“And go where, exactly?  Because I’m pretty sure we don’t need to go to the fucking darkroom anymore.”  Regardless, he turned off at the end of the street and headed south, towards his house.  His house which backed up to the woods, where a monster without a face lived, apparently, feasting on cats and god knows what else.  “Fuck, man.” 

Jonathan was pinching the bridge of his nose, vibrating in place.  “If that thing has my brother like my mom thinks it does,” he started, and Steve had a terrible feeling that he knew exactly where this was going, “we have to go after it.  We have to try.” 

 ― 

Steve argued the whole way to his house, naturally.  He made sure to stress to Jonathan that a cat, for something that size, was an appetizer : He and Jonathan would be dinner and dessert.  Jonathan countered that it wasn’t exactly like they could call the cops, considering that his mother had already taken off with the chief of police.  And if there were really monsters with no face running around and eating cats, it could be argued that there were also fake bodies and dozens of people lying outright, people who would be of no help to them at all.

Resigned, Steve said, “My dad has a gun.” 

The gun was in his dad’s office, in a safe he and Tommy had broken into a handful of times so they could drunkenly shoot cans off of the fenceline.  Steve had mostly watched while Tommy shot, afraid of the kickback and of the hell he’d catch if he accidentally shot one of the windows out; but Tommy had been a regular cowboy.  He would spit between shots and squeeze one eye shut, say some stupid shit like pow whenever he hit a can, which was most times.  

If things were reversed, Steve would have had a hell of a lot more confidence in Tommy’s monster-slaying abilities.  But he would have been even less capable than Steve of winning over Jonathan Byers, if he tried at all.  

Jonathan, for his part, had at least shot something before: “My dad made me go hunting once.  Not really my scene, but, y’know.  It happened.”

Steve nodded.  He could imagine that hunting wouldn’t be Jonathan’s first choice of father-son bonding activity, considering his earlier sympathy for squirrels.

It was later, as they were rifling through Steve’s garage for anything else that might prove useful, that he said, “Don’t you hate that motherfucker?” 

Jonathan blinked up at him, confused.  “Huh?”

“Your dad,” Steve clarified.  Then, for the sake of camaraderie, “I fuckin’ hate mine and he’s probably not half as bad as yours.”

Jonathan shrugged.  “Of course I do.  I spent my whole life wishing he would disappear.  Not just leave but…”  He trailed off, shooting Steve a look like don’t make me say it.  “If a monster was going to take anyone in my family, it should be him.  And I sure as hell wouldn’t fuckin’ look for him.”

Steve suddenly felt a swell of pride over not shaking Lonnie Byers’ hand at the funeral home.  He wanted to tell Jonathan about that, endear himself to him a little; but he only did it because he was following Nancy’s lead.  Instead, he said, “Fuck our dads.” 

“Fuck our dads,” Jonathan echoed, nodding solemnly.  

“Amen,” Steve said.  He did get a grin out of Jonathan with that.  Then, holding up a gas canister he’d just unearthed from behind the dryer, he asked, “Think we could set that thing on fire?”

 ― 

They passed the night like that, rummaging around the Harrington’s garage and various storage closets, getting approval from the other on any potential weapons.  Jonathan hammered nails into Steve’s old baseball bat, something he’d apparently seen in a movie; Steve found his dad’s old machete, which he’d used to hack down a bamboo patch in the backyard before they stopped doing their own landscaping entirely; and they resolved to fill the empty canister up at the nearest gas station as soon as it opened.  

“So,” Steve said.  They were in the living room now, having decided that they were getting a little desperate when they started considering the killing power of butter knives and bathroom cleaner.  Jonathan was perched on the couch, inspecting the machete.  Steve was idly swinging the bat, trying to get a feel for it.  He was still too spooked by the gun to touch it, had mostly been trying not to think about it since they got it out of the safe and stashed it in the glovebox of his car; but the bat he could handle.  “Should we…eat breakfast?”  

Jonathan let out a hmph , lifting his head to take in the view through the front window, where the sky was steadily edging more gray than black.  “Guess we should.”  He stood, sheathing the machete.  “Mrs. Wheeler put us on a meal train, so we’ve got approximately 3 dozen casseroles in the fridge right now.” 

So it was back to the Byers house, loaded down with weapons this time.  Steve noticed, for the first time, that it wasn’t much of a drive.  

“I never realized you guys were right through the woods,” he said.  

Jonathan had been a little less prickly since they talked about their dads.  He’d even cracked a few jokes, had played along when Steve mimed sword-fighting with the machete and an old shovel they’d found.  Most importantly, there was no more talk of people as ants and Steve as the ant-killer, though he was still hoping to address that later.  

“Isn’t it shocking,” Jonathan drawled, and Steve knew immediately that the prickliness had returned, “to realize that the peasantry lives in the shadow of your grand estate?” 

“My grand estate has a monster on it, Byers.  Not all it’s cracked up to be.”

 “Hopefully you still feel safe to splash around in your pool once we’ve killed it,” Jonathan said, deadpan. 

Steve found himself thinking, not for the first time, that he could save this conversation.  “It’ll be good for you too, man.  Girls love heroes.  You’ll have to fight ‘em off.” 

And there it was―The Look of Disgust, which he was quickly becoming all too familiar with.  They pulled into the Byers’ empty driveway in silence.  Jonathan stopped at the back door to let in his scruffy dog, with a little hey Chester that sounded more genuinely happy than anything he’d ever addressed to Steve.  They piled plates with a sampling of casseroles―chicken and swiss from the Wheelers, tater tot hotdish from the Hendersons, turkey and almond from the Hayeses―and ate cross-legged on the couch, the kitchen table still a mess of pictures and coffee mugs.  

It was Jonathan who spoke first, to suggest that they try to sleep for a few hours.  “It’s active at night, so we’ve got a while,” he reasoned.  He handed Steve a quilt and a pillow from a storage chest.  “No bedbugs, Harrington, don’t worry.” 

“Thanks, dude,” Steve said.  Jonathan was already settling onto the loveseat, back to Steve and quilt pulled to his chin.  

Chester pawed at Steve’s legs, whining, until Steve tucked them up further, leaving room for the dog to jump up.  Ultimately, Chester settled on his torso, happily licking his face and sniffing for any remnants of chicken and swiss, effectively pinning him to the couch.  He stared at the ceiling, the hole that Ms. Byers said was from the monster; he cast his gaze to the side, over the Christmas lights that Will was supposedly communicating through from wherever he was.  

He wondered who Tommy was communicating with, if anyone.  If he was able to at all.    

Steve waited until Jonathan’s breathing was slow and even, punctuated by the occasional snore, to speak.  “I know you don’t want me to say you’re not an ant,” he said to the ceiling.  “I know there’s more to it than that.  That there’s an issue with the way I…see things.  I get it, man.  Shit’s been real for you your whole life, and it’s only been real for me for four days.  You were right to say everything you did to me, about how everything was a big fucking joke, because it was.  It still kind of is.

“I still want Tommy to turn up to school and tell me he’s been at the craziest party of his life all week.  And a the same time, I’m afraid that if he did I’d probably say fuck the monster and fuck the truth and just go back to living like I always have.  I’m afraid I wouldn’t talk to you again.”  Steve swallowed.  Chester was still nosing at his chin, tail thumping happily.  Steve patted his side.  “You’re really fucking cool, Byers.  And not in the shitty way that I am that doesn’t mean anything in the real world.  You care about shit.  You gave the best speech I’ve ever heard at a goddamn funeral.  

“You know what I’ve been doing while my best friend is missing, until yesterday?  Feeling sorry for myself because it meant my dad found out I had a party.  I haven’t even called Carol, who’s probably fucking beside herself.  I called his mom and couldn’t even make myself talk to her.” 

Steve sighed.  His eyes were going scratchy and it was harder to focus.  His voice was coming out a little slurred.  He knew he was going to be asleep soon, and when he woke up Jonathan would too and he’d lose his nerve to say this shit out loud.  “I don’t deserve your help, Byers.  I don’t wanna speak for him but Tommy doesn’t deserve it, either.  And when this is all over you should kick both of our asses. I wouldn’t even be mad.” 

Steve yawned.  He was really fading now, and running out of things to say.  Just as he drifted off, already in some half-dream about showing up to math class with no shoes on, he added, “When this is over, you and Will can come swim in my pool.” 

 ― 

Steve awoke a few hours later to the sound of voices and a key turning in the door. 

Jonathan was already bolt upright, brandishing the machete in some attempt at a defensive pose.  Steve blindly ran his hands across the floor for the bat, narrowly avoiding grabbing it nail-side up.

Though they wouldn’t admit this to one another until much later, they were both pinned to their seats in those seconds before the door swung open, frozen with horror.  If it was the monster, they would have been dinner and dessert, just like Steve had said.  

It was a stroke of luck, the first they’d had in days, when the door swung open to reveal Ms. Byers, Chief Hopper, Nancy Wheeler, and a gaggle of children instead.  

Steve still yelped, though he jumped backwards instead of springing to attack, which saved some kid with a mop of curly hair and missing front teeth from being nailed by the bat as he leaned in and crowed, “What is that supposed to do against the demogorgon?” 

Nancy and Ms. Byers were simultaneously scolding them and inspecting them, hisses of you would have gotten yourselves killed! mixed with tilting their chins up and checking their pupils.  Jonathan was arguing back and forth with his mother, accusing her of being on a suicide mission of her own; Steve, for his part, was trying to puzzle out what the fuck a demogorgon was, and why Nancy and the kids from Will’s funeral were talking heatedly about defeating it.  

“Enough,” Hopper shouted, commanding everyone’s attention to the front of the room.  A little girl with a buzzcut and a ratty pink dress cowered beside him.  “Everyone’s alive, despite your best efforts.  You,” he said, jabbing a finger towards Mike.  “What’s this about a gate?” 

 ― 

In the end, they broke into the middle school’s gym instead of the high school’s darkroom.    

Steve and Jonathan lugged bags of salt back and forth from the cafeteria, making themselves useful , as Hopper put it.  The toothless kid trailed after them, jabbering about how the demogorgon was a monster in DND, and how the girl with the buzzcut―Eleven, apparently―had super powers, and how everyone thought she was a Russian weapon but she was really just from Hawkins Lab.  

Before she sank into the sensory deprivation tank, Steve handed her a photo of Tommy, which he’d had to shatter the basketball team’s trophy case to get.  If all of this was real, he doubted anyone would care much about it when it was discovered on Monday.  

“He might be in there too,” he explained, not sure how much she understood.  She reminded him a bit of a documentary he’d seen on the nature channel about kids raised by wolves.  “I’d really appreciate it if you…make sure he’s okay.  Let him know we’ll get him out.”

Nancy was to Steve’s right, squeezing his hand, her earlier homicidal rage at his stupidity seemingly forgotten; Jonathan was to his left, keeping his distance, but when Steve glanced at him, he gave him a nod.  

  So we don’t get to kill the monster, Steve wanted to say.  There goes all those girls I promised you.  

But by this point, the others in the circle were hardly even breathing.  Only Ms. Byers was speaking, murmuring to Eleven in her low, even voice.  So Steve just watched Eleven float, filthy dress billowing around her, and waited.

Steve’s head snapped to attention when she started chanting Tommy’s name in that stilted way she said most everything.  He couldn’t help himself, blurting out, “Is he okay?  Does he know we’re looking for him?” just as Eleven started thrashing. 

Ms. Byers surged forward, shushing her.  Steve’s grip on Nancy’s hand tightened until he swore he could feel their bones grinding together.  

And then Eleven was saying gone, gone, gone .

 ― 

It was Nancy’s idea to distract the monster.  She was surprisingly composed, presenting her case to Steve and Jonathan about nocturnal predators and sharks who swarm towards blood, about how she supposed the Demogorgon―they were all calling it that now, the ridiculous fucking DND name―was a combination of a hundred deadly things.

“Steve,” Nancy said, her voice softer.  She reached out to brush his hair back and did an admirable job of not showing how betrayed she must have felt when he jerked backwards, curling in on himself further.  “We could end this.  Tonight.  We could do it for Tommy.  For everybody.”  

Her jaw was set and her eyes were glinting and she was going to do it no matter what, Steve realized.  She had barely even known Tommy, had probably even hated him a little bit; but she was good and courageous and other things Steve, decidedly, was not.  

“I just wanna go home, Nance,” he mumbled.  His only confirmation that she had heard him was the look on her face, like he’d slapped her.  

Jonathan was hovering awkwardly off to the side, visibly shaking and clammy but ready to charge into battle after Nancy anyhow, because he still had something to lose and Nancy was just pretty fucking inspiring, when she got like this.  Nancy spun on her heel and told Jonathan that she was going to load the car, though Steve knew there wasn’t anything to carry back but the machete and the nail bat, propped side by side in the corner of the gymnasium.  

Steve expected Jonathan to follow at her heels, maybe after giving Steve a final Look of Disgust, which would be well-deserved.  

Instead, Jonathan said, without looking at him, “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since this is exactly what you said would happen.”  

When Steve lifted his head, Byers went on, still addressing his shoes: “You said you were afraid if Tommy turned up you’d say fuck the monster and fuck the truth.  That you’d run away.”  Steve’s stomach dropped as his own words were thrown back at him, in the monotone but not unkind voice of Jonathan Byers.  He said it like he was offering Steve absolution, a free pass for cowardice, because that was what he’d expected of him all along.    

“Apologizing while someone’s sleeping is pretty cliche, by the way―and it usually wakes them up,” Jonathan said.  He turned to go, hands in his pockets.  

He was surprisingly fast, walking at a clip the way he did; Steve had to break into a half-jog to catch up, drawing the eyes of Mike and his friends, who were clumped together in the bleachers.  Jonathan paused at the door without turning around, like maybe he’d been expecting this.  

Nancy would be pissed later, Steve knew, that it took prodding from another guy to get him out of the fetal position and on his feet.  Machismo , she’d groan, rolling her eyes.

But as he climbed into the car, all she did was give him a tight smile.  

When they were halfway to the Byers’ house and it was setting in that they were doing this, Steve said, “Don’t go easy on me because I had a little meltdown.  I really do wanna help.”  

He should have been looking at Nancy: Begging forgiveness, saying what a coward he’d been, telling her he was in awe of what a fucking badass she was.  He even believed all of those things, even had a part of him that wanted to say them.

But he was looking at Jonathan instead, who had already heard an apology from him.  A shitty apology, but still.  

There was a guilty thought trickling into Steve’s brain, one he swallowed and felt stupid for later, once Nancy saved their asses: He wished that he and Jonathan were doing this alone, the way they’d started.  

He wished that he could go back to this morning, when they were sword-fighting in the basement and Tommy was still alive, if only in his head.  He wanted to go back in time and thank Jonathan more profusely for the casserole; to go back further and tell him how fucking sorry he was at Will’s funeral, to do more than just offer him a lousy stick of gum.  

Jonathan’s eyes slid to meet his in the rearview mirror, and held his gaze for what seemed to Steve a long, long second.

 ― 

When they sliced into their palms and dripped blood onto the carpet, he thought of Tommy by the pool, the tape he’d watched a dozen times.  The demogorgon diving on Tommy like a shark.  Steve wondered if it hurt.  

Later, when Jonathan grabbed his hand, pulling him to safety, he thought a little hysterically about the blood in their open wounds mixing together, about becoming blood brothers, something Tommy had begged him to do when they were younger and Steve was always too afraid, always a coward.

And when the monster was gone and Nancy was throwing her arms around him, and even Jonathan was shaking him by the shoulders, Steve thought, strangest of all, of Carol.  

Carol who had loved Tommy not in spite of his flaws but because of them, who chased after every venomous word out of his mouth with a dozen of her own.  She used to joke that she couldn’t wait to die together in some nursing home, ninety years old and still fighting.    

She was Steve’s friend too.  He thought of the time in seventh grade when she’d highlighted his hair, calling herself a kitchen beautician .  She would scream at girls who broke his heart and let him talk about his parents when Tommy was tired of hearing it or couldn’t understand.  

And now it was over.  

Tommy was dead and Steve wouldn’t―couldn’t―tell Carol.  Carol’s palm would never be scarred.  She would never be able to go after the monster screaming and swinging and sobbing until she had to be pulled away, the way Steve had.  There would be no funeral where they stood in a half-circle together, shuffling and waiting for someone that was never coming back.

 ― 

News of Will Byers’ return from the dead spread quickly.  Jonathan was conspicuously absent from school for the next week, spending his every waking moment in the hospital, where the story was that Will was being treated for exposure after being lost in the woods.  Nancy appeared dutifully by Steve’s side during every locker break and class change, clinging to his arm like she was afraid he would topple over without her.

One of the few times he managed to shoo her off with an excuse about needing to use the restroom―“where I don’t need your help, no matter what you think,” he’d said―he tracked Carol down at her locker.  

She was standing in front of the open door, fingers idly tracing the spines of her textbooks.  Steve watched as she reached the end of the row, tilted her head in confusion, and started over.  

He cleared his throat.  “Carol.  Hey.”  

When she turned towards him, he was expecting her to look like she’d been crying, puffy-eyed and red-nosed; or maybe she would be blank, the way she was when he walked up, eyes rolling aimlessly in their sockets.  

But it was Carol, and Steve knew he should have considered the possibility that she would be furious.  

“How nice of you to remember me,” she growled.   

Stupidly, Steve hadn’t prepared for this.  When he’d formulated it in his head the night before―pacing around the kitchen at 4 AM because of course he wasn’t sleeping, may never sleep again―he had just planned to say that he was sorry for not calling, and he was worried about Tommy too, and he was there for her in whatever vague and meaningless sense he could be.  

So he launched into that speech, out of ideas and running out of time before the tardy bell.  He was just getting into how worried he was when Carol started laughing, screechy and right in his face.    

“What’s there to be worried about?” she asked, voice wavering.  She was rising into that shrill, sing-songy register that she did when she was teasing him.  It occurred to Steve that she probably wasn’t sleeping much, either.  There were black circles under her eyes.  “Your fag friend’s little brother came back from the dead, if you haven’t heard.  I’m sure Tommy can make it back from wherever he’s run off to.” 

Steve’s face must have sunk, then.  Carol’s lips twitched into a smile.  “I was driving around on Saturday with some of Tommy’s friends, ” she said, and the implication was there―Tommy’s real friends―“and what should I see but Steve Harrington’s own BMW, parked outside that shithole in the wee hours of the morning.”  

“You don’t understand,” he interjected, which set her laughing again.  

“I understand you just fine, Stevie boy.  I’ve understood you for quite a while.”  She surged up onto her tiptoes and leaned towards him, voice low and menacing as she said, “Tommy didn’t want to believe it.  I told him we’d love you anyways, that it’s not like you’d ever act on it; I thought you weren’t completely brain dead.  But as soon as Tommy’s gone, really?”  

The late bell chimed overhead.  Carol sank back onto her heels, coming down from her hissing, eyes-blazing rage as she finally selected a book from her locker.   

But as she was leaving, she tossed over her shoulder, “I think Nancy’s a sweet girl.  It’d be a shame if she knew who you were really thinking about that night, huh?” 

 ― 

Robin cuts Steve off there, hand in his face.  

“Wait, wait, wait,” she says, like this is somehow the most absurd part of the story.  “So you had a gay awakening because of Carol Perkins ?  She was calling me a dyke in kindergarten, I don’t think she even knows what those words mean -”

Steve rolls his eyes.  They’ve been idling outside of the Buckley house for half an hour, sipping the watery remnants of their Cokes while Steve put it all out there, per Robin’s request.  

“It wasn’t because of Carol,” he says.  “She just…planted the seed.”

Robin groans.  “So you’re telling me that this chaste, Victorian romance of homoerotic glances and nods went on for even longer ?” 

“For like, a few months, yeah.  Give or take.  And then there was the time where he didn’t talk to me for half a year.”  Steve does, at least, realize the absurdity of this statement.  “I can just give you the quick version.”    

“Who are you?” Robin sputters.  “And I don’t want the quick version!  I need details, because right now my brain is refusing to accept this as material reality.”  

Steve knows before he says what he does next that Robin will never let him live it down.  

“I have to do my hair tomorrow night, if you wanna come over for the second installment.  But you have to help me pull it through the highlight cap.” 

Robin, as predicted, screams.  “ Highlight cap?  God, you are gay!”  

“A guy can want to add dimension to his hair without being gay,” Steve argues.  “Jonathan doesn’t give a damn about his hair.  I’ve seen him wash it with a bar of soap before.”

At that, Robin crinkles her nose.  “You’ve seen him wash his hair?” 

Chapter Text

I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.

J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

 ― 

True to her word, Robin spends the next night sitting on the edge of the Harringtons' jacuzzi tub, plucking Steve’s hair through a cap with a crochet hook.

About every five pulls, Steve exclaims, “Ow!  Jesus!” to no avail.  

“It’s not my fault you’re like the princess and the pea,” Robin says.  “Every little pluck.”   She punctuates this statement with a particularly aggressive one.  

“I would’ve been better off going to the beauty shop and letting Carol Perkins do it if you’re going to leave me bald,” he whines.  

“Just wait until we get to the bleach,” Robin sing-songs, tapping the hook against his scalp.  “Carol Perkins would’ve melted all your hair off on purpose as a hate crime.  I’m going to do it on accident .  Now get back to the story―I think you were finally about to see that sliver of exposed ankle, hmm?” 

 ― 

It would actually be quite a while before Steve Harrington saw a sliver of Jonathan Byers’ exposed ankle, not least because it was mid-November in Indiana.

When Jonathan returned to school, it was nearly Thanksgiving break, and he seemed intent on ducking his head and slinking away any time Steve was in the vicinity.  

Steve’s parents had suddenly developed a keen interest in visiting his grandmother in Ohio for the holidays, citing a need for her to know her only grandson and a desire to show Steve some cave his dad used to like hiking to.  Steve suspected their primary motivation was the Hawkins police department, who were still nosing around in their backyard as the Hagans grew increasingly frantic.  

No one would say that they thought Tommy was dead outright, but rumors were flying now about a bear in the woods and, in the really fringe groups, an ambiguous curse that had the power to disappear unsuspecting teen basketball stars.  Even though everyone knew that Tommy was last seen at his house, no one had dared to indicate Steve, either; but something was shifting, imperceptibly at first, in the social structure of Hawkins Highschool.

If Steve could trace it back to any one event, it would be the day that Carol Perkins had a come-apart at her locker.  People hadn’t outright gawked, at the time, but Steve had known there was a possibility that someone had heard―Carol wasn’t exactly known for being quiet and discreet.  

But he also knew who he was, back then: He was Steve fucking Harrington.  Steve of the hundred and one girlfriends, Steve of the hair and the BMW and the keg stand record.  King Steve, though people didn’t really start calling him that to his face until later, when it was typically being spat at him more than anything.  If he wanted to hunt monsters with Jonathan Byers on weekends and come back to school with an arm around Nancy Wheeler on Monday morning, who was going to challenge him on it?  

It turned out, a lot of people had been waiting for the opportunity to do just that.

It started out with all the typical signs of a coup.  Guys who used to bow their heads and defer to him on everything from basketball plays to whose house they were using for a party were suddenly shoulder-checking him in the hallway; girls who would’ve dropped everything for five minutes in the back seat of his car were sneering and turning their backs to him when he asked if they’d done the math homework.    

For obvious reasons, Steve didn’t take most of this into account until much later.  He was slogging through most of his days in a haze, jumping when the shoddy fluorescent lights of the hallway flickered and convincing himself he smelled blood in the middle of history class.  But then Jason Carver started mouthing off to him.

Tensions were high on the basketball team, Steve knew.  They’d been practicing for an upcoming game against Christian Academy until after dark every day for a week.  They were bruised and tired and sore, and for the last few days there had even been murmurs of wanting to just lose already .   

Steve was aware that the performance of their once-valiant team captain―who couldn’t even win a game of HORSE against a group of elementary schoolers in his current state―was not exactly improving morale.  It wasn’t even strictly because he was reeling from recent events: Steve had grown used to having his back watched by Tommy, master of the discrete foul and the menacing glare that said I Will Find You Outside Of This Gym (And It Will Not Go Well For You).  The other guys had fallen in line around Tommy too, not wanting to get in his way.  Therefore, Steve was rarely if ever challenged, not even in drills.

And then, during their post-practice huddle, when Steve was doing his best to instill Team Spirit and Hopefulness, shrimpy little Jason Carver stage-whispered, “Why are we even listening to this guy?” 

Jason was a sophomore.  This alone had marked him as beneath Steve’s interest.  Even for a sophomore, Jason was tiny―he was on the team mostly by virtue of being fast and surprisingly good at making three-pointers.  And he was, as of that year, very vocal about being born again .  To Steve and Tommy, this had been his most egregious trait of all.  

Jason wanted to hold hands and pray over pizza parties.  He would still drink with them after a win―seldom as they were―but would usually end up tipsily inviting the other players to his youth group and handing out tracts.  Tommy’s favorite joke had been to ask Jason if he’d like to pray to close out particularly long and grueling practice sessions, when it was obvious that everyone wanted to go home.  Jason always said yes.

Before Steve could reply with anything other than a stunned, “What?” other guys were nodding.  One of them―Paul Donahue? Peter-Something?―piped up, “We don’t have to.”  Someone else chimed in, “Not anymore.”

At that moment, Steve knew that he was entering an alternate universe: One in which guys whose names he didn’t even bother remembering said they didn’t have to listen to him on the team he was the captain of.  After all, in this very gym, he had seen a little girl go into one and come back out telling him his best friend had been killed by a monster.  This alternate reality wasn’t quite as far-fetched; but it was still jarring.  So jarring that Steve, again, could only say, “What?”

Guys started backing away from the circle in what Steve was rapidly realizing was a coordinated walkout.  Coach Davis was nowhere to be found―probably off chatting up the secretary, sleazy fucker―and Steve was casting his eyes around frantically, sure that someone else was going to back him up on this and get the team in line.  

He made eye contact with one of the guys in his year (Trevor, he was 90% sure, it had to be Trevor) and said, more than a little desperately, “This is crazy, right?” 

Trevor gave Steve the kind of disgusted look that he was, at that point, only used to receiving from Jonathan Byers.  “Shit’s about to get real different for you without your enforcer around, Harrington.”  

And then, for the first time, someone did something a little more than shoulder-check Steve Harrington: Probably-Trevor shoved him, flat onto his ass, and kept walking.

 ― 

The next day, Steve didn’t go to practice.  Because the cruelty of the alternate universe he’d recently entered never stopped, his parents were actually home for once, preparing for their road trip to Ohio.  His dad, in spite of missing most of the games, was a big proponent of Steve playing sports.  It was a good way to get his foot in the door and make a name for himself and hone his manliness, which Steve’s dad often implied he was severely lacking in.  He would have questions if he got home earlier than usual.  

To avoid this confrontation, Steve did the most pathetic thing he could possibly think of: He crept into an empty bathroom, put on his warm ups and laced up his shoes, and went to sit in his car.

He thought about going to Nancy’s.  It was prime time for sneaking in the window, the magical space between school letting out and Mr. Wheeler getting home from work.  But Nancy also thought he was at practice, had even given him a peck on the cheek for good luck not twenty minutes ago.  

Steve entertained the thought of just driving around, but was possessed by a―perhaps paranoid―fear of being spotted in town when everyone knew he should be practicing.

Sitting in the car was starting to feel claustrophobic.  When he reached into the glovebox to fish around for a cassette, Steve was confronted with Tommy’s copy of Women and Children First , Carol’s Blondie.  He couldn’t reconcile the Carol he’d seen singing “Little Girl Lies” into a curling iron with the Carol who’d rounded on him in the hall last week.

Overhead, the lights of the school parking lot buzzed to life.  The one just above the car was on its last legs, blinking on and off.  

And then, Steve could smell blood.  He squeezed his eyes shut and smelled gasoline.  He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.  Vaguely, he could feel that he was rocking back and forth, and now he was really freaking out, the way he’d wanted to in history class and at the Wheelers dinner table and―and then he could smell a monster.  He could hear the sick squelch of its head opening, could hear it talking with a voice like his dad’s and Tommy’s and even Jason Carver’s saying at least Carol is alive to hate you.  At least― 

There was a sharp rap against the window.  

Strike three for the cruel, unforgiving alternate universe Steve had slipped into: Someone had seen him, was actively in that moment seeing him,  curled up in the car in his basketball warm ups when he was meant to be in the gym.  He dragged his hands away from his eyes slowly, wanting to prolong the final seconds before he knew who had just borne witness to King Steve’s nuclear meltdown.  

Naturally, it was Jonathan Byers.  He tapped on the window again, this time less forcefully, until Steve rolled it down a sliver.  

“Um,” Jonathan said.  His mouth kept opening and closing on a loop.  Steve thought, still a little hysterical, that he looked like a goldfish.  “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah Byers, I’m in here jammin’ out,” Steve said.  He didn’t even mean for it to come across sarcastic―as evidence, he picked up Blondie and waved it in front of the window.  

Jonathan tilted his head to the side.  “The tape’s still in the case.”   

Steve was floundering.  He could feel the tips of his ears going red-hot from embarrassment and something surging up in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in weeks: The urge to be an asshole to Jonathan Byers.  

All it would take was something like a snarled what’s it to you, freak? to make it so Jonathan never spoke to him again.  It was right there, waiting to be plucked out of the air and tossed like a poison dart.  Then if Steve just laid low for a while longer, if no one saw them together again, he could-

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Jonathan asked, leaning towards the window this time.  He was giving Steve the same quizzical, disappointed look his mother gave him the first time he came home high. 

Steve couldn’t bring himself to do the asshole thing―at least, not tonight.  He managed a tight, cool, “Never been better.”  

 Jonathan nodded, but he still had that look on his face as he backed away.  Steve watched him as he went, skinny shoulders hunched against the wind with his ridiculous messenger bag and camera around his neck.  

 ―

For the better part of two weeks, Steve had been spending an inordinate amount of time on the issue of Jonathan Byers.  

Once Steve knew that he was back at school, he looked for him in the hallway.  On the rare occasions that he saw him―Steve didn’t know how Jonathan managed to avoid him so much, unless he was crawling from class to class through the air vents―he was typically scurrying past, head down.  

Steve had driven past the Byers house and the gas station once or twice, and he had leafed through the phone book to their number a humiliating amount of times, usually so late at night that he knew he couldn’t possibly call.  The phone book fluttered open to the B’s on its own now, spine creased from repetition.    

Steve couldn’t say what he expected to get out of this, exactly.  He thought he might just need to ask someone besides Nancy if they felt it too, if Jonathan also had this constant sense that the world was ending and nobody else could see it.  

Nancy was as sweet and serious as always: She combed his hair back and kissed his forehead and told him that no, the world wasn’t going to end.  Steve’s part in those exchanges was to nod and try not to feel like a villain when he wanted to jerk away from her the same way he had that night in the gym.  There had been a few nights where he had been able to get past it enough to squeeze his eyes shut and kiss her like he used to when he snuck in through her window, when the most terrifying prospect was Nancy’s parents walking in on them.  

But then when Jonathan had been there, tapping on his window and wanting , for once, to talk to him, Steve had just wanted him to go away.   

Never been better, when what he really meant to say was do you think about it all the time?  The last time I really slept was in your living room.

 ―  

“I know this was mostly about you being traumatized by the whole monster from another world thing, but God, you were obsessed with him,” Robin interjects.  She’s still working on his hair, her plucking significantly slower now that she’s absorbed in what Steve’s saying.  He may come out of this unscathed after all.

Steve leans his head against her knee.  “You’re going to think I’m pathetic by the end of this,” he sighs.

“Nothing can make me think you’re more pathetic than I already do, dingus,” she says softly.  She leans down quickly, pecking the top of his head, a new habit of hers that Steve doesn’t object to but also isn’t entirely used to.  “I spent two months seeing you in that damn sailor uniform every day.”  

 ―

Steve couldn’t sleep in Ohio, either.  He had been hoping it was a side-effect of being in the house where it all happened, in his bedroom looking out over the pool and the woods; but his grandmother lived in a condo village in the middle of Columbus and Steve still found himself watching the sun rise from her futon every morning.  

The day after Thanksgiving, his dad made good on his promise―threat, really ― to take Steve hiking.  They spent a day slogging through the woods and getting passed by everyone imaginable, from women carrying babies to old men hobbling along on walkers.  Steve’s dad had worn loafers and made a point of saying, repeatedly, “I don’t expect we’ll be out here long.  Short hike, very short hike,” even as they watched the sun rise and peak and begin to sink again.  

The cave, once they reached it, was anticlimactic: The mouth of it was covered with a metal grate and a sign declaring NO TRESPASSING.  “Didn’t used to be here,” Steve’s dad grumbled, already turning his back to it.

The hike back was mostly downhill, which Steve had been grateful for up until he realized it would allow his father to focus less on his breathing and more on talking.    

“Still seeing Natalie?” his dad asked.  

“Nancy.  Yes.”  

His dad cleared his throat, not acknowledging the error.  “They found that Byers kid.  I suspect your buddy’s gonna turn up real soon, too.”  The way he said it had an air of he’d better.  Steve shook his head mutely.  “Hopefully this whole thing teaches people to get a handle on their kids.  Can’t just let them run amok.”

Steve almost objected, then―he had been relatively amok since he became self-sufficient enough to heat up a frozen pizza, his parents perpetually off on some business trip or class reunion or simply “out.”  

He nodded again.  

“I’m just glad we don’t have to worry about you,” his dad continued, clapping him between the shoulderblades.  There was that double-meaning in his tone again, a hint of ice that gave worry a different connotation than when Mrs. Hagan had said it that night on the phone.  

That was the thing with Steve’s dad: It wasn’t like Steve was afraid he was going to haul off and punch him like Tommy’s dad, and he wasn’t a runaway drunk like Lonnie Byers.  

But there was something in the way he spoke to Steve, like a boss addressing an employee who was always just on the cusp of being fired.  He had realized a long time ago that he didn’t much care for his dad; that day in the woods, with his dad’s loafers crunching through the leaves and the car still miles away, it dawned on Steve that his dad didn’t much care for him, either.  

Steve bit back the childish urge to start a fight, right there in the woods.  He had been that way when he was younger, ready to scream himself hoarse over everything from curfews to the friends he brought home, until he realized that if he stayed out of his dad’s way and snuck out the window instead of using the door, if he brought friends over for beers instead of for dinner, he could do as he pleased.  They’d been cordial, after that.  

Steve wanted to blurt out that he’d quit the basketball team; he wanted to shove his left hand into his dad’s face and ask if he had noticed the open wound there; he wanted to ask if his dad had watched the cameras and seen him sneaking out of the house with Jonathan Byers and a gun, a fucking gun, didn’t he wonder what the hell that was about?  

He bit it back.  He swallowed it.  He nodded along.

That night, Steve called Jonathan Byers.  

 ― 

It was after midnight in Ohio, but an hour earlier back in Indiana.  That was how Steve justified it to himself as he pulled the corded phone as far out of the kitchen as it would go and slunk down against the side of the futon.  Jonathan worked late shifts, if their encounter at the BP was anything to go on; surely he’d be awake.  He didn’t entertain whether Jonathan would be happy to hear from him; if he thought about the answer for too long and was too honest with himself, he’d lose his nerve.

Jonathan picked up on the second ring.  “Hello?”  

He sounded tired and confused and maybe a bit annoyed, which was basically how he always sounded, in Steve’s experience.  

“Hey man,” Steve said.  

“Steve?” Jonathan asked and, yeah, he was definitely annoyed.  

Steve tried to picture what he was doing in the moments before the call: Puttering around the kitchen, drinking coffee and heating up one of those neverending casseroles, tossing Chester a bite of chicken every now and then.  Decidedly not thinking about Steve, not flipping through the phone book so often that he memorized the Harringtons’ number.  

“Guilty as charged,” Steve quipped.  He was sort of whispering, trying to keep his voice from carrying down the hall and waking his parents or his grandmother.  

Steve heard a faint slurp from the other end of the line―he had been right about the coffee―followed by a sigh and, “Is something wrong?” 

Something was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence, Steve thought: Something between them had been missing friends, dead brothers, monsters.

“No,” Steve said, “I’m in Ohio.”  

Jonathan huffed.  “Things can’t be wrong in Ohio?”

“Not in my experience.”  Steve was acutely aware that he was losing him, here.  But, suddenly, he didn’t want to talk about any of the things he’d actually called to talk about.  “Did you have a good Thanksgiving?” 

“Mhm,” Jonathan hummed, noncommittal.  Steve could hear him moving around, clinking plates and punching buttons on the microwave.  Then, with a tone that Steve could only describe as polite , Jonathan asked, “Did you?”

“The turkey was dry,” Steve said, shrugging.  “But also sort of raw.  My grandma made it.” 

“Is that who’s in Ohio?” Jonathan asked.  He was listening, at least.  

“Grandma Dot.  The one and only.”  Steve sank back against the futon, dragging the quilt he’d been sleeping under into the floor with him.  Like Jonathan could see this and needed him to explain, Steve added, “She keeps her house fuckin’ freezing all year.” 

There was still a litany of noises on the other end of the line―chew, slurp, clink.  “Our turkey was dry too.  My mom won it pre-cooked from the Big Buy raffle.”   

“Ew,” Steve said, wrinkling his nose.

“Ew,” Jonathan agreed, solemn the same way he had been when he said fuck our dads all those weeks ago.

Steve was starting to feel kind of stupid, shivering in the floor and wrapped up in the phone’s cord, talking about nothing with someone who didn’t want to be talking to him at all.  “Sorry for calling,” he blurted.

Jonathan huffed again.  He did that a lot, Steve was realizing: Huffs and sighs and hums that didn’t tell you much at all about what he was really thinking or wanted to say.  

Steve barreled on.  “I haven’t been sleeping.  I kind of think I’m going insane, actually, and I wanted to talk to you because you…”

Were there.  With me.  Us.  Together.  Fighting monsters.

“I get it,” Jonathan said.  His voice was softer, though it hadn’t entirely lost that overlying annoyed quality.  “It was really fucking scary.”

He was talking to Steve the way you might talk to a hysterical kid who’d just skinned their knee.  He was talking to Steve the same way that Nancy would but without the kissing and the smoothing of hair, which made it worse.  

“Don’t you think about it?” Steve squeaked, deflated.  

The squeal of a chair against tile carried over from Jonathan’s end―pushing away from the table, probably making for the cradle to hang up the phone, the most effective way of saying no, Steve.  I don’t.

Steve waited for the click and the dial tone.  

For the hundredth time, Jonathan sighed.  But then he said, “I’m not sleeping either.” 

Jonathan said he couldn’t stop going to Will’s room in the middle of the night to check his breathing.  Steve talked about the pool, how he was terrified to even take the trash out after dark.  They talked about how Will had started going to therapy at the lab and always came back looking shell-shocked; the missing posters both of them had seen tacked up in front of Melvald’s for an orange tabby cat; the rumors that Tommy Hagan’s mother pawned her engagement ring to hire a private investigator.  

“I know you think he was a psychopath,” Steve started.  He breathed in and out, hard, through his nose.  “But he was my friend, man.”  

When Jonathan seemed to be gearing up to argue, Steve said something that may have been unfair: “He was someone’s little brother too.” 

After a pause, Jonathan said, “I’m sorry your friend died.” 

Steve could respect the honesty of that statement, how both things could be true although it was likely neither of them were: That Jonathan Byers could be glad that Tommy Hagan, psychopath, was dead, but sad for Steve.  Sad for Tommy’s brother, who had left the freedom of his out of state college and his apartment to scour the woods for someone who was never coming back.

There was a long silence between them, in which Steve thought it’s over.  He had talked to Jonathan and solidified that he was still the same Steve Harrington, with the dead psychopath best friend and the kind of selfish streak that allowed him to call people at midnight simply because he wanted to.

But he didn’t want to let go first, so he said, “What are you up to?”

“What?”

“What are you doing, like, right now?” 

 ― 

Steve left Ohio the next morning having slept for three hours and some change.  

He had fallen asleep on the floor, slumped over with the phone in the crook of his neck and shoulder.  Jonathan had still been there, both of them insisting that they weren’t tired until they lapsed into silence.  There was a vague memory of his grandmother shuffling by at some point, gently untangling him from the cord and mumbling something affectionate about girls .  A while later, he woke up with a godawful crick in his neck and the red imprint of the phone against his cheek.    

But he had slept.  

Steve called the Byers house again that night, at the slightly more decent hour of eight o’clock.  He used the phone in his bedroom this time, which was covered in a thin layer of dust from disuse.  Carol had once jokingly referred to it as the Girlfriend Phone because “there’s no other reason to have a damn phone in here.”  

Truthfully, with girls, Steve had always preferred climbing drain pipes and hauling himself through windows to talking on the phone.

It wasn’t Jonathan who picked up this time, though the puzzled “Hello?” was the same.  This voice was that of a Jonathan who was younger and less tired.  Steve wondered, briefly, if that had ever existed.

“Will, buddy!” Steve exclaimed.  Quickly, because he was almost certain that this was the first time they’d spoken, he tacked on, “It’s Steve Harrington.  Is Jonathan there?” 

“Why?” Will snapped back, and there it was: The Byers paranoia.  Steve could hear someone else chiming in the background, a woman’s voice exclaiming about being rude.   

“Because I’d like to talk to him,” Steve said, slowly.  “Please.” 

“He’s at work.”

Steve expected him to follow this up with an offer to take a message or have Jonathan call him back; when it didn’t come, he tried, “Tell him to call me when he gets home?”

“Sure,” Will said, followed by a click and the dial tone.

Jonathan called him back at 9:06, not that Steve was watching the clock; but he’d had to stay perched  on the edge of the bed, hand poised to answer, so that his parents didn’t pick it up first.  

“Spoke to your bodyguard earlier,” Steve said once he’d confirmed that it was Jonathan on the line.  “Does he talk to all your friends like that?”

Jonathan didn’t acknowledge the part about all your friends , the implication of him and Steve being friends, too.  Steve was sure he objected to that.  “Your reputation precedes you,” he drawled.  Steve could hear that he was shuffling around the kitchen again.  “And you interrupted The Lord of the Rings. ”

“The what?”

“It’s a movie.  And a book.”  

Steve resented the fact that Jonathan said book like he might not know what that was.

“I’m literate, Byers.  I’m reading a book for English right now.”  Steve snatched his copy of The Catcher in the Rye from the bedside table for emphasis, flapping it in the direction of the receiver.  “Hanging out with my good buddy Holden Crawford.” 

Jonathan scoffed, which was at least an upgrade from huffing and sighing.  “Caulfield,” he corrected.  “Don’t you have people that do that for you?”

For a moment, Steve almost lied.  Back then, Jonathan might not have even challenged him on it.  You wound me, Byers.  Do you think I maintain this 2.7 through cheating and trickery?

But that was exactly what he’d been doing.  There was always someone who had done the math homework and was happy to let him check his answers against it, someone who would “help” him with the book report or just flatout do it for him if he slid a few bills their way.  

Steve didn’t really know what started it: He had taken to just assuming that it was his birthright, the same way being captain of the basketball team and driving a BMW had been.  

The basketball team had effectively exiled him; he still had the car, of course, but it wasn’t the same as it had been when it was always packed to bursting with other people and blaring music; and the girls in math and English and history were all “forgetting” the homework with surprising frequency, some of them not acknowledging his requests at all.  

“Not anymore,” Steve answered.

 Jonathan hummed in acknowledgement, but didn’t say anything further―Steve felt weirdly grateful for that.  “ Catcher ’s good.  You should actually read it,” Jonathan said.  He was back to clinking around, the sink running in the background.  “If you can,” he added, and Steve swore that he was laughing. 

Steve snatched up his copy of the book again, clearing his throat.  “ If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, an’ what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap ,” he read.  He skimmed the next few pages―to his credit, Steve really had started the book in the days before leaving for Ohio.  Finishing it was a different animal entirely.  “Here’s where I left off, actually: He’s riding the bus talking about phony this, phony that.  God, he sounds like you. ”

And Jonathan wasn’t laughing anymore.  Great.

“I don’t think you can say what I’m like ,” he said. The sink wasn’t running anymore.   “Did you need something?” 

By that point Steve had at least learned that his I can save this instincts, when Jonathan was concerned, were typically incorrect.  So instead, he just said, “I slept pretty well last night.  Only thing I did different was talk to you.”  

There was a long minute of silence in which Steve was pretty certain that he had irrevocably pissed Jonathan off.  He steeled himself for another speech about ants.  

Finally, Jonathan said―not without sighing―“Me too.” 

 ― 

For the most part, Jonathan still avoided Steve at school; but everyone else besides Nancy did too, so it didn’t bother him much.  There were a few nods exchanged in the hallway, and once or twice they ended up walking to the parking lot at roughly the same time: Jonathan with his camera slung around his neck, off to work, and Steve in his warm-ups, off to pretend he was at basketball practice.

Shortly after Thanksgiving break, with the looming threat of a pep rally and the game with Christian Academy on the horizon, Steve gave Nancy an abridged version of what had happened with the basketball team.  

Predictably, she smoothed his hair back and kissed his temple and said, “Oh, Steve,” like he was the saddest, most pitiful thing she’d ever seen.  At least he was able to start going to her house when he skipped practice, after that.

He had wanted to tell her about Carol, too, with her comments about understanding him that Steve hadn’t really even allowed himself to think about―it was too ridiculous.  Nancy would agree with him.  But he didn’t tell her, and she didn’t ask why Carol never looked at them anymore except to glare.  (To glare accusingly, Steve thought, like she knew a secret that Nancy and even Steve wasn’t privy to.)  

On the whole, Steve’s relationship with Nancy was steady and unobtrusive and nice .  He climbed through her window a few times a week; had her over when his parents weren’t around; and he took her to the movies and the bowling alley and, once, to Enzo’s in an attempt at a more sophisticated sort of date.  

And then he would go home and call Jonathan, who didn’t really seem to enjoy talking to him but answered anyway.  

Maybe it was because Steve did most of the talking, with Jonathan contributing a hm or ah when needed.  Sometimes he would piss Jonathan off again, though he had gotten better at predicting what he would be prickly about.  Even less often Steve could get Jonathan laughing or talking about something he was into, though this was usually accomplished with the same kind of goading and teasing that could also make him mad.  

“What are you listening to?” Steve asked.  

They had been talking on the phone most nights for about two weeks.  He had learned most of Jonathan’s incessant background noises―the sink when he was washing dishes, the sputtering when he put on a pot of coffee, the rustling and squeaking of springs when he settled himself onto the couch.  

He could guess a lot of the music too, because Jonathan was predictable.  Nine times out of ten it was David Bowie, who Jonathan called simply Bowie , like they were on the basketball team together or something.  Steve had mocked him for it the first time and gotten a massive sulk in return.  So now, Steve would say something like, “Is that our friend Mr. Bowie?” and leave it at that.  

Steve could assert with 90 percent confidence that what was playing was not, in fact, David Bowie.  

“The Cure,” Jonathan sniped, already defensive.  He had been like that since he picked up the phone, but Steve was able to blow past it now without taking it to heart: Jonathan never seemed eager to talk about what was eating at him unless it was Steve, so he had learned to let it be.  

“Hold me up to it,” Steve ordered.  He could picture Jonathan rolling his eyes and dutifully extending the phone towards the cassette player―he did a lot of picturing , since most of their interactions were over the phone, but he had a feeling that he had gotten pretty accurate with those, too.  “Sounds British.  What’s he saying?” 

“You’re so astute,” Jonathan said.  The receiver must have been back at his ear now; The Cure was muffled again.  “I don’t think you’d be into it.”  

“Try me,” Steve said, though Jonathan was probably right.  He could handle Bowie in small doses, but he tended more towards Billy Joel or The Police, both of which made Jonathan audibly gag when mentioned.  

The music got louder again.  From far away, Jonathan narrated: “He just said ‘ I open my mouth and my head bursts open/A sound like a tiger thrashing in water.’ ”

Steve whistled through his teeth.  “Jesus.  What’s the album?  Songs to Shoot Yourself To ?” 

“You’re going to be very immature about this,” Jonathan said matter-of-factly.  Steve was starting to be able to identify how Jonathan sounded when he wanted to laugh but wouldn’t give Steve the satisfaction; he heard it in his voice, then.  “It’s called Pornography .”  

Jonathan was right, of course: Steve was very immature about it.

“Most guys do that kind of thing in private, Jonathan.”   

“Teeheehee,” Jonathan droned.  “So original.” 

There was always a weird part of the night when both of them started to fall asleep.  

Steve would be in his bed, Girlfriend Phone propped on one ear, while Jonathan was, presumably, on the couch with the kitchen phone stretched as far as he could take it.  Steve would stop talking and Jonathan would stop clanking around, and one or both of them would murmur something about hanging up.  Inevitably, Steve would wake up somewhere with the phone still in his bed, sometimes with Jonathan still on the other end, snoring lightly with the TV droning in the background.

That night, as he listened to Jonathan rustle around on the couch, Steve said, “I liked that one song.”  Momentarily, a jaw-cracking yawn kept him from elaborating, and Jonathan gave a tired huh?  “On Porno ,” Steve clarified.  “The one that went da-da-da-da, duh-duh-duh .”

Somehow, Jonathan managed to interpret this: “‘The Hanging Garden.’” 

“Cool song,” Steve mumbled, yawning again.  “What’s it about?” 

Jonathan grunted.  “You might as well just listen to the album.  He says a lot of cool stuff, Robert Smith.”  He was yawning too.  “Way cooler than Billy Joel.”  

 ― 

That weekend, Steve wandered into the dilapidated record store that was sandwiched between Melvald’s and the pharmacy.  He felt a little sheepish about buying a cassette with Pornography emblazoned on the front, but the old guy who rang him up just gave him a sage nod and said, “Good stuff.” 

 ― 

For a few days, Jonathan seemed downright pleased with Steve.  Steve discovered that this was the key: Jonathan could babble endlessly about The Cure and Robert Smith, even more than David Bowie.  Once Steve had listened to the tape a few times, Jonathan was even willing to translate whatever “too British” bits Steve couldn’t make out, which was most of it.  

“Right here,” Jonathan said, interrupting “The Figurehead,” “He just said something that’s going to really shock you.” 

“What?” Steve asked.  He had been jotting lyrics down in a notebook as Jonathan rattled them off.  He waited, pencil poised and anticipating something about heads exploding and blind men kissing your hands.      

“‘ I looked in the mirror for the first time in a year, ’” Jonathan snickered.  

“Fuck you,” Steve hissed.  “Also, he totally said laughed .”  He made sure to put on a thick, British accent for that.  

“Don’t think so,” Jonathan said.  He must have been crashing around in the kitchen: Steve heard the distinctive clattering of pans avalanching out of a cabinet followed by a hiss of God damn it.  

“What are you up to?” Steve asked, distractedly pressing start on the cassette player.

“Making a grilled cheese,” Jonathan answered.  And then, very quickly, he added, “Is this how you titillate all those girls?”

“Huh?”

Jonathan cleared his throat.  “You know, the whole, what are you up to?  Oh, wow, I’m eating an apple.  We are so in sync. routine you do.”  Steve almost thought that he sounded embarrassed, like he was regretting the joke.  

It was such a rare thing―an entirely new development, really―that Steve decided to play into it. 

“You caught me,” Steve said.  Without thinking, he had assumed the kind of posture he did when he was talking to a girl―leaning back on the bed with his free hand, head cocked to the side.  He went with it.  “Next I’m gonna ask you what you’re wearing.” 

“Pajamas,” Jonathan supplied.  He still had that weird quiver in his voice.  “With holes in them.” 

“Cute,” Steve said.  He was still leaning back on his hand, thinking about Jonathan at the stove in his pajamas, holding the phone with his chin and flipping his grilled cheese.  “Feel free to recycle these moves, by the way.  I’m something of an expert.  And a lot of girls would be into your whole sad British thing.” 

Immediately, he didn’t know why the fuck he said that.  Anything too real surrounding dating or girls was a near-guaranteed prickliness trigger.  Privately, Steve thought that it might be because Jonathan had a crush on Nancy, who he was in yearbook club with and transparently thought of as some kind of goddess of the journalistic sphere.  

On the other end, Jonathan was silent.  Naturally, Steve doubled down: “They really would.  You just have to put yourself out there, man.” 

Abruptly, Jonathan said, “My mom’s gotta use the phone.”

“What? It’s midnight-” 

Before Steve could argue further, there was the dial tone.  

 ― 

“You thought he was listening to The Cure with you all night because he had a crush on Nancy ?” Robin screeches.  She’s painting the bleach onto his hair and keeps wordlessly ordering him to move his head around by grabbing his neck.  Now, Steve thinks she might just strangle him while she’s there.  “God, Steve!”

“I thought he was listening to The Cure with me all night because he was having trouble sleeping, Rob!” Steve protests.  This does not satisfy her: She thumps the top of his head with the soft end of the brush.  “Every time I mentioned girls he acted like I was holding him up at gunpoint or something, of course I thought he might like the one girl he shouldn’t-”

“So is this the part where he doesn’t talk to you for half a year?” she asks.  

Steve’s head droops.  “No.  We only went two days that time.  But I slept like hell.”

Robin groans.  “You slept like hell because Mr. The Cure wasn’t there to whisper in your ear and you didn’t think about that, even a little bit?” 

 ― 

Steve did think about it, in a roundabout sort of way. 

He called Jonathan once, around seven the next night.  Will answered, less hostile than that first time; but when Steve heard Jonathan in the background hissing that he was busy , he wasn’t surprised when Will loyally said, “He isn’t home.  Bye.” 

After that, he spent most of the next two days not sleeping, listening to The Cure, and finishing The Catcher in the Rye.  

“Wasn’t this due weeks ago?” Nancy asked.  They were in the Wheeler’s basement, engaged in a rare case of actual studying.  Nancy was squinting at him with a critical eye as he jotted down his book report, Catcher in the Rye still open and unfinished in one hand.  

“Better late than never,” he chirped.  “Can I get your opinion on this?”  

He figured he might as well, since she was already reading it all over his shoulder.  Nancy nodded.

“So I’m supposed to talk about Holden’s character right? And all of the stuff that’s wrong with him and why he’s like that?”  Steve chewed the end of his pencil.  “I know his brother died and he’s super depressed and everything but don’t you think he seems kind of…You’ve read this shit, right?”  She nodded again.  Steve sucked in a breath.  “He kind of seems like a queer.  Do you think Click would go for that?” 

“Steve!” Nancy hissed, scolding.  She pursed her lips.  

“Okay, what―he seems like a homosexual, sorry.”  Steve set his pencil down and flipped through the book, landing on one of the pages he’d dog-eared last night: “ ‘I don't feel very much like myself tonight. I've had a rough night.  Honest to God. I'll pay you and all, but do you mind very much if we don't do it? Do you mind very much? ’”

Nancy was still pursing her lips.  Steve went on.  “He’s obsessed with sex but he can’t do it!  He’s a virgin, Nance, even with girls basically throwing themselves at him every few pages―and he’s a little too into ‘flits.’” 

Nancy was still looking at him in a way that made him want to crawl out of his skin as she said, “I think the idea is that he’s just obsessed with staying innocent.  He thinks all sex is dirty and it makes him…afraid of girls.  Misogynistic.”  It was very apparent, even in the moment, that she was dumbing this down.  Restraining herself.  Like she realized this, Nancy smiled and added, “It’s a really interesting way of reading it, though.  Ms. Click might appreciate it.”

Steve didn’t try to argue, and he didn’t end up writing what he really thought about Holden Caulfield; but he still wrote until his hand cramped and even with it being late, Click gave him a B minus.  

“Seems like you really enjoyed this one,” she said, smiling.  Steve couldn’t remember if she’d ever smiled at him before.

 ―   

That night, Jonathan called.  

Steve wanted to apologize, but he didn’t know what for.  Instead, he said, “I finished your favorite book.  Click gave me a B and everything.” 

It didn’t have the same effect as when he bought the Pornography cassette; but he could still tell that Jonathan was happy with him by the smug way he said, “I told you it was cool.” 

For the next hour, they talked about The Catcher in the Rye instead of about how they hadn’t been talking.

“I ran this by someone already,” Steve said, pointedly leaving out that it was Nancy he’d run it by.  Jonathan had just wrapped up a tangent about Holden’s dead brother and how going crazy is expected in that situation.  “But besides his brother dying and stuff, doesn’t he seem a little…different, to you?” 

Jonathan gave a hmph of consideration .  “Different how?” 

Steve suddenly felt a little shy of saying it outright.  Nancy had clearly thought it was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard, and she and Jonathan were both in the same advanced classes.  They had probably read Catcher in the Rye in the third grade.  

There was something else, too: A voice in his head that sounded a bit like Tommy, that said, What do you care if this guy in the book’s a queer?  And Steve couldn’t explain it.  He just did.  

Steve forced out, “Like, he’s gay.” Then, feeling like he needed to make a joke of it before Jonathan could respond, he said, “I got the impression that he wants to get out of the sanatorium they stuck him in and move to San Francisco with Carl Luce.” 

“He could be,” Jonathan said.  Steve knew that he was shrugging when he said it―casual, noncommittal.  But he wasn’t kidding , was the thing.  He wasn’t placating Steve because he was a bit of a ditz.  “Not with Carl Luce , though.  Jesus.” 

“Maybe his handsome roommate,” Steve proposed.  He had a hot, sunburnt feeling spreading across his face, like he did the first time he and Tommy stole a Playboy from his dad’s office.  A feeling of wanting to stop and wanting not to, where not just barely edges out.  “He can’t stop thinking about him and Jane together in the car, remember?  Maybe he’s just wrong about why he’s thinking about it.” 

Jonathan hummed in agreement―he remembered.

 ― 

There were rumors that the Hagans had hired a private investigator, some balding guy named Murray Bauman who kept turning up in the same places as Steve and clearly thought of himself as Sherlock Holmes.  As a result, Steve’s parents dragged him back to Ohio for Christmas, and his dad spent at least two hours of the drive implying that he was going to shoot this Murray Bauman―if that was his real name―if he ever came nosing around their house.

He called Jonathan a little after eleven on Christmas Eve, already settled on the floor in a pile of blankets and pillows, greeting him with a, “Ho ho ho, Byers.”  

Jonathan was clearly distracted: He barely even groaned in response.  

“Feeling the holiday spirit?” Steve asked.  “Or is that not the goth way?”

Goth was Steve’s new favorite word as of about a week ago.  Jonathan had taken great pains to explain to him that that was the genre The Cure fell under, with their towering hair and makeup, which Steve thought was weird but Jonathan insisted was subversive and cool.  He mostly explained it so that Steve would stop calling them rock n’ roll; but all Steve really took away from the conversation was the word goth and its general connotation of moodiness.  

“I’m wrapping presents,” Jonathan replied, punctuated by the sound of paper ripping, “so I’m basically Santa Claus.” 

“I think the elves wrap the presents.  You ever seen Santa Claus Is Comin’ To Town ?”  For emphasis, Steve hummed a bit of “Put One Foot in Front of the Other.”  “They do the wrapping in Rudolph , too.”   

Jonathan snorted, which was somewhat of a recent development, an upgrade from when Steve could tell he wanted to laugh but was keeping himself from it.  “Will was obsessed.  He forced us to watch them every time they were on.  I didn’t realize they were documentaries.”  

“Excellent little films,” Steve said, earning himself another snort.  “Think you’re getting anything good?” 

“Cassettes, probably.  My mom does this thing where she sticks a bunch of them in a bigger box to throw me off; but if you shake it around you can still tell they’re cassettes,” Jonathan said.  He’d audibly perked up.  Dropping his voice to a whisper, he added, “I’m pretty sure I’m getting Japanese Whispers .  I keep going into Dan’s to buy it and he gets this shifty look and tells me they’re not getting anything in until after Christmas.” 

Steve was well-versed in Japanese Whispers lore at that point, though he did still take great pains to refer to it as Chinese Mumbles or Italian Talking any time Jonathan brought it up.  Apparently, everyone had thought The Cure was done last year, with Robert Smith making some very dramatic declarations about “killing” it; so Japanese Whispers was supposed to be this big, shocking rebirth.  

It wasn’t clear to Steve how Jonathan knew all of this, how he could recite quotes from every interview with Robert Smith by heart; but he didn’t question it much.  It was sort of fascinating, the way Jonathan talked about Robert Smith collaborating with Siouxsie and the Banshees with the same breathless excitement that most guys reserved for NC State winning the NCAA tournament.  

They talked about The Cure and the pastels set Jonathan got for Will; Jonathan mocked him for having never wrapped a present before, including the earrings he’d given Nancy that year (which didn’t get a prickly reaction from Jonathan, for once―he must have really been pumped about Japanese Whispers ); Steve groused about his grandma and her raw turkey from Thanksgiving, how tomorrow they were having ham instead.  

“I guess we’ve been talking on the phone for about a month now, huh?” Jonathan asked, sounding sheepish.

Steve was leafing through his grandmother’s rather pathetic VHS collection, hoping for something that could serve as background noise once Jonathan started falling asleep. Absentmindedly, he said, “Happy anniversary.” 

Jonathan cleared his throat.  “My mom almost had a seizure when she got our phone bill yesterday.  She called them and told them they must have sent it to the wrong house.  She made them list off all the calls from this month.”  Weirdly, he was whispering again.  “There was something like forty to your house number.”  

 “Oh, shit.”  

Steve had just settled on watching his grandmother’s well-loved copy of Coal Miner’s Daughter, but Sissy Spacek riding around on a mule suddenly seemed very loud and inappropriate.  He pushed eject.  

He considered offering to kick over a few dollars to help with the phone bill, but decided that was one of those things that would make Jonathan feel like Steve was calling him poor.  The alternative was, well―never sleep again, he guessed.  Maybe he could convince the doctor to put him on those sleeping pills that his mom thought were so amazing.

“You could just come over sometimes. Since that’s free.” 

Oh.  Or that.

 ― 

Steve still called two more times from Ohio and once when he got back to Hawkins, with the justification that he wasn’t able to sneak off yet.  Jonathan said that it was fine because his mom got a Christmas bonus from Melvald’s and was “perversely excited” about this new development once she got over the phone bill thing.  “You know what she thinks it is,” Jonathan said; and Steve thought that he knew, but he didn’t say anything. 

The night after he got home from Ohio, Steve drove to the Byers’ house at ten PM.  He parked his car at an old church down the street, not wanting to box in Ms. Byers―and not entirely sure that she was going to know he was there―and jogged down the street, very pointedly avoiding the woods.

Steve crept around the back of the house.  It was all one level, so there was no Spiderman-style building scaling required.  He could see Jonathan’s sagging bookshelves and poster-plastered walls through the only illuminated window, his room restored to some semblance of order since Steve had seen it last.  Jonathan was there, hunched over his desk and fiddling with his camera.  Steve watched him for a second.  It would take some getting used to, watching rather than picturing.  He felt a bit like the cameraman in a nature documentary, observing something in its natural habitat that most people only see in books or movies.  

When Steve tapped the window, Jonathan jumped.

“Jesus Christ, Steve,” he hissed, moving the screen aside.  “I’m not one of your girlfriends.  Just use the door.” 

“It’s sexier this way,” Steve quipped, shrugging, and hauled himself through.  Jonathan rolled his eyes, which Steve had pictured him doing a thousand times; but he almost looked like he was blushing, too.

Jonathan cleared his throat and made a sweeping gesture with one arm.  “So.  This is my room.”  

Steve nodded, still standing in front of the open window, unsure if he was allowed to walk around.  “Nice posters,” he said.  Then, noticing that there was something in the tape deck, he asked, “Is this Korean Murmurs ?” 

Jonathan rolled his eyes again.  Steve figured he was going to be seeing a lot of that.  

“It’s The Talking Heads.  They sound completely different.”

Jonathan waved him out of the way and went to close the window.  Tentatively, Steve took this as permission to explore and meandered towards the smaller of the bookshelves, with a worn out copy of The Catcher in the Rye discarded on top of it.  

Jonathan was standing in front of the tape deck, returning The Talking Heads to its case, when he said,  “I’ve been saving Japanese Whispers , actually.  Don’t wanna burn myself out on it before I have to translate for you.” 

Steve stopped inspecting the bookshelf.  “Your mom got it for you, right?”  Jonathan nodded in the affirmative.  “And you haven’t listened to it at all ?”

“Nope,” Jonathan said.  He was staring right at Steve, and Steve could see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.  He said nope in a way Steve had never heard it before―like a challenge.

Steve broke eye contact first.  To the wall behind Jonathan’s head, he said, “We gotta listen to it, like, right now then.”  

So they did, with Jonathan cross-legged on the bed and Steve in his desk chair, idly spinning himself and resisting the urge to ask what’s he saying?  He could understand it a hell of a lot better now, actually―and he knew better than to interrupt the religious experience Jonathan was no doubt having.  When Steve glanced at him during the second track, his eyes were squeezed shut in concentration.

Steve liked it, too.  He really fucking liked it.

 ― 

The first night, Steve fell asleep slumped over at Jonathan’s desk.  The second, Jonathan wordlessly handed him a pillow and a quilt―maybe the same one from before, when they had slept in the living room―and he ended up on the floor.  After that, Steve would usually climb through the window to see a pallet already neatly made up for him.  

On the rare nights that Steve couldn’t make his way over, he called.  

Sometimes they would wander into the kitchen to drink coffee or grab Poptarts, Chester begging at their heels.  Chester was clearly Will’s dog, trotting off to his room every night; but he always seemed happy to see Steve, if only because he tossed him more scraps than Jonathan did.  Sometimes he’d nose the faulty door open and visit Steve on his floor pallet, momentarily warming up his feet or coming up to lick his face.  

They didn’t get worn out on Japanese Whispers , though Jonathan did insist on rotating it with David Bowie and Talking Heads and that other Robert Smith-adjacent band he was crazy about, Siouxsie and the Banshees.  Steve liked “Sin in my Heart” best, and once asked―casually, he thought―if Jonathan thought the lead singer, who called herself Siouxsie Sioux and looked like the female equivalent of Robert Smith, was hot.  

This earned him a dirty look and the vague answer, “I don’t listen to music for that kind of thing.” 

Ms. Byers never commented on Steve’s presence, even if half the time they woke up with the door wide open to the hallway.  He always came over well after dinner time, which for the Byers ranged from anywhere between 5 and 9 PM, depending on work schedules.  There were a lot of nights when Jonathan had missed it, too, and they ate cold meatloaf or reheated chicken soup together.

Will, however, was both keenly aware of and displeased by Steve.  The first time he walked into the room and saw Steve sitting in the desk chair, he said, “I don’t get to have friends over on school nights.”

“When you’re older you can,” Jonathan replied, shrugging.  

This clearly didn’t satisfy him; but sometimes he would come sit on the bed with Jonathan and listen to whatever tape was playing, or request that Jonathan play something he liked, a request that Jonathan somehow always expertly interpreted.

Once, after a few weeks of tension, Steve told Will that the drawing he was working on―a dragon swooping down on a group of adventurers―was “sick.”  Will at least stopped glaring at him suspiciously, after that.  On rare occasions, he would mutely extend his drawings towards Steve in exchange for a “hell yeah, dude.” 

In the morning Steve would jog down to the church and drive home, mostly so that he could use his own shower.  “Three-in-one will destroy this ,” he’d explained to Jonathan, who groaned.  Steve patted his hair for emphasis.  “My greatest asset.” 

His parents didn’t seem particularly worried at his absence when they were there, save one throwaway comment from his dad about being careful not to get Natasha pregnant, which Steve didn’t bother to correct.

A few days a week, he went to the Wheelers for dinner or studying.  Increasingly, this was actually what they were doing; when Nancy was no longer concerned with impressing him, she apparently maintained a pre-electricity style sleep schedule.  Initially, Nancy seemed thrilled with Steve for really reading and doing statistics―even understanding it, sometimes.  They watched― really watched―a lot more movies together, too, sometimes with Barbara Holland or Nancy’s other friends from her various clubs.    

Barbara still hated him, which was to be expected; but everyone else warmed up to him once they realized he had fallen out of favor with all of the other people who had made their lives a living hell, and had more or less become some sad guy who had to pretend he was at basketball practice while he was actually watching The Sound of Music with the Yearbook Club.

Everything seemed to be going swimmingly, all things considered.  Steve filled the gaps left by Tommy and Carol and basketball with his new schedule of pot roast with the Wheelers at six and goth rock with Jonathan Byers at eleven.  

He had stopped smelling blood and when lights flickered, he only had the most fleeting moments of panic.  

This made it all the more shocking when, at the end of January, Nancy accused him of seeing someone else.

She was seeing him off at his car after dinner, leaning against it with her arms crossed over her chest―from the cold, Steve had assumed.  He was chewing a toothpick and fiddling with his keys.  He was actually just about to ask her if she’d read The Crucible ―because Click had chosen him to read for Giles Corey and he wanted to know if there would be a lot of lines― when very slowly, like she had been rehearsing, Nancy said, “Steve, I don’t want you to think I’m paranoid.”  He raised an eyebrow in response and saw her bottom lip start to quiver.  “Are you seeing anybody else?”

His response was immediate: “No way.”

Nancy was looking at him dead-on now.  Her lip was still quivering; but her shoulders were back and her jaw was set.  “Your car hasn’t been home in days.  Barb and I have to drive right by when we study at Cathy’s and I- I can’t help it, Steve, I notice. ”

Steve hesitated before what he said next, which proved fatal.  

“Nancy, I swear to God.  There’s nobody.”  

He could have said: Nance, it’s the weirdest thing, but I’ve been hanging out with ole Jonathan Byers.  We bonded over our whole brush with an alternate dimension and it’s proved an excellent distraction from my dead best friend.  He’s introducing me to all this crazy new music and I’m sleeping in his floor practically every night.  

Nancy probably would have been happy about it, if she believed him at all.  

But Steve couldn’t say that, and maybe his voice cracked on nobody.  Because there was someone, wasn’t there?  Even if it wasn’t in the way that Nancy meant.

“When was the last time you kissed me?” she gritted out.

This, at least, Steve could answer easily.  “I kissed you just a minute ago.  I kiss you hello and goodbye at school every damn day.”

Her eyes were closed now.  She almost looked like she was vibrating, or preparing to explode.  “When was the last time you kissed me, Steve?”

Steve sputtered at that; another fatal mistake.  By the time he started pleading with her― come on, Nance ―she was already stalking back down the driveway.

 ― 

Steve entertained the thought of spending the night pleading outside of Nancy’s bedroom window: Just let me in and I’ll kiss you right now.  But Steve knew, the same way that he knew that Jonathan didn’t just want him to say that he wasn’t an ant, that this wasn’t just about kissing.

This was, like a lot of things seemed to be lately, about something deeply, intrinsically fucked up with Steve.

Steve didn’t know when they’d stopped kissing and everything else he used to be crazy for, the stuff that used to make him happy to scrape his knees hauling himself onto her roof every night―around Christmas, maybe.  Jesus.

It had occurred to him, of course; but he had never dated a girl for half as long as he had been dating Nancy.  None of them had been his friend the way she was.  So it had seemed normal, at the time, to gradually do less making out and more watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island.   

Steve couldn’t stop seeing Nancy’s crumpled face and how quickly it had straightened into something hard and angry.  She looked a lot like Carol had that day in the hall, furious and rounding on him for something he didn’t realize he’d done, all of it centered on this weird thing he’d started with Jonathan Byers, this thing where he played at being some monster hunter when he couldn’t even protect Tommy in his own backyard.  This thing where he pretended no one had died in his pool and spent every night just through the woods instead, where Will Byers came back and Tommy never would.  This thing where he spent entirely too much time talking about Robert Smith and Holden fucking Caulfield until he became that, some guy who couldn’t even-

Without really intending to, Steve started screaming.  He swerved his car to the side of the road and just screamed, long and loud enough that it felt like his throat should tear.  He pounded the steering wheel and swore and cried and still, he kept screaming.  

He screamed and thought of Nancy and Tommy and Mrs. Hagan, Carol and Jason Carver and Barbara Holland.  He thought of Jonathan and didn’t want to be thinking of him, didn’t want to think about when he became just Jonathan instead of Jonathan Byers.

 ― 

For the rest of the week, Steve didn’t sleep at the Byers’ house and he didn’t call.  Jonathan didn’t call, either; almost like he had been expecting this to happen, sooner rather than later.  When Nancy wouldn’t look at him at school the next day Steve took his lunch to the only other place he could think of to go.  Maybe it was because he was visibly miserable and clearly wasn’t sleeping, black circles ringing his eyes; but Ms. Click just smiled at him and let him sit at his usual desk, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

There was a party at the end of that week, branded as late new years, early St. Patty’s day , which roughly translated to “someone’s parents are out of town.”  Steve wasn’t approached to host these things anymore but he wasn’t explicitly barred, either.  There was still a flyer jammed into the door of his locker, one of the few that the administration hadn’t managed to snatch up and throw in the trash.

Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d been drunk, which was nearly as shocking as his unintentional celibacy with Nancy; it had been since before Tommy died, at least.  The party was happening at another one of the houses in Loch Nora, some Amy or Stacy from the grade above his.  He could walk, if he wanted to, and stumble home after a few beers.

Steve had a few beers, then a few more when Peter-something from the basketball team approached him with some line about Nancy being back on the market; he washed it all down with a cup of punch, which tasted like rubbing alcohol more than anything.  He drank until he reached a point of being, if not exactly happy , dizzy and floaty and able to ignore the way people were staring at him.  

Typically, it was at this point of drunkenness that he’d find a phone at the party and call Nancy, or whatever girl he was seeing at the time.  If there wasn’t a girl, he might call Carol or Tommy.  Nancy wasn’t a fan of inebriated proclamations of love , as she put it; but she always answered, which had been encouragement enough.  

Maybe it was because none of these things were an option that Steve did what he did next―something completely inadvisable.

He stumbled home, climbed into his car, and found himself very shortly at the church down the street from the Byers’ house.

Steve announced himself by tossing a pebble at Jonathan’s window―so he had done that, but only once ―which struck him as very funny, at the time.  He was digging around for another one when Jonathan pulled the window up without moving the screen, which Steve realized when he pressed his nose up against it.  

Matter-of-factly, Jonathan declared, “You’re drunk.” 

In response, Steve pressed his nose into the screen a little harder, which made Jonathan jerk backwards.  This struck Steve as very funny, too.  Just then, everything was a little funny, including the fact that Jonathan was glaring at him like he wanted to kill him.  

“Can I come in?”

“Absolutely not,” Jonathan snapped.  Then, like this had just occurred to him: “Did you drive here?” 

Steve giggled at this.  “Are you gonna take my keys, dad ?” 

Steve had never seen someone, before or since, grinding their teeth the way Jonathan did in that moment: It made his whole jaw crack.  But he lifted the screen and let Steve clamber through.

Jonathan steered him towards the desk chair; even in his current state, Steve noticed that his usual pallet was gone.  He wanted to explain himself or apologize to Jonathan, who it was just occurring to him that he had missed.  What came out was, “Nancy dumped me.  I feel like Holden Caulfield.”  When Jonathan only stared at him, he added, “Sorry.” 

Jonathan was still standing over him, arms crossed over his chest; Steve tipped his head back to get a better look at him.  “You hate me.” 

At that, Jonathan pinched the bridge of his nose and ground out, “You can’t just show up to my house like this.”

“Sorry,” Steve repeated.  “Should I go?”

Jonathan walked out of the room without answering him, coming back a few minutes later with a wad of blankets and thrusting them towards Steve.  Steve accepted them happily, recognizing that this meant Jonathan at least wasn’t going to turn him back out into the night.  He settled himself on the floor with his shoes and coat still on.  

From his position somewhere above him, Jonathan said, “I don’t want you coming over drunk.  Seriously.”  Steve gave an obedient mhm of understanding.  “If I wanted someone’s beer breath in my face I’d go live with Lonnie.”  

Steve groped around in the dark until he found Jonathan’s ankle, which was dangling off of the bed, and squeezed it.  “Sorry, Jonathan.  Seriously. ”   

Jonathan squirmed away from him almost immediately; but he sounded a little less angry when he said, “I’m sorry about Nancy.”

Steve waved his hand through the air in a gesture that he hoped said oh well.  “I wasn’t a very good boyfriend.”  An idea struck him: “Now you can ask her out.”  

“What?”

“Nancy.  You like Nancy.  You can ask her out now.”  Steve yawned.  The floor was just as comfortable as he remembered.  “I won’t be mad.”

Jonathan huffed.  “You’re drunk.”  

Steve couldn’t argue with him there.

For a while they sat in silence.  At some point Jonathan pulled his legs onto the bed and started burrowing under the blankets.  Steve toed his shoes off, though they were too hopelessly tangled up in the quilt with him to be fully discarded.  From time to time, he could sort of feel Jonathan’s eyes on him, like he wanted to be sure Steve hadn’t stopped breathing.  

On one of these occasions, Steve said, “Jonathan.”  He got a hm? in response.  “Do you like girls?”

Steve waited, listening to Jonathan up above him breathing shallow and grinding his teeth.  He let his eyes flutter open and saw that Jonathan was still looking at him, propped up on one elbow.  

Finally, Jonathan said, “Girls are great.”

“Ever kissed one?” Steve asked, which he’d never done outright before; but he felt like he had less to lose, since Jonathan was already pissed at him.  “Nancy broke up with me because we weren’t kissing anymore.” 

He watched as Jonathan swallowed, a dry click in his throat.  His hair was hanging down into his eyes, now; but Steve could still tell that he was looking at him.  

Eventually, Steve conceded with, “Don’t have to tell me, man.  S’not my business.”  Jonathan rolled away, onto his back.  Steve wanted to grab his ankle again, say sorry.  But what came out was, “I missed you.”   

“You too,” Jonathan whispered, quieter than he needed to be.  “Go to sleep.” 

 ― 

Steve is leaning over the tub while Robin scours through his hair with her fingernails, rinsing out the bleach.  “There’s your sliver of exposed ankle,” he half-shouts over the roar of running water.  

Chapter Text

They look like me. I move them

around. I prefer to blame others, it’s easier. King me.

Richard Siken, “Landscape With a Blur of Conquerors”

 ― 

Through a mouthful of hashbrowns and eggs, Steve said, “You know who I think about all the time?”

They were sitting in IHOP, one of the shiny new chains that had come rolling in along with the mall, clinging to its back like a parasite.  These chains were even more novel now because everyone knew they’d be leaving just as quickly as they came, the shells converted into laundromats and recycling centers.

“I think I could guess.” 

“Marty McFly.”  

Clearly, this hadn’t been her guess―she tilted her head to the side, waiting. 

“Marty McFly.  That little cat that lived behind the dumpster and liked the number 3 combo from Hotdog on a Stick?”  Steve took another stab at his hashbrowns.  “I don’t know if I ever told you I named him, actually.”

“I also didn’t know his Hotdog on a Stick order.” 

This was, more or less, how Steve and Robin found themselves crouching behind the bombed-out shell of Starcourt Mall on a Saturday afternoon, holding an half-open can of tuna.

“I’m pretty they’re going to shoot first and ask questions later if they see us back here,” Robin hisses.  “My mother is already furious at me for being out so late doing your hair ―which she clearly thinks is a complete lie by the way, she thinks I’m going to get pregnant―and I suspect she won’t be thrilled if I die over some dumpster cat who, I’m sorry to say, probably didn’t-” 

Steve interjects with an indignant, “Marty is not some dumpster cat.” 

“He lived in a dumpster , Steve.”  Nevertheless, Robin starts in on another round of half-hearted here, kitty-kitty’ s as Steve attempts to waft the scent of the can in the general direction of the mall.

“One day we’re going to have a serious talk about your love of scraggly things as a guy who gives himself highlights and uses Farrah Fawcett hairspray,” Robin says.  She had seen the hairspray last night and hadn’t wasted a single opportunity to bring it up since.  “There’s something very twisted going on with you, psychologically.” 

Steve rolls his eyes.  “I’ll be sure to tell Jonathan that you called him scraggly when I see him tomorrow night.” 

For a moment, Robin only gapes at him.  Then, like it’s finally registered in her brain, she says, “When you what ?” 

“Aren’t you glad you’re spending your Saturday afternoon with me now ?” he says, smirking.  

“Tell.  Me.  Now,” Robin screeches, punctuating each word with a thump to his arm.  

Steve shrugs.  “It’s not like I’m going to ride up to his house on a white horse or anything.  But I have some things I need to apologize for.”

“More than what you’ve already told me?” Robin asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Way more.” 

 ― 

It could be argued that there were things Steve needed to apologize to Jonathan for doing from well before their time of monster hunts and phone calls.  There were certainly things during that time, things he did and didn’t mean, that built and built until they hinged on a single day and a single sentence .

But before that there were things, Steve hoped, that they could regard as mutually good .  As decent, at least.  

As something.

There was Valentine’s Day, roughly two weeks after Nancy dumped him.  The day itself wasn’t exactly wonderful.  Steve had to watch Nancy stride past his locker with an armful of candy-grams and reckon with the fact that a lot of people―even kids in band ―were in love and he wasn’t.

But there was a certain comfort in the solidarity between him and Jonathan, who told Steve that Valentine’s Day was invented by the Hallmark Corporation to sell cards.  This had spurred Steve on in threatening to send him an anonymous candy-gram for weeks.  

“I’ll write something really awful, like you are so SWEET.  All your cool anti-establishment friends will think you’re a poser and everyone else will think you have a secret admirer.”  

He had almost added something about how girls will think that’s so mysterious ; but they were having a good night, eating the discounted chocolates Ms. Byers had snagged from Melvald’s and eavesdropping on Will, who thought he was being sneaky by whispering into the walky-talky with his friends when he was meant to be in bed.  Steve was sitting on Jonathan’s bed and Jonathan was in the chair, a recent arrangement that they were just testing out―still never on the bed together, tiny and cramped as it was, but experimenting with their places in the room.  

So he left it at that, and Jonathan laughed and said, “I would drop dead if you did that.”

“From happiness?”  

Jonathan ticked off all the causes of death that weren’t happiness on his fingers, one-by-one: “Shame.  Embarrassment.  Humiliation…” 

“What other holidays were invented by Hallmark to sell cards?” Steve cut in, partly to keep Jonathan from getting into the ones that would actually hurt his feelings, like disgust.

Jonathan starts ticking off on his fingers again.  “Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are the other big ones.  And shit like Teacher’s Day.”  

Since that night in November, they hadn’t talked about their dads much beyond a few throwaway comments; but he thought Jonathan’s eyes slid over his for just a second when he said Father’s Day .

“That’s the holiday you should be taking a stand against,” Steve said.  “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who even likes their father; let alone wants to give him that World’s Greatest Dad card and take him to a steakhouse.” 

Jonathan was spinning slightly in the chair―something he usually mocked Steve for doing.  When his face was turned more towards the wall than the bed, he asked, “What’s your dad like?  Everyone already knows about mine.”

What Steve knew about Lonnie Byers had not been learned in good faith―and it was usually about what he’d done.  Most of it came from snatches of gossip Carol overheard at her mom’s hair salon, things like she came into work limping again and he has those boys so jumpy you can’t even lift your hand around them.  For a while after that, Tommy had thought that it was funny to corner Jonathan at his locker or in the cafeteria and not even hit him―just raise a hand to him like he was going to, to see if he’d flinch.

Steve had never done it; but he was there, hanging back and watching.  He’d been bored, most times, ready to go to practice or eat his lunch.  Bored of Jonathan Byers, who everyone knew was an easy scare.

It felt almost sacrilegious, remembering Tommy like that.  Remembering him cruel.  For the most part, Steve had just avoided it: He couldn’t reconcile that Tommy with the one who let him sleep over for a whole summer and wanted to be his blood brother.    

He avoided it then, too, choosing instead to develop a sudden and intense interest in a loose thread on the comforter.  He picked at it as he mumbled, “It’s just typical rich kid stuff.”

“You said you hated him.  Not all rich kids hate their dad.”  

For a minute, Jonathan just spun and Steve just picked.  Then, Steve said, “I think the main thing is…I just get the impression that he doesn’t like me very much.  I realized that pretty recently, actually; before that I thought it was something I could earn, or win in a fight. 

“It’s not like he beats me or whatever―I mean, he’s gotten me pretty good a few times.”  Steve tapped his lip and then his right eye, hoping that Jonathan understood and already feeling like an idiot.  “I mean, it worked.  We haven’t really argued since the last time he did that.  I just stay outta the way.”  

Jonathan had stopped spinning and rolled the chair closer to the edge of the bed.  When their eyes caught, Steve thought he looked almost bashful.  “Ever hit him back?” 

“What?  God, no.”  He looked at Jonathan.  “Have you?” 

He nodded.  

“Jesus, Jonathan.”  But Steve had to know, so he asked, “So you just hit him right back?  In the face?” 

Jonathan nodded again.  He was looking down at the floor now, letting his hair fall over his face.  “An old drunk isn’t as hard to take as you’d think.  I knocked him out once and Will was afraid I killed him.  Made me check his pulse.”  

Steve thought that Jonathan sounded a lot more ashamed of himself than he had any reason to be.  He wanted to say so.

What came out was, “Would’ve been good riddance if you did.” 

Jonathan lifted his head.  “You think so?”  

He didn’t sound angry; just nervous, glancing over his shoulder like his dad was going to overhear and bust the door down, come snatch him up by the back of his neck.  

Steve leaned forward on the bed, close enough that he could see Jonathan’s eyelashes and the motion of his teeth as they chewed the inside of his lip.  “I know so.  Fuck him.”

Eventually, Jonathan started to shake his head.  “Fuck him.  Fuck your dad, too.” 

There they were again: Fuck our dads .  But Steve didn’t want to just say amen this time, to break it up with a laugh.  This felt like a sort of oath between them, an acknowledgement.

I see you.  I know you.  I’m like you.   

So Steve just kept staring, kept leaning towards Jonathan who was hunched forward in his chair and staring back, chewing his lip.  He had a fleeting thought that if Jonathan was a girl he’d been dating this would be the part where he’d kiss her, now that he’d gotten into her good graces with his little sob story.  Only it didn’t feel like a little sob story to him, just then.  

It was the first time he didn’t just say he smacked me around some and leave it at that.  It was the first time he’d pointed to his eye, had basically said here, he hit me here.  He hit me here and I barely even remember why.

Jonathan was giving him one of his looks .  Not disgust―he saw less of that one, those days―and not confusion.  At first Steve thought it might be pity, but he had seen Jonathan look at something with pity before, when he stepped on Chester’s paw or when Will came home worse-for-wear from therapy.  Pity was a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth and slight quirk of the eyebrows.

This look was mostly in his eyes, in the way he seemed to have stopped blinking.  It was in his mouth, where he wasn’t chewing on his lip anymore but seemed to be shifting his teeth or poking around in there with his tongue and thinking even harder than usual.

Steve knew that it was a look he hadn’t gotten from him before.  

 ― 

Whatever was happening between them the night before Valentine’s Day ended in an anticlimax when Chester started whining and scratching at the door, asking to be let out.  They leaned against the side of the house, huddled against the cold, and watched him sniff around the yard.  Steve had a cigarette and offered one to Jonathan, subsequently learning that that cigarette at the funeral home had been some weird thing I went through when I thought Will died.  They’re actually really gross.

“I still have that cigarette, I think.  In my suit pocket.”

“It’s all yours.” 

They didn’t make a habit of talking about their dads; but it opened them up to talking about something besides The Cure or how Steve was too obsessed with his hair, or making vague allusions to what had happened in November. 

It let Steve say that his mom was fucked up in her own way, that she was keeping the doctor who everyone knew to be running a pill mill in business, probably so she could continue to tolerate his dad.  It let him tell Jonathan about the time when he was six―little enough that he trailed around at his mother’s heels from time to time―and she fell down the stairs, split her forehead clean open, and wouldn’t go to the hospital.  

It let Jonathan blurt out that sometimes he was mad at his mother for staying with Lonnie for so long, until he was so old that he was socially behind and by the time he wasn’t living in an active warzone anymore, it had felt impossible to make friends.  

It let Steve respond that they were friends, so it wasn’t completely impossible.

Sitting on the bed together was forbidden by some unspoken code; but Steve would sometimes hang off of it as Jonathan sat on the floor and sorted through cassettes or cleaned his camera.  Their foreheads nearly touched, once, when Jonathan turned and didn’t expect to see him there.  Steve pretended not to notice how Jonathan jerked back like he’d stumbled into an electric fence.

By mid-March, all of Jonathan’s focus had shifted towards Will’s birthday.  About a week before, Steve was watching upside down and over his shoulder as he went through years and years worth of photos.  Ms. Byers wanted to tack up as many of them as possible on the fridge because, according to Jonathan, “She has this masochistic yearly ritual where she stares at them and gets misty-eyed over how big he’s getting and then we have to put them away.”

 There was a lot to get misty-eyed over: Will and his friends in last year’s Halloween costumes; Will decorating a Christmas tree; Will and Chester curled up on the couch, taking a nap on some nondescript afternoon.  

Steve had never seen so many pictures of one kid.  

“You take all of these?” Steve asked.  

Jonathan nodded, shuffling a few photos into stacks.  He stopped to examine a picture of a much smaller Will pretending to carve a turkey, then held it out to Steve .  “Everything except the old polaroids.  Those are my mom’s.”   

In the background of the polaroid, there was another boy gripping the back of the kitchen chair Will was standing on.  They had twin bowl cuts and hand-knitted sweaters and the same grim frown of concentration on their faces, and they couldn’t have been older than four and eight.  

Eventually, Steve said, “You look…dutiful.”

He had seen Jonathan looking that way more often than not, where Will was concerned; but he had figured it was a recent development, one that came from Will’s return from the dead or maybe their dad leaving.  

Jonathan shrugged, placing the picture in the maybe pile.  “Our mom was petrified that the chair would slip out from under him and he’d impale himself on the carving knife.  So I held it.”        

Steve tried to remember what he had been worried about at that age―probably getting a new bike, or whether his parents would let him spend the night at Tommy’s.  Because of Tommy and Carol, it was roughly then that he’d stopped wishing for siblings, for someone to commiserate with about how mean Dad was or how Mom slept all the time.  In a lot of ways, they were better than a brother and sister: They meant two other houses he could go to and two other sets of parents who always seemed to want him over for dinner, always just so happened to have made too many cookies or bought an extra movie ticket.  

He wondered if he would have been different with a brother; someone whose chair he had to hold onto.  He wondered if he was capable of that.

But it was late and he didn’t want to get into that just now―was maybe afraid of what Jonathan would say about Steve’s penchant for selfishness.  

So he redirected: “Are there any of these with just you?  Portraits of a young goth?” 

“Maybe shoved in a tote somewhere, where they’ll stay .”  Jonathan smirked up at him.  “You’ve got yours in a photo album, right?  My Hair Through the Ages. ” 

In response, Steve sighed dramatically and said, “I know it may shock you, but there are devastatingly few pictures of me.  No one to take them.”    

It was true, beyond the occasional photo booth strip and yearbook picture.  Tommy used to joke that you would think Steve died when he was seven because that was where all the Harrington family photos stopped.  He figured it was around that time that driving an hour out of town to Sears and taking photos for a Christmas card they never ended up mailing had lost its appeal.

Jonathan scooched backwards.  Leaning back and squinting through a little square he made with his fingers, he said, “This could be an interesting one: ‘Boy Upside Down . ’”  

“‘ Man Upside Down,’” Steve corrected.  

Jonathan went for his camera, taking it out of the case and going through the dozens of steps that always seemed to Steve to be more complicated than loading a gun.  

Steve said, “Don’t blind me with the flash,” just as Jonathan blinded him with the flash.

“Were my eyes closed?”  

“Probably,” Jonathan mused, noncommittal.  “We’ll see when it’s developed.  Don’t think it’ll be a good one for your hair album.”  He made an all-encompassing sort of gesture towards Steve, who was now sitting right side up and rubbing his flash-scorched eyes.  

“Not everyone can have the signature Byers bowl cut,” Steve quipped.  

From the outset, he knew that this was a dangerous path to take: It was hard to determine what Jonathan might take as some kind of dig about being impoverished, or what Steve might mean as a dig about being impoverished without actually meaning to.  

But Jonathan, fiddling with the camera, only said, “It’s practical.” 

Feeling encouraged by Jonathan’s non-reaction, Steve went on: “It’s a sort of Beatles― not very goth, but British.  So it goes with your whole thing.  You could go more Robert Smith if you wanted.  Ever used hairspray?” 

Camera returned to its place on the book shelf, Jonathan spoke without turning around: “Do you remember that green army surplus jacket I had in middle school?” 

And Steve thought, there it is , but he said, “Yeah.”

“You and Tommy Hagan called me GI Joe all winter.  And Salvation Army.”   

“I never called you that,” Steve objected, managing to bite his tongue before something else came out, like and Tommy’s dead or I’m nice to you now.  

“OK.  You were there.  The point is, I think I’ll stick with the bowl cut.”

 ― 

Later, when they were out back waiting for Chester―as had become their nightly routine―Steve rushed out, “I know I haven’t always been nice to you.”  He almost tricked himself into stopping there, thinking the sorry must have been implied; but he forced an, “I’m sorry, man.”

Jonathan was staring, rather pointedly, out towards the shed.  Not looking at Steve, who also technically wasn’t looking at him―just glancing up out of the corner of his eye, taking entirely too long to light a cigarette.  Steve watched him for a second, the way his breath clouded in front of his mouth and the sharp jut of his shoulder blades as they jumped under his thin sweatshirt, shivering.  

Steve remembered Jonathan in that green army jacket, always walking with his head down.  It was that same year Tommy’s favorite pastime was making him jump with a raised fist.  Steve was usually propped up against a nearby wall inspecting his fingernails or tying his shoe; glancing at Jonathan from the corner of his eye and doing his best to look transparently bored so Tommy would quit sooner.  

For the first time, he let himself see it.  

Jonathan, small and cowering, with his face betraying nothing but unable to stop the rest of his body from reacting.  

He let himself see Tommy, smiling with a raised fist.  

Tommy who died, Tommy who he loved.  

Tommy who was relentlessly cruel to almost everyone else.  

And he saw himself doing nothing to stop it, cruel by proxy.  

Cruel in a way that was all his own.  

The most he remembered was being morbidly fascinated with the way Jonathan never talked back to Tommy and certainly never hit: Just allowed himself to be pinned to the spot and then scurried away at the first opportunity, like a frightened rabbit.  Eventually he had gotten good at avoiding them, which Tommy said took all the sport out of it.  

Steve cleared his throat.  Tried again.  Looked at him straight on as he said, “I’m sorry, Jonathan.  For everything.”  

And when he thought of Jonathan flinching away from Tommy and it made for everything feel like a cop-out, he said, “You didn’t deserve to be terrorized by two fuckin’ idiots who thought it made them big men to push you around.”  Three, if you count Lonnie ―but he was sure enough that Jonathan was thinking that already; and if he wasn’t, no need to remind him.  “You should hate me.  I don’t even know why you let me-” 

“I hated you for a long time,” Jonathan snapped, cutting him off; finally, he was looking at him.  “And if I still hated you, you wouldn’t be here.  So don’t do that.” 

Steve knew he didn’t have a right to feel stung, to say, I never hated you.  His truth was worse: Before Tommy went missing, he never thought of Jonathan at all.

Wordlessly, he nudged the side of Jonathan’s foot with his own.  He waited for the electric-fence reaction; when it didn’t come, he knocked his shoulder into Jonathan’s and left it there.  

 ― 

The weekend after Will’s birthday―and after many reassurances to Ms. Byers that the pool was heated, so a late-March swim wasn’t exactly the Polar Plunge―Steve finally made good on his offer to take them swimming.  

Hanging out when the sun was up was rare for them, even on weekends; and hanging out at Steve’s house was unheard of.  The sight of Jonathan and Will ambling up his driveway with their towels slung over their shoulders was downright unnatural.  But Steve still had fairly decent hosting skills courtesy of his Party King years.  He greeted them with a flourish and a “This way, gentlemen.” 

Will was in the water in a matter of seconds, shirt and shoes discarded in the midst of his running start from the back door.  He didn’t cower in Steve’s presence anymore, which was a marked improvement; but he kept to himself more often than not, a man of few words.  Steve had only seen him let loose a handful of times, on the rare nights when DnD had to be held in the Byers’ kitchen.  

Jonathan was watching him, smiling but tense (having been ordered by their mother to jump in and perform CPR at the slightest flail, if Steve had to guess) and still, notably, wearing jeans and sneakers and even a sweatshirt.

Steve jabbed him in the ribs.  “Gonna take your shoes off at least?” 

“It’s against my religion,” Jonathan deadpanned.  But he tugged off his sweatshirt and toed off his sneakers so that he was standing in his undershirt and socks.

“You’re like one of those Russian dolls,” Steve said.  He was already in swim trunks, though he had left his t-shirt on because he felt strangely shy of taking it off while Jonathan stood there fully clothed.  

Jonathan grunted, stooping down and hopping a bit to pull off his socks.  His swim trunks were under his jeans―very practical, Steve thought.  That left them standing there, both in their shirts, with Will splashing and cannon-balling behind them.

“Last one in’s a rotten egg?” Steve tried, halfheartedly.  But he didn’t move towards the pool or lift his shirt; just played with the hem.  Waited.

Jonathan scoffed.  “I don’t think anyone says that anymore.”

Everything suddenly felt ridiculous and embarrassing and Steve couldn’t even pinpoint why .  He had changed and showered in front of other guys in locker rooms hundreds of times; but here was skinny Jonathan Byers whose vertebrae you could count through his jacket, and Steve was fucking petrified.

Finally, Jonathan turned his back to him and peeled his shirt off.  Steve averted his eyes and did the same.  

Somehow, it felt like a test that he had failed.      

 ― 

Things felt normal once they were in the water, mostly thanks to Will.  He kept them occupied with a dozen games of Marco Polo and races from one end to the other until he was so exhausted that all he could do was float on his back in the shallow end.  Steve ordered takeout on his parents’ debit card and pointed them towards the guest bathroom to rinse their hair and change into dry clothes.  

Will emerged first, towel around his neck and hair dripping down the back of his shirt.  He beamed up at Steve.  “Mike is going to be so jealous that I got to swim here and he didn’t.”  

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  After a quick glance over each shoulder, Will whispered, “Jonathan told me not to mention this, but Mike used to say that at least if Nancy was dating you he might get to swim here in the summer.  But I guess that’s not happening.”  

Interest piqued―though maybe not in the way that Will had expected―Steve asked, “Jonathan told you not to mention it?”

Will nodded.  He leaned in, conspiratorial.  “He thought it might upset you because, you know…Nancy dumped you.”  At this, Will seemed to register something on Steve’s face; quickly, he added, “Having a girlfriend sounds really terrible anyways.  Jonathan says he doesn’t have one because he wouldn’t have any free time.  I wouldn’t want one.” 

Steve nodded along and tried not to follow his thoughts where they wanted to go, to questions about what free time Jonathan valued so much when they seemed to spend most of it together.  And he definitely didn’t intend to entertain the question that sprang from those thought: Why was he more curious about Jonathan and his free time than Nancy?

Will was staring at him expectantly, head cocked―looking for reassurance that he wasn’t gravely offended, most likely.    

“I do have a lot of free time now,” Steve conceded.  He cleared his throat.  “You can bring Mike over to swim sometime, if you want; but make sure you tell him you got to do it first.” 

 ― 

April brought with it the new Lou Reed album and the beginning of the end.

Lou Reed, like Robert Smith, was another one of those people Jonathan just knew about.  He rattled facts off to Steve during their second listen-through of New Sensations : That Lou Reed was dyslexic and ethnically Jewish and got electroshock therapy when he was seventeen.  That he used to pretend he was shooting up heroin on stage.  And he was friends with that Campbell’s soup can guy they had to study in art class.

After that, they embarked on a sort of Lou Reed highlights tour: The Velvet Underground and Nico (which Steve had actually seen before, but knew as The Banana Album rather than its formal title);  Coney Island Baby ; and Transformer.  

Steve liked it quite a bit; but from what he knew of Jonathan’s tastes, it sounded a little too rock n’ roll.  When he asked, Jonathan’s indignant reply was that, “I have a healthy respect for rock n’ roll.  Billy Joel is not rock n’ roll.”  

They were in the kitchen, Steve propped against the counter as Jonathan washed dishes.  A charitable mood had struck him, so he’d grabbed the dish towel and taken over drying.  “I’m just saying―this Lou Reed guy makes good music or whatever.  Excellent for dishwashing.  Plebeians like me enjoy it, but you-”  

Jonathan cut him off with an incredulous, “Plebeians?” 

“Am I not allowed to use new words now, Byers?” Steve asked, swatting out with the dish towel without managing to connect.  “We’re doing Caesar in Click’s class.  I’m kind of an expert on ancient Rome now.”    

Even if he and Jonathan were experimenting with hanging out before ten PM, they had never broached the subject of interacting at school.  The few times they had―usually nothing more than a hey man or a chin raised in acknowledgement―Steve could swear he felt people’s eyes crawling over him like ants.  So he was still eating lunch in Click’s room and, as a result, had been sort of forced to at least try in her class.  

He had also learned the names of all six of her cats and that she loved some singer named Joni Mitchell and that she had an estranged husband who was living in Indianapolis with a young tart .  They were all facts he would have gleefully shared with Tommy and Carol at one point.  It would’ve been the source of hours of entertainment, months of meaningful, joking glances at her expense.

Sometimes, Steve wondered how the person he was last year would feel about the turn things had taken: Debating music with Jonathan Byers (albeit poorly) and hanging out with Ms. Click.  He had a feeling that Steve would laugh in his face.  

Now he had Jonathan, who only seemed to care that Click was having Steve’s class write their final paper on The Importance of Being Earnest when his had to do Jude the Obscure.  Increasingly, Steve found that he didn’t really mind the trade off.

“I don’t think a plebeian would have had a BMW,” Jonathan drawled, side-stepping another swipe of the dish towel.  “And Lou Reed is not suited to most plebeian tastes.  You’ve gotta listen to the lyrics.”  

“What, the drug stuff?  I mean, people our parents age might pretend it isn’t, but sex, drugs, rock n’ roll is kind of the whole point of getting famous.”

Jonathan was silent, suddenly zeroed-in on the task at hand with a white-knuckled grip on a stained coffee mug.  Steve from last year would have found that to be pretty typical.  

Since their tiff over the green army jacket and Steve’s choked apology, prickliness had all but ground to a halt.  But maybe Steve hadn’t changed so much after all, because the part of his brain that jumps up and down yelling I can save this came alive and started speaking with his mouth.

“I’m not talking down on our friend Lou Reed, man.  I’m just used to you showing me stuff that’s a little weirder.  In a good way.  I mean, I love The Cure and I haven’t told you this but I even think it’s kind of cool that they - ” 

“He’s gay,” Jonathan blurted.  He was still gripping the dishrag, staring intently into the sink.  “Or used to be.  He kind of denounced it and blamed all the drugs and now he’s married.  But the point is, that’s what’s subversive about it.  To a lot of people.”

Steve wanted to blame what he said next on still not being fully in control of his mouth.

“Is it…subversive…to you?” 

Or maybe he just wanted to know.

Very cautiously, Jonathan said, “I think it’s interesting.” 

“Interesting,” Steve repeated dumbly, nodding.  He had that sunburned feeling on his face again, creeping down his neck.  “Like Holden Caulfield.” 

 ― 

Three days later, Steve was so engaged in his afternoon ritual of half-sprinting to Ms. Click’s classroom with his lunch that he didn’t see Carol until she had him cornered against the water fountain.  

“Stevie!” 

She placed a hand on his arm that pinned him in place so effectively that it may as well have been a loaded gun.  

“Carol,” he squeaked.  

They hadn’t spoken since November; but Steve could read her enough to see that she wasn’t furious this time.  She had that smug, satisfied look she always did when she knew something you didn’t.  The kind of look that a cat gives to a mouse between its paws, one that says I’ve got plans for you.

“Nicole saw something really interesting today,” she said.  She waited for a few seconds, eyebrows raised, then added, “Don’t you wanna know?” 

Tossing the mouse in the air a bit, batting it around.

Steve nodded.  

She smiled and leaned in―conspiratorial, like it was just a bit of gossip between friends.  Like they were still friends.  

“She saw Jonathan Byers developing the cutest little picture of you.”

He waited for the stinger, something about Tommy― He’ll kick your ass when he gets back.  He won’t believe what you’ve done to yourself― but it didn’t come.  

Even if no one else knew that he was dead, Tommy was being given the dead man’s treatment: He wasn’t considered anymore, even in the abstract.  There was no question of what Tommy would do to Steve when he came back because no one thought that he was coming back.  Not even Carol, who still wore her promise ring on one of the fingers that was now curled around Steve’s arm.  

No one had seen the private investigator in months.  When Steve last drove past the Hagans’, Tommy’s brother’s car was gone.  

The blood roared in Steve’s ears so loudly that he barely heard what Carol said next: “I guess that explains why they didn’t want you on the basketball team anymore.”  

But it came out flat.  No sting.  And all that it really made him want to do was shake her, scream at her: Who are you doing this for, Carol?  Tommy died.  Tommy thought all the right things and everybody was afraid of him and none of it matters because he died.  

Carol released his arm.  Even with the indents of her fingernails stinging on his wrist, she suddenly looked very small and very, very tired.  They stared at each other for a moment, Steve rubbing the circulation back into his arm and Carol twisting her ring; and then she was rushing down the hall, away from him.

 ― 

Just as Robin groans, “Carol fucking Perkins-” they catch a promising glimpse of black and white fur creeping out from underneath a bush.  Steve shushes her with a finger to the lips, which she smacks away, mouthing tuna hands.  

The cat stops a few yards away from them and scents the air, cocks its head at Steve, and trots over.  Steve contains himself while it sniffs his hand, headbutts his arm, paws at the tuna can―which Steve promptly sets down, peeling the lid off fully for better access.  Silently, he motions for Robin to hand him his old sweatshirt, which she had been using to cushion her knees as they kneeled and waited.  

It’s almost unbelievable how easy it is to swaddle Marty and get him into the car.  Steve has never been this close to a cat before, or really any animal besides Chester―his parents had always been anti-pet.  Anti anything that made them obligated to be home on a regular basis, since cats couldn’t microwave a TV dinner.  He doesn’t really know how they’ll feel about a cat now , though he imagines it’ll be a similar reaction to if your pesky roommate got a pet without asking: Annoying, but you wouldn’t poison it or anything extreme like that.

Steve wants to drive with him on his lap, but Robin says that she isn’t going to let Marty get her killed now especially, since they’d escaped the wrath of the US Army.  So they drive to Big Buy with Robin holding the still-swaddled Marty at arms-length, even as the cat starts to squirm and wriggle because he wants to explore the car.

“He is filthy, ” she says.  

Steve looks over.  There are some visible, crawling fleas on Marty’s white scalp. 

“How would you look if you’d been living in the woods?  We’ll give him a bath.” 

“Cats don’t like water , Steve.  That’s like, their whole thing.”  

Steve considers this; but even if he hates it, it’ll just be the one bath.  One cat can’t overpower two adults.  

 ― 

Marty overpowers them, easily and more than once.  

When he twists out of Steve’s arms for the third time and dashes behind the toilet, they admit defeat―though Steve insists it’s just half-time ―clean their wounds with rubbing alcohol, and call in a pizza.

“He’ll change his tune once his realizes his old buddy Steve has his best interests at heart,” Steve insists.  

Robin takes a big, meaningful bite of her pizza.  A bite that says don’t ask me my honest opinion on this matter, please.  

For a while, Steve is lost in thought.  There was a new Discovery special on cats a few months ago that he’d ended up watching with Will and Henderson.  He was almost sure there had been something about cats needing to squeeze into small spaces until they felt safe.  But if he could just get Marty out and make him see the benefits of not having fleas…

“Earth to dingus,” Robin says, waving a hand in front of his face, just as he’s almost decided to try to coax Marty out of hiding.  “You still haven’t told me why or how it came about that you’re seeing Jonathan tomorrow night. ”

 ― 

It took almost a week from the time Carol cornered Steve in the hall for Jonathan to give him the picture.  

He hadn’t told Jonathan about the scene by the water fountains or Nicole’s dark room snooping.  It didn’t really feel important after the fact; all that Steve could think about was how Carol had looked in those final seconds, like all the air had been leaking out of her for the past five months and she was finally empty.

Steve was sitting cross-legged on the bed, leafing through The Importance of Being Earnest, when the picture was unceremoniously dropped into his line of sight.  

“I like to wait until I’ve got a full roll of film and then develop it all at once,” Jonathan said, already turned back to his battered copy of Jude the Obscure.

Steve took a moment to study it.  His eyes were closed, as he suspected; but he was smiling, or at least baring his teeth.  It looked like a happier moment than any Sears photo of his family stuffed into itchy matching sweater vests.  

He wasn’t really sure what the protocol was for complimenting photography, especially when you were the subject.  His only previous art critic experience was telling Will that his drawings were some variation of sick or cool , and those were of knights and dragons.  So he just said, “It’s good.  What are you gonna do with it?” 

“It’s yours,” Jonathan replied.

Steve wrinkled his nose.  “What am I gonna do with a picture of myself?” 

“What am I gonna do with a picture of you?” Jonathan countered.

“Hang it in your locker or something.  Whatever it is you do with all your pictures.”

With a sigh, Jonathan dog-eared Jude and turned to face him.  “I mostly keep them in boxes.”

“Am I not worthy of your picture box?” Steve said, pouting.  

Jonathan made a show of considering this, scratching his chin.  “The box is typically reserved for more artistic subject matter.”

“Like Will’s birthday parties?” 

“I don’t just follow Will around all the time,” Jonathan said defensively.  “There was a dead fox in the quarry last year.  I got some pretty good ones of its skeleton.” 

“Everyone and their brother went and poked that dead fox with a stick.”  

Some guys on the wrestling team had told Tommy about it, and he insisted that they go.  Carol had cried while Steve wretched into the bushes; but Tommy just stared at it.  Later, he said he’d seen maggots crawl out of its mouth and made Carol cry again.  

Jonathan looked genuinely disgusted.  “Jesus.  I didn’t.” 

“You’re so respectful, Byers.  You just took pictures of it instead.”  Steve frisbee’d the photo at him.  “I wanna be in the picture box.” 

This earned him an eye roll; but Jonathan still dutifully dragged the nearest box of pictures towards him and tossed it in.  Behind them, Coney Island Baby spun to a halt on the tape deck, with Lou Reed declaring that he’d give the whole thing up for you.  It dredged up something Steve had been pondering how to say.

“You’re like Lou Reed,” he declared.  “I know you said once I can’t tell you what you’re like―but I’ve totally got your number now.  You’re like Lou Reed, man!”

 “What are you talking about?” 

“I mean, okay: You and Lou Reed both want to be Mr. Subversive, right?  But you like taking pictures of your kid brother and your dog, and that song was just him singing about some girl―or some guy, I don’t know.  Someone he’s dating.  Which is the most typical subject matter, like, ever.”  Steve beamed at him and was met with a look he would almost describe as frightened.  He pushed on.  “What I’m saying is you think you’re a whole lot more misunderstood than you are, Byers.”

Very slowly, Jonathan said, “And you think that you…understand me?” 

Jonathan didn’t sound angry or even prickly , which would be a positive if he didn’t also look like he was going to throw up.  

In a roundabout way, Steve had meant for this whole thing to come across as flattering.  

“I’m saying you’re interesting, Jonathan, and the most interesting thing about you is that underneath your weird music and your photography stuff, you’re just this guy who really loves his brother.  And who knows more about Robert Smith and Lou Reed than anyone else in the entire state of Indiana.” 

Steve had come up with this whole thing a few nights prior.  A storm had kept his parents home for an extra night, and they were in one of their rare manias where they wanted Steve home for a tense family dinner, followed by an awkward family movie, and topped off with a family locked and deadbolted front door that he was, in so many words, trapped behind.  To top it off, the storm had knocked out a power line so that he wasn’t even able to call the Byers’ house.    

Though he would only admit it under pain of death, Steve had tried and failed to recreate the sleep scenario he’d grown accustomed to by dragging his comforter and pillows into the floor, listening to cassettes, and thinking of what conversations he’d be having with Jonathan.  It was halfway through “Walk on the Wild Side” that the thought struck him; but the conversation had played out in his head with Jonathan being grateful, albeit shy, and accepting it for the compliment it was.

In reality, Jonathan scoffed and said, “I’m not sure you understand anything” and still didn’t sound angry―just tired.

Steve’s indignantly sputtered response of, “You’re my best friend, Byers.  I think you can give me a little credit” was something he had foreseen in his fantasy scenario, though it had been more of a moment of quiet tenderness.  

At least it had the desired effect of stopping short whatever Jonathan was about to snap back at him.

“You are,” Steve said, quieter this time.  He cleared his throat.  “I mean, you’re my only friend unless you count Will; and I’m not sure he considers us friends.” 

Jonathan’s back was to him, emptying the tape deck, so Steve couldn’t quite get a read on him when he said, “Will thinks you’re pretty cool.” 

Steve battled the urge to blurt out something immature in response: You have to say I’m your best friend, too, or I’m not hanging out with you anymore.  He settled on, “At least one Byers sibling does.” 

Jonathan turned to him, hands on his hips: A portrait of exasperation.  “Are you gonna force me to say it?”  

Steve was unabashedly pouting now; but it seemed to be working, so he dialed it up a bit.  

“It would be nice.”  

With a sigh, Jonathan said, “We’re friends.  Best buddies.  Should we make bracelets or something?” 

“We could do a blood oath.  We kind of already did.”  Steve held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers; after a pause, Jonathan mirrored him.  

At the time, Nancy had been sore about being the odd one out; but she had proven to be the only one who wasn’t petrified of using the gun, and a bandage would have gotten in the way.  Selfishly, Steve was glad: It was bad enough every time Nancy rushed by him in the hallway without so much as a passing glance.  He didn’t need them walking around with matching scars.

“One blood oath’s probably plenty,” Jonathan said.  He’d lowered his hand and shoved it into the pocket of his pajama pants.  “Remember when you wouldn’t even sit down in here?”

“In my defense, it looked like a health hazard.”

“And you didn’t want to sit with me .” 

“And now you sit in the floor so you don’t have to sit with me, ” Steve shot back.  It was more of an unspoken rule between them, really; but lately it seemed like what Steve thought was unspoken between them was just something he’d made up.  

He patted the end of the bed in what he hoped was a welcoming gesture.

“I’m not Chester,” Jonathan said; but he sank into the far corner.  “And this is my bed.”

“When you’re sitting on the floor you’re sitting on my bed.” 

“You have a bed.  At your house,” Jonathan reminded him. 

Steve shrugged him off.  “That’s my display bed.  I didn’t even sleep in it the other night.”  

Because some things still felt best left unspoken, he didn’t add I just laid in my floor and thought about talking to you .

 ― 

Steve always remembered the first time he dreamed about kissing Jonathan, partly because it was the night before Ms. Click’s test on Caesar.  He absolutely bombed it as result, to the point that she pulled him aside after class.

“You read for Brutus,” she said, like that alone should have rendered failure impossible.  “I haven’t seen grades like this from you all semester, Steve.” 

Steve scrubbed his hands over his face to keep from staring at the glaring, red-circled F at the top of his test .  “I had a pretty shitty night’s sleep, Ms. Click.”  

The cursing was new for them; but Steve felt comfortable letting it slip from time to time since she’d stapled her finger in front of him and screamed shit, shit, shit at the top of her lungs.  

She gave him the once-over, followed by a slight nod that he interpreted as her saying you do look like hell.  “You’re retaking this,” she declared, shoving the test toward him.  “Monday, lunch time.  I’ll give you the sick day version, so don’t just memorize this one.  Go over it with a friend.”

He was grateful that she didn’t name a friend.  Jonathan had stopped by a few weeks ago during one of their lunches to borrow her personal copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude , which he was apparently reading “for pleasure.”  Ms. Click had asked if they knew each other, to which Steve had stupidly, enthusiastically responded yes.  

If she had mentioned Jonathan at that moment, Steve may have melted into the floor.   

He had dreamt that they were sitting on the bed together, looking at pictures.  They were cross-legged with their knees touching, which should have told Steve that it was a dream.  In reality, they sat as far apart as the bed would allow―sometimes Jonathan even dragged a pillow into the negative space between them.  

In the dream, Jonathan held up the photo of Steve hanging off the bed; Steve said something stupid, made him laugh; and then Steve leaned over and kissed him like it was the most normal thing in the world, like he was a girl.  

He was almost certain that they were going to do something more than kissing, but Jonathan had woken him up by shaking his shoulder and hissing that it sounded like he was having a nightmare.  Which was a mercy, really: The only thing that would have made it more mortifying would have been if it’d turned into a wet dream.  But at the time, all that Steve could think was I kissed you in my dream, so he jerked away more aggressively than he’d needed to and crawled out the window at half past four.

Steve spent most of the afternoon vacillating between faking his death or trying to act like nothing was wrong; but Jonathan was bringing Will and some of his motley DnD crew over to swim after school, so faking his own death wasn’t really an option.  

And nothing was wrong, in reality.  He’d had dreams about Jonathan before, ranging from nightmares of fighting the demogorgon to nonsense about running away together to become circus clowns.  None of those had involved them kissing, sure; but they were all just as fake, his brain scrambling together all the different bits of information that stayed in place during the day and got shaken around at night.  

More than anything, it probably meant that he needed to get laid.  This was complicated by the fact that girls weren’t much looking at him anymore in the aftermath of his ousting from the basketball team and subsequent breakup with Nancy.  Appearance wise, nothing about Steve had changed; but he had effectively become a social leper who just so happened to have good hair.

Even girls in band and journalism―the ones Carol used to jokingly refer to as your girlfriend when they got caught gawking at Steve from the back of a classroom―wouldn’t have taken pity on him.  They were all friends with Nancy.

And there was the fact that Steve hadn’t much been looking at girls, either.  At anyone, really, besides Jonathan: In the kitchen and in the pool and sitting on the bed, with his bowl cut and his knobby knees and his usually-frowning mouth.  

Steve wished he could reach whatever level of asceticism Jonathan had, where his only earthly needs were a few key albums and maybe a cup of coffee per day.  Jonathan, who was so far above it all that he couldn’t even discuss the potential for hotness in someone he’d never meet, like Siouxsie Sioux.  The most disturbing dream he’d ever had was probably something about one of his cassettes unraveling.

By the pool that night, while Jonathan was his usual level of hesitant and weird about getting undressed, Steve jumped into the pool with his shirt on and didn’t take it off until he was completely underwater, with his feet ghosting along the bottom of the deep end.

 ― 

Somehow, the curly-headed kid―Dustin, Steve learned―talked him into renting Return of the Jedi and ordering pizza.  Before Steve could think better of it, there were four children scattered across the living room in their pajamas, having called their mothers to advise that they were having a sleepover.

“This seems premeditated,” he whispered to Jonathan, who was doing a valiant job of dishing up another round of pizza.  

“I think everyone else is just sick of hosting them,” he replied, shrugging.  “Dustin alone could eat you out of house and home.”    

Steve found this hard to believe, considering the fact that he didn’t even have his front teeth, until he watched Dustin put away a borderline-competitive number of pizza slices.  More than anything, he found it impressive.

He had a lot to thank Dustin for, as it turned out, because it was during Return of the Jedi that things began rattling into place in his brain.  

Carrie Fisher had just been dragged on screen in chains, wearing a gold bikini.  Steve almost felt that as the closest thing to an authority figure he should order the boys to cover their eyes, but he wasn’t a hypocrite.  Everyone was watching with rapt attention, mouths agape.

Everyone except for Jonathan, who was getting up to refill his glass of water like it was one of those stock scenes of the Millenium Falcon zipping through space.  He came back a short while later, in time for Luke Skywalker to be dropped in with the rancor.  By the time Luke made his narrow escape, Jonathan was leaning forward in his seat, watching in a way Steve would describe as intent.  

It was a pretty cool scene.

Steve spent the rest of the movie watching Jonathan watch the movie.  Sometimes he’d look bored, bending his head down to chew a hangnail or even glancing over at Steve, who would quickly avert his eyes and pretend he cared about nothing more in that moment than Chewbacca.  It made sense―Jonathan had probably seen the movie a million times thanks to Will and his friends.  

But there was one thing that seemed to grab and keep his attention: Luke Skywalker.  

Once the movie ended, the kids were in various stages of half-sleep while insisting that they weren’t even tired.  Steve popped in his old copy of A New Hope and left them to it.  He tapped Jonathan’s shoulder and motioned towards the stairs.  “I bombed Click’s Caesar test.  I gotta look over it before I redo on Monday or she’ll strangle me.  Wanna help me out?” 

Obediently, Jonathan followed him up the stairs. 

They were going over whose idea it was to kill Caesar―which Steve knew , now that he was thinking more clearly, but had to pretend he didn’t―when Steve casually interjected, “Luke Skywalker’s awesome, don’t you think?”

Jonathan cocked his head.  “Luke Skywalker’s not gonna be on your test.” 

“Yeah, but I know this stuff.  I just had a freakout this morning, or something.”  Steve cleared his throat.  “He rocks, right?” 

Jonathan nodded, though he was still looking at Steve as if trying to assess his mental state. “He has a really compelling hero’s journey.” 

Steve fought the compulsion to clear his throat again before he said, “He looks pretty cool when he’s fighting Darth Vader.” For effect, he rolled up his English test and swished it through the air a few times, complete with lightsaber noises.  

Yeah, Jonathan definitely thought he was experiencing a psychotic break.  His response to Steve’s performance was a skeptical, “Uh-huh.” 

Steve had heard before that while you’re dying, your whole life flashes before your eyes.  He had experienced something similar to that as he watched Jonathan watch Star Wars .  

The way Jonathan wouldn’t even talk about girls, but could ramble about Robert Smith for hours.  The way he valued his free time.  The way he talked about Holden Caulfield and Lou Reed and how it was interesting to him. The way he reacted when Steve said he was interesting too.  

Girls are great.  I don’t listen to music for that kind of thing.  I don’t think you understand anything.

And now, Jonathan was looking at him like he was utterly insane.  Steve felt utterly insane.  

He felt so utterly insane that he squeaked out, “Do you remember when I asked if you liked girls?” 

Jonathan narrowed his eyes at him to the point that they were practically closed, then reached up and rubbed his temples.  “Are you fucked up right now?” 

Steve was going to have a stroke.  He hadn’t simultaneously felt so right and so goddamn stupid since he’d told Nancy that he thought Holden Caulfield was a queer.

Throwing his hands up in exasperation, he said, “No!  Jesus, Jonathan, you’ve been with me all night!  Do you like girls, or do you like… Luke Skywalker ?” 

It was a question Steve had had since before they’d ever talked, since Tommy had spotted Jonathan in that green army jacket and made him a target; and then it had seemed ridiculous once Steve got to know him and realized listening to music and loving your brother didn’t make you a fag.  

But maybe other things did.  Maybe you could be normal and abnormal at the same time, could learn to hide it by just not talking about it.  Or maybe Steve was as much of an oblivious fucking idiot as everyone except Jonathan and Ms. Click seemed to think he was.    

When Jonathan just stared at him with that look on his face like he’d been slapped, Steve thought he finally knew.

“We can still be friends,” Steve whispered.  Actually, he hadn’t known he’d want to be until that very second.  But Jonathan wasn’t talking and somehow it already felt different from any of the other hundred times Steve had pissed him off, and all it did was make him want to beg and plead and grovel.  “You’re my only friend, man.”  

 ― 

Jonathan slept on the living room floor with the kids that night and left as early as he could, telling Will he had to work―an exchange Steve overheard because he had, pathetically, slunk down into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee that he hoped could serve as a peace offering.  When Jonathan started to rouse the kids to take them home, Steve brushed him off and said he’d do it later, after breakfast.  

This was mostly another attempt at garnering goodwill.  Jonathan only nodded and left.

Steve wasn’t exactly sure what four children would eat for breakfast; Will, who hadn’t gone back to sleep, helpfully supplied that, “I think all of us like eggs.”  To be on the safe side, Steve scrambled the whole carton and toasted half a loaf of bread.  

Will watched from the kitchen table and occasionally offered an encouraging thumbs-up.  

“Do you drink coffee?” Steve asked, because is your brother gay? didn’t seem like appropriate breakfast conversation.

Will shook his head, sighing.  “Mom says it’ll stunt my growth.” 

“Never stunted mine.”  Steve ended up sliding him a mug that was mostly milk and sugar, but was probably enough to lose him a few brownie points with Jonathan that he couldn’t afford.  For good measure, he said, “Keep this one between us, alright?” 

Will nodded sagely.

Over the course of the morning, the other three boys drifted into the kitchen and snatched up their own plates.  Steve did at least get a mumbled thank you from everyone but Dustin, who gave him a thumbs up with a mouthful of toast.  

As a group, they were very persuasive: Lucas was polite and stoic in an endearing way, while Dustin and Mike were more likely to make outright demands with a hasty please, Steve tacked on after a disappointed glance from Will.  Their combined powers led to Steve playing Marco Polo and refereeing races until noon, when Lucas spoke up to say that he had to leave for his uncle’s birthday party and was met with a collective groan.

While he was still in the business of throwing parties, Steve had always loved the part of the night where everyone got the hell out and went home; but as he was waving to Ms. Henderson―who had met them at the car with an orange cat in her arms and a hi, Dusty! ―that relief didn’t come. 

He just felt lonely and acutely aware of how overpoweringly his car smelled of chlorine.

Jonathan’s car wasn’t at the Byers’ when he dropped Will off; but when Steve walked into the BP he was greeted by the once-welcome sight of Eric, who sleepily mumbled something about Jonathan being off this weekend and sold him a six pack without a second glance.

Continuing his theme of patheticness into the evening, Steve stationed himself on the couch with the six pack and a grease-soaked box of various types of leftover pizza.  It was his first beer since Jonathan scolded him that night in January.  Because it had been so long―and because the universe that day was especially cruel―it tasted more like piss than he’d expected.

By the third beer, they were sort of refreshing, and by the end of the six pack, the beer was more something that was happening to him than something he was drinking.

The fourth and fifth beers tasted distinctly like I want to call Jonathan ; but his first call was picked up by the machine and on his second one he got Will, who Steve still had the wherewithal to be ashamed of talking to while trashed.  He got confirmation that Jonathan wasn’t home and cut it short.

After that, he found himself in the predicament of not knowing what the fuck to do.  He wasn’t in the right state of mind to go over Caesar again, and it was too dark out to go swimming.  Jonathan would typically be steering this point of Steve’s night, selecting an album or, if he was in a particularly good mood, one of those weird artsy films he liked.  

Steve liked them too, usually; or at least liked how much Jonathan liked them.

In the end, he remembered that A New Hope was still in the VHS player.  He rewound it, watching Luke Skywalker hero’s journey-ing his way across the universe in reverse.  By the time the tape was ready to play from the beginning, Steve had come to the conclusion that Luke Skywalker could get fucked.  

As two suns rose over him and his stupid fucking moisture farm, Steve mumbled a sullen, “You ruined my life.”

It felt good to be dramatic.  For a while Steve just glared at the screen, until somehow that slipped into trying to think about how Jonathan must watch this same movie, what he must be looking at that wasn’t Carrie Fisher.  Steve guessed Mark Hamill was handsome enough, even if he was kind of scrawny and sometimes his hair was pretty fucking flat; but he couldn’t see whatever the hell Jonathan saw in him no matter how hard he squinted.

Harrison Ford, sure―Han Solo rocked.  And then Steve was wondering why the hell Jonathan didn’t have his weird crush on Han instead, and it had all started to feel a bit like torture, so he shut his eyes and dozed off.  

He dozed off and dreamt he was in Star Wars, wearing the stupid fucking Luke Skywalker outfit.  Darth Vader said I am your father and sounded suspiciously like his dad.  Carrie Fisher wasn’t there, but Han Solo was.  They were fighting side by side, totally in sync―it was epic, as dreams went.  After he woke up, Steve couldn’t remember why Han Solo turned and kissed him dead-on in the heat of battle; just that it had felt totally earned, even when Han pulled away and suddenly looked a hell of a lot like Jonathan.

 ― 

Steve woke up slouched in the living room floor with a crick in his neck and a pounding headache, having had his first wet dream in recent memory―about Star Wars , no less.  Jesus Christ.

He showered until the water got too cold to ignore, scrubbed himself with a towel until he felt satisfied that he’d buffed away his first layer of skin, and brushed his teeth until his jaw cramped, telling himself it was to get out the sour beer-and-pizza taste and not Han Solo’s dream-saliva.  

 ― 

“First of all, ew,” Robin cuts in.  “Male biology is disgusting.  Second, I’m confused.  Did you know you wanted to be kissing him at this point?”  

Steve shakes his head.  Halfway through the story, they’d migrated back to the bathroom floor, where they were trying to tempt Marty out from behind the toilet with another can of tuna.  

“You’re going to think this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard, but I didn’t even know if gay people actually existed .”  Robin is openly gaping at him, now.  “I just thought he was super repressed; or that he was weird about girls because had a crush on someone embarrassing, like Tammy Thompson.  And then I thought I kept dreaming about him because he was the only person I hung out with.” 

Robin swats his arm, which is deserved.  “Fuck you.  When’d you figure it out?” 

Steve rests his head on his knees; the telling is almost as exhausting as the real thing.  But they have time tonight, since Robin had effectively lied to her mother about having a sleepover with Valerie Hicks and Marty was showing no signs of emerging.  

“When I had six months to think about it.” 

Chapter Text

-D.H. Lawrence, “Snake”

 ― 

“So that was your big falling out?  Luke Skywalker?” 

“Basically.” 

 ― 

The universe was merciful enough that Steve passed his Caesar retake with a B minus.  Ms. Click handed it back to him while giving him another once-over, again stopping just short of saying you look like hell .  Instead, she tutted and said, “Still not sleeping?” 

He shook his head no, and earnestly took her advice to buy some chamomile tea.

As soon as he got home, he microwaved a mug of water and steeped two bags of Bigelow’s.  Beer was more surefire, but he couldn’t justify it when he was still trying to shake Saturday night’s headache.  

In the end, the tea didn’t do much more than scald his tongue and taste like soapy water; but the mug gave him something to hold while he paced around.  

Jonathan hadn’t answered his calls on Sunday, either; the last time Will turned him away― he’s doing homework, sorry ―his tone had been apologetic, almost pitying.  Steve had told him that it was alright, and to come swim again next weekend if he wanted.  

He could maintain friendships with tweens who wanted to use his pool, if nothing else.

There had been no more dreams, partly because he was barely sleeping and when he did he was having nightmares, the kind where he fell off a cliff and then jolted awake, heart racing.  A part of him had childishly hoped that the chamomile tea would serve the function of some magical potion, sending him into a prophetic sleep from which he would only awake once he had figured out how to make Jonathan talk to him again.  

He would’ve settled for something nice about listening to cassettes or joining the circus.  

 ― 

On Sunday night, something had possessed him to put the copy of Japanese Whispers Jonathan made for him into his Walkman.  Out of ideas and sick of pretending he was going to finish his tea, Steve wandered up to his room and pressed play again.

By track four, he remembered that The Cure’s most-used word was kiss.  

Once upon a time, Jonathan had been insulted when Steve called it sex music, so they spent one of their listens tallying it: Every kiss; every mention of going to bed ; and anything else about mouths or hands that was sung in that particular sultry way of Robert Smith’s.

At the end of the night, Steve had triumphantly declared, “It’s sex music or it’s suicide music.  No in between.”

“Sometimes both,” Jonathan said, which was as close Steve ever got to an admission of defeat.  

The last time he saw it, the composition book where he’d jotted down his notes on The Cure was still in Jonathan’s bedroom, discarded on his cluttered desk.  He didn’t really need it anymore, having become fluent in British goth; but now he wished he’d grabbed it.  

Jonathan would probably burn it.

Before this, they’d been one-to-one on giving each other the silent treatment: Once when he pissed Jonathan off with some flippant comment about girls, and then again when Nancy had dumped him and Jonathan was both the first and last person he wanted to see for a few days.  

Steve couldn’t figure out what he’d done to earn this extended punishment.  It wasn’t like he’d said something truly bigoted―he’d been careful not to say queer , remembering the way Nancy had scolded him.  Maybe he’d telegraphed disgust or discomfort on his face, though he didn’t think so; he didn’t even feel particularly disgusted or uncomfortable.  He’d actually surprised himself by being something closer to confused or fascinated, like he’d figured out that Jonathan was an alien and wanted to learn more about his home planet.

Against his better judgment, Steve let the tape keep rolling and allowed his mind to wander.  It landed, squarely, on Jonathan.

He wondered if Jonathan had ever kissed a guy; if there was somebody in one of his classes or at his job, someone besides Mark Hamill, who he wanted to.  

And then he started to feel sort of like a pervert, so he tried to think about something else.

All that came to mind was the stuff Tommy’s older brother had told them when he came home from Michigan last summer, about them having their own bars and campus groups.  He’d said those bars were to blame for some new, fucked up cancer that was making gay guys drop like flies; he’d said the last part in a way that sounded, to Steve, a lot like good riddance.  

He ended up trying to picture Jonathan in a bar, any bar, and couldn’t―Jonathan didn’t even like the smell of beer.  It was probably for the best: Steve didn’t want to think about Jonathan wasting away with cancer.  Maybe there were gay guys who hung out at record stores.  

 ― 

School ended in mid-May, leaving Steve staring down the barrel of a long, lonely summer. 

Ms. Click had told him she might need a house-sitter at some point in July, scribbling her phone number on a Post-It and having him jot down his.  She also told him to call her if he needed anything, complete with meaningful eye contact that let Steve know just how pitiful he must have looked for the past few weeks.  Ms. Click had really grown on him, but he crumpled her Post-It up and threw it in the trash.

Like it had always been that way, the kids came almost every weekend to swim; sometimes they’d get rained out and still want to come over to watch a movie.  Steve was officially a scholar of their ongoing DnD campaign against the vodyanoi―which he steadfastly refused to join, because he still had one shred of dignity.  Lately, they’d started bugging him to get a walkie-talkie.  

Humiliatingly, they had become the highlight of Steve’s week.

But he was lonely, in all the ways that counted: Lonely for someone his own age to talk to, to hang out with.  Lonely for one person in particular, who he’d spent the better part of a month trying and failing to make himself hate.

Jonathan was doing that thing where he made himself invisible again, so that Steve couldn’t even pass him in the hallway without going out of his way to wait outside of the darkroom.  He had tried that, thinking it might force them to talk, but only once: The stricken look on Jonathan’s face had stuck with him.

It made him realize that he wanted to talk to the Jonathan who was his friend, not the pinned-down frightened rabbit; and he couldn’t bear the thought of being the one doing the pinning.  Of Jonathan being afraid of him, again.  

When Steve tried hating him instead―for being a coward and thinking the worst of him and acting like he was dead―he realized it was exactly what Nancy had done.  And that made Steve think that maybe he was the problem after all, so he couldn’t hate Jonathan either.

In the end, he just picked Will up and dropped him off and pretended he wasn’t craning his neck to see if Jonathan was the one opening the door.  Sometimes, Will would appear to take pity on him, throwing out excuses Steve didn’t ask for: “Jonathan’s been working a lot” or “he’s got the flu.”  Ms. Byers rushed his car a few times, trying to shove a twenty in through his window or offering to pay for a pizza, which Steve always refused.  

When he asked Will how Jonathan was doing and if he was hanging out with anybody else, the answers stayed the same: “fine” and “no.”  

“Tell him he can come next time,” Steve would say, and Will would nod and give Steve a sad, knowing look like he was the little kid in the situation.  

The other boys were more direct.  

“When did you and Jonathan go back to being enemies?” Dustin asked.  They were all packed into the car for a trip to the video store, leaving Steve with no escape.

“We aren’t enemies,” Steve protested.  

“You used to be at Will’s house all the time,” Mike said accusingly.  Steve made sure to glare at him in the rearview mirror; for his part, Will slunk down in the passenger seat and looked ashamed.  “Now he won’t even go swimming!”

“It’s adult stuff.  We’re busy,” he snapped, hoping that adult stuff sounded boring enough to end it .

Scoffing, Dustin asked, “What are you busy with?”

“Yeah, what are you busy with?” Mike echoed, just as Lucas cut in with a nervous, “Guys…” 

Steve put a stop to it by saying, “Somebody’s gotta haul you little shits around, don’t they?”  They all looked at each other, as if realizing for the first time that they were in fact being hauled around in Steve’s car.  

But Mike still eyed him suspiciously before asking, “Are you really gonna let us rent Cujo ?” 

 ― 

For a while, the adjustment to his newly Jonathan-free life kept Steve’s mind off of what had, in a roundabout way, started all of this: The kissing dream.  But sometimes, whenever there was nothing good on TV and he didn’t have a bunch of thirteen year olds jabbering in his ear, his thoughts skirted dangerously close to it.  

Inevitably, it’d be nice to hang out with someone would morph into it’d be nice to hang out with Jonathan.  He’d meander down that path for a while, lamenting how listening to music he didn’t even particularly like―he could admit that now, at least, about most things Jonathan had showed him other than The Cure―had once been preferable to getting drunk and even sex.  

At some point he might light a cigarette and be transported to those he’d smoke at 2 AM while Chester sniffed around their feet.  Steve had learned to blow smoke rings because Jonathan had bet he couldn’t, and would puff them at his face and pretend to be wounded when Jonathan took a half-hearted swipe at him. 

The first time Steve did it, he had wheedled at Jonathan until he was forced to admit it was impressive.  “It’s my superior mouth strength,” he had said, winking.  “I can tie a knot in a cherry stem, too.” 

Jonathan had rolled his eyes at that.  That was a common feature of these memory-trips: Jonathan eye-rolling and scoffing and lapsing into weird silences.

Steve thought he’d hated it, at the time.  

From there he’d dissolve into sadness, which bled into regret over how he’d left the last time he slept over―all over a stupid fucking dream.  But how was he supposed to know it was the last time?  He’d never even gotten to explain himself.

Without fail, he would find some way to stop the process there, usually with the assistance of a six pack procured from Eric.  

There had been a few close calls where he didn’t notice Jonathan’s car in the parking lot until he was halfway in the door and spotted a familiar face beyond the glass.  Jonathan never seemed to notice him―though it wouldn’t surprise Steve if Jonathan was just willing him to go away by turning his back.  On those occasions he’d enact his backup plan: Drive around and blast music that he and Jonathan had never discussed.  At first he had tried listening to stuff Jonathan hated, but Billy Joel was tainted forever.  What was left was a small selection of his parents’ discards.  

It didn’t take him long to get worn out on Hank Williams Sr. and Loretta Lynn.  

One Saturday in early June, after double and triple checking that Jonathan’s car was parked at the BP, he chanced a trip to the record store downtown.  Steve hadn’t been there in the flesh since he bought Pornography last year; but Jonathan was always going on about how great their selection was and how the owner, Dan, would sometimes slide a few semi-recent issues of Rolling Stone across the counter free of charge.  

It smelled simultaneously dusty and damp, which Steve remembered from last time―a sort of modern twist on old book smell.  Dan greeted him with a curt nod, probably assuming he was there to buy something disgustingly plebeian like the new Bruce Springsteen.  

There was no danger of that, with Jonathan’s mocking impression of “Born to Run” seared into his memory.

Steve approached the counter with caution.  Dan looked like he was easily startled.

“Do you have Blue ? by Joni Mitchell?” 

He had decided on it partially at the recommendation of Ms. Click, but mostly because Jonathan had never voiced an opinion on Joni Mitchell one way or the other.  Once Steve said what he was looking for, Dan was much more accommodating.  He even recommended another album by someone named Vashti Bunyan.

“Two of the most beautiful voices of the modern age,” Dan said wistfully.  

That sounded promising enough, so Steve paid for both tapes and a handful of Archie comics from the rack by the counter, where Dan sold everything from Jonathan’s beloved Rolling Stone to Archie to Payday bars.

Steve was turning to go, promising Dan he’d come back to tell him what he thought of Vashti Bunyan―who Dan insisted should have been a superstar but had instead dropped off the face of the planet―when he saw it.  

There was an open box on the counter, a fresh shipment of cassettes with covers in bright primary colors.  He would’ve recognized it anywhere.  Jonathan had torn the article announcing it out of a magazine and tacked it to the corkboard in his room. 

He was here to get music that didn’t make him think of Jonathan, which was nearly impossible; and he certainly wasn’t here for this, a glaring reminder of the first thing they’d ever really bonded over.

“Is that the new Cure album?”

Dan shook his head in the affirmative; Steve, a man possessed, was already opening his wallet. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, since he and Jonathan had never listened to it together.

Because of the possession, he asked, “Has Jonathan Byers gotten a hold of it yet?”  When Dan shot him a quizzical look, Steve added, “We’re friends, so I know he’s crazy about them.  And he’s in here all the time.” 

Steve scuffed his shoes against the threadbare carpet and avoided eye contact and tried to pretend that saying we’re friends didn’t feel like vomiting up broken glass.

Dan’s quizzical look didn’t fade; but there were no rules of patient confidentiality in record store sales, so he answered.  “They just got in today.  Expect I’ll see him sometime this week.” 

“Can I pay you for two of these, then?”  Steve cleared his throat.  “But don’t tell him it was me.  It’s a birthday gift.  A surprise.”

Jonathan’s birthday wasn’t until the end of the month―the 29th, to be exact.  Before everything went to hell, Steve had been pondering for months if he’d need to get him a gift.  He didn’t want Jonathan feeling pressured to get him something on his birthday in September; and he and Tommy had never done gifts even though they were friends for nearly a decade.  Gifts were usually reserved for his girlfriends, and Steve typically couldn’t keep those around long enough to worry about it.  

But he wanted to do it, in that moment, for selfish reasons.  

He wanted Jonathan to listen to The Top for the first time and not be able to stop wondering who’d paid for it, even if he concluded that it was his mom.  Steve wanted to flicker across his mind, even if it was just as a possibility, as a what if .

Dan, who was probably in no place to turn down sales, took the cash without missing a beat.  “Your secret’s safe with me, kid.” 

 ― 

Dan was right about Vashti Bunyan having a beautiful voice: She sounded how Steve always imagined those traveling medieval bards that sometimes pop up in Shakespeare plays would.  But then she was talking about walking around in someone’s mind to see what they think of her, about being looked at in a loveless way.  

Steve ejected it and put in Blue , which ended up beating him over the head with breakup songs.  

It started off with I hate you some, I love you some and by the time he reached Ms. Click’s favorite, “River,” Steve felt dangerously close to crying.  He couldn’t remember the last time he cried; if he had to guess, it was during his roadside meltdown the night Nancy dumped him.  

Nancy should be who all of this sad shit was making him think about.  He should hear wanna be who you wanna see and have to fight the urge to show up at her door with a dozen roses.  But Nancy didn’t even cross his mind until he thought about how she should be crossing his mind.  

He missed having someone to watch Gilligan’s island with; he missed the way her face lit up when she told him she’d been selected as junior editor for the school paper; he even missed how she’d call him an idiot.  

That was as far as it went.  Steve missed her the way he sometimes still missed Carol.  When he tried to dredge up something more intimate, like the smell of her shampoo, it was as if the information had been shuffled out.  Replaced, by the smell of the cheap Big Buy brand that came in an ambiguous fruit scent and was usually on a 2-for-1 special.  

By then, he had given up on clearing his head by driving.  When he got home, he sank into the couch with one of the Archie comics he’d bought because at least that was for children, so Archie and Betty never argued for more than the length of an issue.

Of course, in this particular issue, Jughead was described as “a man who disliked, feared, avoided, and was turned off by girls [...] To him, a girl was a no-time thing.”  

Steve wanted to bash his head into the coffee table.

 ― 

Two Fridays later, Steve had taken the kids to Ghostbusters , which they had apparently watched upwards of a dozen times between the four of them, but were happy to see again for his sake.  During the previews, he felt a tug at his sleeve.  He wordlessly extended the popcorn bucket, not wanting to tear his eyes away from the blood-drenched trailer for the new The Hills Have Eyes.  

“Steve,” Will hissed.  “Jonathan told me to give you this.  He said he borrowed it from you.” 

He had pushed the popcorn bucket away and was holding something out to Steve in the dark.  Something compact and rectangular and…cassette shaped.

That fucker.

“This isn’t mine,” Steve whispered, because he refused to do this.  

It was nearly pitch-black in the theater; but he could see that Will looked pained.  “He said you would really want it back.”   

“How can I want back something that doesn’t belong to me?” 

Just then, Mike leaned over from the other side of Will to glare at him: No talking .  So Steve shook his head emphatically and made an X with his hands in what he hoped would be interpreted as a no way gesture.  

Miraculously, it was then that the opening credits rolled.  Will relented, tucking the tape back into his pocket. 

When Steve left the theater that night, he couldn’t have recalled the plot of Ghostbusters with a gun to his head.  But over a year later, he could probably recount the fight he and Jonathan had been having in his head with 90 percent accuracy.  In summary:

Steve:  You bastard.  That was a birthday gift.

Jonathan : You are too nice and handsome.  It intimidates and pisses me off.  Forgive me.

(They hug.  Steve had recently decided that he would be OK with that.) 

It was pretty fantastical, even for an argument he’d made up.

 ― 

Jonathan didn’t try to send the tape back by way of Will again; but three days later, it materialized in Steve’s mailbox.  Steve left it at the BP counter in the capable hands of Eric; the next morning, it was laying on his front lawn.    

In a pathetic way, the back and forth was sort of titillating: Knowing that Jonathan had been there, even if it was just to hurl the tape out of his moving car.  It was like having a conversation where the only thing they could say was “fuck you” and “no, fuck you .” 

The day Steve found the tape in the yard coincided with one of his increasingly-frequent hangouts with Will and his friends, who he had just recently learned called themselves “The Party” when there was a debate over whether Steve could become a member without ever having played DND.  Mike had insisted that he couldn’t, while Dustin protested that Eleven had never played either, and Mike snapped that it was different .  Because Steve had never had to pull two fighting children off of each other and didn’t plan to start that night, he’d insisted that he didn’t want to join their lame Party anyways.  

He pulled into the Byers’ driveway with the tape in his glove box―planning to copy Jonathan’s mailbox trick―when Ms. Byers came rushing out after Will, waving cash.  He refused, as always; but as she was turning to go, he said, “Oh, Ms. Byers?  Could you give this to Jonathan?  It’s for his birthday.”  He flashed his most Parent-Charming smile and ignored the look that Will was giving him from the passenger seat.  

She accepted it with a gasp and, “Oh, you beat me to it!  He’ll love it.”  

That put an end to the tape debacle.  For a few days, Steve hoped that it was because Jonathan had finally started to see reason: The tape could function as a peace offering, even if it had originally been meant as a do you think about me?  He even had this stupid hope that Jonathan might call.

There would be no need for a peace offering if Jonathan had just fucking talked to him two months ago, or any time since then.  If he would stop assuming the worst, a habit that Steve thought they were actually, finally past until he said do you like girls and Jonathan must have heard faggot .  

Maybe after all this time, he still felt like Steve was playing some joke on him.  Like as soon as he confirmed it, Tommy was going to leap out from behind the dresser and kick his ass.  

Even as he was thinking it, Steve knew he was bringing Tommy into it because couldn’t let himself think that Jonathan thought he was capable of that.  

Jonathan knew him, by now.  He knew about Steve’s asshole dad and his hair routine; knew what Steve was like when he was drunk and how he took his coffee; knew the reason Nancy dumped him, which Steve would rather die than tell anyone else.  They’d never really talked about that again, but Steve hadn’t been so drunk that he couldn’t remember calling himself Holden Caulfield.  

He should have said it that night, in those few horrible seconds where Jonathan was just staring at him before rushing out the door: I can’t kiss girls either, for my own weird reasons.  I even had a dream that I kissed you.

 ― 

Ms. Click called him the last week of June.  By the end of the year, their relationship was friendly at the best of times; but this Ms. Click was summertime and the living is easy, oh-just-call-me-Lucy levels of casual as she quipped, “I’m visiting my terrible hag of a mother in two weeks, if you’re still up to house sit.”  

Steve went to her house the week before, to be shown around and meet the cats.  It was a little bungalow just past the Byers, with a massive front garden and a screened-in porch.  He didn’t see a single cat that night: Ms. Click explained that they were scared of men.  

“Thank my ex-husband,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “But they’ll come around once they realize you’re the one feeding them.” 

She asked if he had dinner plans and he truthfully said no and, before he knew it, he was eating spaghetti at her patio table.  Once they got past the initial awkwardness, Steve found that it was actually pretty fucking refreshing to talk to someone whose sole concern in life wasn’t defeating the vodyanoi.  

He told her about buying Blue at the record shop, how Dan had said Joni Mitchell had one of the most beautiful voices of the modern era.  

Ms. Click twirled her spaghetti thoughtfully.  “I might have to take a trip there myself.  I always thought it was just some dump.”  

“I did too.  Jonathan turned me on to it.” 

The band-aid had already been ripped off a half hour prior when Ms. Click asked how Jonathan was doing.  Steve had given her an evasive answer about how he was working a lot but seemed OK, which was met with a quizzical eyebrow raise.  But all she said was, “I like you two hanging out together.  He’s a sweet boy.  Just needs someone like you to get him out of his shell.”  

Steve nodded and deftly changed the subject by asking what made her mother such a terrible hag, which Ms. Click was all too happy to talk about.  

He wanted to tell her that he had tried, in his own way, to get Jonathan out of his shell―by force―and that it didn’t work out too well.  He wanted to tell her the real reason that Blue depressed the hell out of him.  He thought she seemed like the kind of adult who’d listen and have some sage advice about it without prying for all of the things Steve couldn’t say outright.

But all he could say was, “The owner’s pretty cool.  His name’s Dan-something.” 

As he was leaving―well past eight o’clock, with a container of leftovers and a page of notes on the different needs of the cats and the garden―Ms. Click called after him from the porch.

“Steve?  You’re a sweet boy, too.” 

 ― 

For the week of house-sitting, Steve chose Dustin as his designated assistant based on his qualifications.  

“You have a cat, right?”

“His name’s Mews.”  

In Steve’s book, that meant he was practically a cat behaviorist. 

Dustin’s services weren’t really needed, since the most they saw of five out of the six cats was a flash as they scampered by.  But there was a fat brown tabby named Walden who would come running at the sound of food hitting the bowl and, if Steve held very still, rub against his legs.  

“Henderson, does your cat do this?” Steve asked.  Walden had trailed them onto the porch, where Dustin was watering the petunias.  Every other step, the cat tangled around Steve’s ankles in what seemed like an effort to trip him to death.  

Dustin shot him a brief glare, probably on account of the “last-naming;” apparently, the kids thought that it was something only meatheads did.  This had encouraged Steve to do it even more.  

“He wants to mark you with his pheromones,” Dustin said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  

“His what?” 

“His pheromones , Steve.  His scent.  It designates you as a member of his pack.”  When Steve just stared, Dustin added, “Humans have them too.  It’s what makes you wanna have sex.”  

Steve grimaced.  “Ew.  You are not allowed to say ‘sex.’” 

Dustin sighed, which Steve took to mean grow up . 

“Okay, what about mate ? reproduce ? Pheromones serve an evolutionary, biological purpose.”  

Steve didn’t know why the fuck he felt possessed to, but before he could stop himself, he asked, “So what about gay guys?  Can they not smell them or something?” 

Dustin took it in stride.  He had already turned back to the petunias, clearly bored of explaining elementary concepts to someone half a decade older.

“They might just receive the information differently.  There are probably studies.”  

Naturally, as Steve was tossing and turning in Ms. Click’s guest bedroom that night, it was all that he could think about.  He didn’t think he’d ever picked up on someone’s pheromones ; but he had memorized the smell of a very specific combination of Big Buy shampoo and Ivory soap, coffee breath and a dingy coat that smelled a bit like cigarettes.  

 ― 

In spite of his and Jonathan’s cold war over the cassette, Steve couldn’t actually bring himself to listen to The Top until the end of July.  He had gone to see Dan a few more times, been talked into Joan Baez and Karen Dalton and Janis Ian.  Once, he ran into Ms. Click as he was leaving and she seemed almost flustered to see him there, like he hadn’t been the one to recommend it just a few weeks prior.    

Eventually Steve decided he was burnt out on keening female vocalists, and The Cure was as good a palate cleanser as any; plus, he’d already paid for it.  He popped it into his walkman and clamped his headphones firmly over his ears before lying back flat on the bed; after he pressed play, he closed his eyes.  

Around track three, he was cognizant of the fact that he was thinking about Jonathan.  He was always thinking about him, so it wasn’t exactly special: But he was picturing , the way he used to on the phone.  Picturing Jonathan in a world where he finally stopped being so damn stubborn and listened to the fucking tape.  Would he have his eyes shut, like he did when they listened to Japanese Whispers?  Did he have a favorite track yet?  Did he think it was as good as Pornography ?  (Steve kind of didn’t.) 

Did Jonathan hear Robert Smith saying suck harder, suck your insides out and think how Steve was right about it being sex music?  Did it give him that sunburnt feeling, too? 

It wasn’t clear when thinking about Jonathan sitting on his bed and listening to The Cure―sort of hoping that in some weird twist of fate that they were doing it at the same exact time―turned into wishing he was there or Jonathan was here, though he preferred Jonathan’s room with all its books and posters and organized clutter.

Steve wanted to be sitting on the bed together, listening to this.  Occasionally looking up at each other as if to say, holy fuck, that was cool.  Afterwards, Steve would smoke a cigarette while Jonathan prattled about themes and imagery , and Steve would be so fucking happy that he would stay outside way longer than he actually wanted to, getting mosquito bites and sleeping on his feet, just to keep from cutting him off.

All the warning signs were there.  Mentally slipping into Jonathan’s room was dangerous territory; going further, onto his bed, was almost a guarantee.  Before Steve knew it, he was back in that dream.  Sitting together.  Laughing.  Leaning forward, leaning in.  

At first he tried to trick himself into thinking he’d been lulled into half-sleep by laying back and listening to music.  But he could open his eyes and look around and even sit up in the bed, and it was still there.  

For once, he let himself think about it. 

In the dream, they were kissing like they’d kissed a hundred times, when in reality Steve always had to weigh his options before he so much as nudged him.  It had been so fucking easy.  

Steve wanted things to be easy.  Steve wanted Jonathan to be here.  

Even if it meant that they were kissing.  

That was all Steve had ever been good at, anyways.  None of his girlfriends seemed to have thought he was particularly smart or funny, maybe not even handsome; but he could kiss well.  He knew how to make a girl feel pretty.

Maybe he could’ve done that for Jonathan, if he hadn’t been busy ragging on his bowl cut and turning away when he took off his shirt.  Maybe he had wanted to.  He wished he hadn’t turned away when Jonathan took off his shirt.  He wished he could walk around in Jonathan’s mind and know what it was like to want this all the time.  

At what point did it stop making him feel sick to his stomach?  At what point do you become a queer?    

Steve felt sick.  He wanted to feel sicker.  He wanted to get this out of his system, like sticking his fingers down his throat when he had a hangover.  

He followed the last thought to its natural conclusion.

 ― 

Robin gags.  Steve rolls his eyes.

“I’m trying to keep this rated L for lesbian, okay?  You’re the one who keeps bitching about me being a Victorian prude about this.”  

Snorting, Robin exclaims, “You’re still a Victorian prude!  Just a gross one.  I already know you’re gonna tell me that after you did that , you thought it was just the power of friendship.  Right?” 

 ― 

The first thing Steve did afterwards was rip his headphones off, run to the bathroom, and heave into the toilet.    

It didn’t feel like it was out of his system at all, even after he actually puked.  It was like it had been with Jonathan, flashing before his eyes, only now he was seeing himself in the third person: Teasing and flirting and not touching his girlfriend for two goddamn months.  

There was a fleeting, horrible moment where he thought maybe Jonathan wasn’t even the queer one; Steve had just wanted him to be.  He almost puked again.

But Jonathan had all but admitted it a hundred times.  He was.  Jonathan had accepted it at some point, way before they started hanging out.  He wasn’t like Steve.  He never had the normal life, the girlfriend; didn’t seem to want it.

Steve wanted it so badly it hurt.  He wanted to marry a nice girl, have a gaggle of kids and a golden retriever; he’d always wanted that, since he was little.  Nancy Wheeler had felt like his first real shot at it until he fucked it up.  He didn’t even know if Nancy would agree to it―she seemed indifferent to kids, except her little sister.  But she was nice.  She was with him when his life was still normal.  When he was still normal.

That Friday, Steve told Mike to extend an offer to Nancy to come along with him any time.  

She never did take him up on it, but he saw her at a party―another one of those Loch Nora drop-ins that he could walk to and stumble home from―the weekend before school started back.  It wasn’t what he’d call her scene, not that he knew what her scene was anymore.  She was there with steadfastly-sober Barbara Holland.  They surprised Steve by approaching him as he was huddled in a corner, guzzling one last beer.

Nancy was, in short, sloshed.  At some point, she’d spilled punch on her shirt.  And she was grinning at Steve like they were the best of friends when she grabbed his arm and screeched, “Hi!” over the music.  

“Hey Nance,” he shouted back―the music really was too fucking loud.

They migrated outside eventually, Barb hovering like a disapproving babysitter while Nancy talked about her summer: She’d gone to journalism camp up north and met a lot of cool people.  She was thinking about getting a job.  She still thought Mike was a shit head, which Steve agreed with.  

“Meet any guys at camp?” he asked.

She shook her head.  “It was the summer of Nancy.”  

In her inebriated state, she seemed to think that this was really profound, so Steve said, “Totally.  I think I had a summer of Steve.”

Eventually, Barb got pretty transparent about looking at her watch and tapping her foot, which made Nancy giggle; but she stood up, smoothing her skirt.  

“Why’d you never come over?” Steve asked, mostly because he didn’t want her to leave.  He missed her.  It had always been true that he missed her.

She placed a hand on his shoulder.  “Because I’m not an idiot, Steve.”

“Would it have been idiotic?” 

Frowning, she put her other hand on the opposite shoulder.  She leaned in, not like she was about to kiss him but like she was Coach Davis giving him a stern pep talk.  “Yes.  It would have.”  

He sort of wanted to cry.  

“Why?”

She frowned like the question puzzled her.  Like it should be obvious.  “Because the last few times you kissed me…it was like…in your head, you were kissing someone else.”  

 ― 

When school started in September, Steve found that his popularity had not been magically restored by summer break.  Nancy would at least smile at him now, offer a little wave in the hallway; but he didn’t show up for basketball conditioning and as he walked up to Ms. Click’s classroom at lunch time, he saw that her door was already propped open.  She had been tapped to teach 12th grade English that year, too, thank God.  

“Don’t thank God,” she’d groaned.  “Thank the lack of funding from our lousy governor.” 

With school back in session and the weather getting colder, Steve thought the kids might lose interest in him.  But it seemed that even if he wasn’t allowed to join their party, they had taken some kind of vote and decided that he was a staple of their weekends.  He had been persuaded to fill out a character sheet for DND―a paladin, because it seemed like the coolest thing he could be and because it made Mike seethe with barely-suppressed rage―but he still wasn’t going to play.  Lucas and Dustin said that he was going to be an NPC in their next campaign, whatever the hell that meant.

He turned eighteen on the 23rd, which meant being dragged through the ritual torture of family birthday dinner at Enzo’s with the thrilling addition of a serious talk about his future (or lack thereof).  But the next weekend his parents were gone and the kids presented him with a bag of M&Ms and a drawing of a knight that all of them, even Mike, had signed; so it wasn’t the worst birthday of his life, all things considered.

Jonathan managed to stay in his periphery, which Steve told himself he was grateful for.  It was for the best.  Since the night he’d listened to The Top , he had been trying to meet thoughts of Jonathan with a sort of counter-vision, one that was tried-and-true for getting him through countless hours of loneliness.  

Lately, he had come to think of it as the life he would have with whatever girl he met in college.  (If he could get into college.)  This girl would have never known him as King Steve or as the loser who hung out with Jonathan Byers, but just as he was: Steve, a normal guy.  Nothing remarkable, but with the potential to be a good dad.  Maybe they’d have a lake house where they’d spend their summers, or an RV.

When she asked him about high school, he already knew what he would say: “It was a long time ago.”  Followed by a casual shrug, a charming smile.  A kiss on the cheek.  Cue music.  End scene, cut , fade to black.

Most days, the fantasy kept him from feeling mixed-up.  It realigned him with what his goals had been before he knew about monsters and parallel realities, making them feel like they were still achievable.  

At first, he’d try to picture what this dream girl would be like.  An artsy type, since it was college―edgy and alternative, someone who’d show him music and make him go to poetry slams.  Steve could be into that.  In their invented backstory, she’d been wary of him at first, thinking they’d have nothing in common, until he wowed her with his musical knowledge.  

Things got suspicious when he realized he was picturing her as a lanky, androgynous brunette.  He stuck to imagining his overarching goals after that.  

 ― 

On the second Saturday in October, the phone rang just before noon.  

The person on the other end was crying so hard that he sounded like he might be gagging and Steve could just make out that it was Will’s voice, slurring miserably, “Chester died.”

“Oh, shit,” Steve said, because what else was there to say?   

On the other end, Will exhaled shakily.  He sounded more collected when he asked, “Do you―do you have a shovel?  We only have one and I…you live the closest and I need to help Jonathan, because Bob doesn’t get off work until five and I can’t just…we can’t just…”

He was crying again, working his way back up to the gagging sobs that Steve had heard first.  Steve couldn’t imagine him wielding a shovel taller and heavier than him, burying his own dog.  And he knew Jonathan wouldn’t want Will’s help, was probably kicking himself for not finding a way to hide it and say Chester had gone to live on a farm somewhere.  The ground had probably started to freeze; they would be chipping away at it until dark.

Steve scrubbed his free hand over his face.  “Gimme ten minutes, okay?” 

 ― 

Will met him at the door, red-cheeked and puffy-eyed.  

Steve wasn’t sure how Will would feel about a hug, being a Byers; so he chose the safe option, ruffling Will’s hair with the hand that wasn’t holding the shovel, and said, “Hey, buddy.”

“Hi,” he squeaked.   Then, quieter, “Sorry.” 

“What are you sorry about?  I’m sorry.  About Chester.”  

Will shrugged.  He was the sorryingest child Steve had ever met: Once, he had apologized to Steve for choking on a peppermint with what must have been his first breath after Steve slapped his back to clear his airway.  

Mutely, Will extended his hand for the shovel.  

“No way,” Steve said.  “It’ll go faster with me.  Where’s your brother?” 

For whatever reason, he couldn’t bring himself to say Jonathan .  He had only just accepted that this was really what he was going to do as he was pulling into the driveway.    

Will pointed him around the back of the house―“That’s where it…where Chester is.”

The first thing he saw was Chester, bundled into a faded floral sheet.  The second was Jonathan, digging with his back to the house.  In spite of the chill, Steve could see from his hair that he was drenched with sweat from the effort.  At the sound of Steve’s footsteps, he said, “I told you to stay inside, buddy.”

His voice was softer than Steve had ever heard it, with a thickness like he’d just been crying.  It occurred to Steve, just then, that it had been almost six months since he had heard it at all.  

Stupidly, he wanted to prolong the inevitable moment when Jonathan turned around saw that it wasn’t Will’s footsteps he’d heard; the moment that his voice would change, if he’d even talk to him.  Steve thought if he stood there long enough, maybe he’d come up with something halfway decent to say, something more than I’m sorry that your dog died and that you’re gay and that I asked you about it.  Things have been really fucked up since we stopped being friends.

Jonathan tossed a few more shovelfuls of dirt over his shoulder, huffing, and turned toward him.  “Seriously, go back in-” 

Steve watched as Jonathan’s face morphed from the compassionate-if-exasperated older brother to confusion to disbelief, finally settling somewhere on the border of angry and exhausted.  It shouldn’t have sent a jolt of electricity up the base of Steve’s spine; but it had been so long since he’d gotten one of Jonathan’s looks.  And he was already feeling a lot of things he shouldn’t, those days.  

“Will called me,” Steve explained, hands raised in a don’t shoot gesture.  “You need help.” 

He didn’t leave it to a question or an offer, knowing already what the answer would be.

Jonathan gave him the answer he’d expected anyway: A curt, “I don’t.” 

If history was any indication, they could keep at this until whenever this Bob clown Joyce was dating actually got off work.  Steve bit his tongue and took a few cautious steps forward.  

Sweat was dripping from the ends of Jonathan’s hair―grown longer, since Steve had last seen him―and he was still wearing his pajamas, his ratty sherpa coat discarded on the steps of the nearby shed.  His arms were shaking with the exertion of digging into the half-frozen, hard-packed dirt.  But the look on his face didn’t change.  

I don’t need your help.  I don’t want your help.

Steve had never seen something so small and vulnerable and vicious.  He imagined it must look like this when an animal with its leg caught in a trap takes a few valiant, futile snaps at an approaching hunter.

The hunter was a role that Steve had been trying his hardest to move out of; but how was the animal meant to know the difference between the hunter and the good samaritan who just wanted to free its leg?  

Steve moved forward again.  Prepared to be bitten.

When he reached the edge of the grave and Jonathan still didn’t say anything, he started digging.  

 ― 

They dug in silence for an hour, maybe two.  The rest of the boys began trickling in on their bikes just after Steve, explaining that they were there for “the funeral;” Steve and Jonathan were at least in agreement when they shooed them inside.  Steve didn’t know how deep they would need to go to keep Chester safe from the elements, and he didn’t think Jonathan would answer him if he asked; so he kept on until Jonathan cleared his throat and said, “You can stop.” 

Near the end, they’d had to hop into the hole together, an arrangement that was claustrophobic at best; but Steve had been careful to keep to his area.  He glanced up at Jonathan, already clambering out, the hems of his flannel pajama pants soaked through with mud.

“I’m sorry,” Steve blurted, hauling himself out after him.  “About Chester.  He was a good dog.” 

Jonathan was propped up against the handle of his shovel, staring vacantly out at the woods.  He didn’t look at Steve as he said, “He was sick for a few months.” 

Steve wanted to say Will told me.  A few weeks ago, when the kids had decided teaching Steve to play Risk was a good use of their Friday night.  Will had been out of it, missing turns and making what Dustin exclaimed were rookie mistakes.  Finally, he’d rushed out that Chester’s nose was bleeding again―it had been happening more and more lately, he said, but this time there was a lot of blood.  He said Jonathan promised they would take him to the vet when he got paid.  

Will had been acting weird for months, actually, going blank at random and needing to be shaken back to reality, which the other boys―especially Mike―seemed to have taken to as their personal, moral obligation.  Confidentially, Lucas and Dustin had told Steve that Will’s therapy appointments were for PTSD.

“Like the guys in Vietnam?” Steve asked.

Dustin had opened his mouth to say something that was no doubt unhelpful and sarcastic, but Lucas had cut him off with a glare.  “Exactly like that.” 

Jonathan knew all of this, of course: He and Will seemed like they practically shared one brain.  Maybe he figured that Will had already told Steve, since he was around so much.  Steve imagined that Jonathan hated that.  

“I’m sorry,” Steve said again.  

Jonathan blinked, hard, before turning towards him.  “I can finish up from here.”  

Not, Thank you, Steve.  I’m sorry too, Steve.  Stay for dinner, Steve.

“Could you stop being so fucking stubborn?” Steve snapped.  “What good does it do if you collapse out here?” 

Jonathan, having apparently used his full allotment of words for Steve for the day, just stared at him.  Big hollow eyes with dark circles underneath, blank in the same way they’d been almost a year ago, when he rang Steve up at the BP on the last normal night of their lives.  Like Steve was still just that annoying prick from the basketball team, the one Jonathan had hated.  

The stare broke something in Steve’s brain; it was almost audible, like a cork popping.

“What the hell did I ever do to you?” 

There were chinks in that argument from the beginning, considering the laundry list of things that Steve had done ―ants and army jackets.  But nothing had earned him six months of silence before.  How many fucking times was he supposed to say sorry?  What was he meant to be sorry for?  And Jonathan still wasn’t fucking talking, even after Steve spent all goddamn summer waiting for him to.  

“Why did you get to be the one to decide we weren’t friends anymore?  Because you think I care that you’re…that I care about that?  I don’t give a shit, Jonathan.  So you can stop acting like a martyr about everything.” 

Steve couldn’t say it outright.  He’d been wondering, lately, if Jonathan had ever even said it out loud, to anybody.  The thought of him trusting someone else enough to tell them but not Steve had made him feel sick.

Quietly, Jonathan said, “Not everything is about just you.” 

“This is about me!  It’s me and you out here, Byers, not anyone else.  Not our dads or your mom or your brother: It’s me.  You’ve decided there’s something wrong with me and you won’t even fucking tell me what it is.”  Steve was entering the territory of saying things he’d barely even allowed himself to think before; angry things, mostly.  Dangerous things.  He kept going.  “I gave up my whole life to listen to The Cure in your fucking bedroom.  You’re the reason Nancy dumped me.  I spent all summer thinking you were going to call me and you just―you just―”  

Jonathan’s face was carefully neutral; but Steve knew that he wanted to argue from the way his jaw was working, his grip on the shovel’s handle gone white-knuckled.  

There were two choices, as Steve saw it.  He could take it back and lower his voice, finish burying Chester, and tactfully slide Will a twenty on his way out so that they could order takeout for dinner; or he could push harder, until Jonathan had no choice but to scream at him, maybe even hit him.  And at least screaming and hitting meant that Steve could still evoke something in him.  

Steve didn’t know when he’d started crying; he swiped at his face, threw his shovel down, and pushed.  

“You did this to me and now you won’t even talk to me.” 

Finally, finally , Jonathan bit out, “I did what to you?” 

Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He knew what Jonathan had heard; for once, he could admit that it was what he had meant.

You made me a freak.  You made me like you.  

Weakly, Steve repeated, “This.  I’m not like this.” 

Jonathan whipped around.  Laid into him.  “Are you fucking kidding me?  Which is it, Steve?  Do you not care, or am I contagious?  Have you ever stopped to think about why you feel like this now?  Maybe it’s because you spent years cowering behind your deranged friend and pretending not to be; and now he’s dead and you still can’t admit it.  At least I can be honest with myself.”

“You can’t even say it!  So don’t act like I’m some kind of coward when you can’t―”

Jonathan cut him off, screaming now, the way Steve thought he had wanted: “Queer!  I’m a queer, is that what you want?” 

It wasn’t.  

Steve had wanted Jonathan to ask him to stay for dinner.  He would have told him about Joni Mitchell and Vashti Bunyan, house-sitting for Ms. Click, and how Will and his friends were the best part of the last few months.  He would have skipped the guilt trip, skipped questions; maybe alluded to it in a few weeks, asked about that stupid fucking cassette.  He had wanted to talk for hours until Jonathan asked him, shyly, to stay the night.  

He had already spent too much time thinking about being queer, about Jonathan being queer; about how it made him feel and what it made him.  Desperately, Steve reached for his vision of the wife and kids and the lakehouse, but it wasn’t there.  All that he could see and think was that Jonathan was standing in front of him with his chest heaving, having just called himself a queer.  

For a second, he thought that Jonathan was really going to hit him.

“I just want things to be normal,” Steve mumbled.  He was crying again, on the verge of really losing it this time.  

Behind them, the back door swung open.  “Steve?  Jonathan?”  

Jonathan was quick on his feet, snapping, “Go back inside” before Steve had even registered whose voice he’d heard.  He kept his back to the house, hiding his tear-streaked face.  

A coward, as usual.

Another voice―Lucas―asked, timidly, “Are you guys alright?”  

“We heard yelling,” Dustin said.  The door didn’t close.  “Do you need help?”

Steve cleared his throat.  He could at least back Jonathan up on this.  “ No , Dustin.  It’s a tough day, that’s all.  Get inside.”

He didn’t turn around, but he knew what he would see in their faces: Disbelief.  They were too fucking smart for their own good at the best of times; and if they had heard yelling, I’m a queer, is that what you want? was pretty unambiguously not about Chester.  

There was a pause, like they were thinking about arguing, before Lucas said, “Okay.”  Dustin was still babbling protests as the door slammed shut.

 ―   

They finished burying Chester in tense silence.  Once they were allowed outside, the kids fashioned him a cross out of sticks and twine and insisted that everyone gather while they said a few words; mostly, the words were some variation of good dog .  

Halfway through, it occurred to Steve that all of them had gathered at Will’s funeral less than a year ago, just like this.  He had watched as the boys threw flowers on his coffin and listened to Jonathan give that short, profound speech that Steve had always been so fucking impressed by, even when Jonathan was just a means to an end for finding Tommy.  

He felt the briefest, most selfish pang of longing for that time, when Jonathan was still a mystery that he hadn’t even realized he wanted to solve.  

 ― 

“Oh my fucking God.  You…you dingus!” Robin screeches.  “You told him he made you gay but like, in a bad way?  I thought we were building up to a kiss, for fuck’s sake!”

Steve doesn’t know how Robin will react to this, so he doesn’t say it just yet: That after two years, they’re still just building up to a kiss, because he had a penchant for freaking out and fucking up whenever it seemed like a real possibility.  Could you even say you were building up to something that may well never happen?  

Instead he says, “I wasn’t going to kiss him in front of his dead dog” and leaves it at that.

Chapter Text

See, we’ve won again, here we are at the place

          where I get to beg for it

where I get to say Please, for just one night, will you lay down next to me, we can leave our

clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up?

-Richard Siken, “Wishbone”

 ― 

After Chester’s funeral, the kids didn’t really call on him.  Steve figured that was it since they were so adamant about party and loyalty and they’d known Jonathan longer.  It didn’t matter if they didn’t have the full context.  Dustin and Lucas had heard yelling, seen how tense they were; Mike already hated him half the time; and with Will it wouldn’t even be a question, since it was his brother.  

The full context probably wouldn’t have made it much better, seeing as Steve had stopped just short of calling Jonathan diseased.  

You did this to me.  

As soon as it left his mouth, he’d seen Jonathan’s face changing.  Hardening.  

If the kids knew that, they would hate him for sure.  

So for the next two weeks, Steve listened to less cassettes―everything felt ruined now because he’d gone to the Byers’ house with the stupid hope that he’d get to share them with Jonathan―and drank a lot more beer.  

It was a welcome disruption when Dustin, Lucas, and a girl Steve had never seen before came by to show off their Halloween costumes.  He had a math test the next day, so he’d actually taken it easy on the drinking; but Lucas and Dustin still exchanged a glance he couldn’t quite interpret at the sight of his trash can piled high with empties and takeout boxes.      

“The porch light’s off, shitheads.  That means I don’t have any candy.”  

Lucas and Dustin still struck a few poses in the kitchen, standing back-to-back and raising their ghost-vacuums― proton packs , they corrected him―snapping them at Steve to show that they really worked.  They also fought to be the ones to introduce their new friend, Max Mayfield, presenting her to Steve like she was some kind of exotic bird.  

He asked where Starsky and Hutch were and was quickly told that it was Winston and Egon , and that they’d gone home early because Will didn’t feel well and Mike was in one of his moods .  

Steve wanted to point out that Mike was always moody, in his experience; but when he’d privately agreed with Dustin during their last spat, Mike had thrown his exact words back in his face a few weeks later― How can you say I’m lame when you’re the one hanging out with children?  

“Jonathan took them home,” Dustin supplied, which was met with an indiscreet elbow to the ribs from Lucas; but both of them looked to Steve expectantly.  

Steve wished they didn’t have this Max kid with them so he could ask exactly how much they’d heard.  By the looks on their faces, he would assume a lot : Jonathan always said the Byers’ walls were thin from shitty insulation, but Steve had thought it was mostly a joke.  

After a second, all that Steve could think to say was, “Cool.  Do you need a ride home?”

Their eyes slid over the trashcan again.  Lucas answered for them this time.  “I think we’re good.  We’ve gotta shake down your neighbors for full-sized bars first anyways.” 

 ― 

The visit was nice enough, but Steve didn’t expect to see anything more of the kids, at least for a while.  It came as a shock when a frantic Dustin called him at six PM that Saturday and only said, “Come over.  Do you still have your spiky bat?  Bring it.  I need you to come over, Steve” before hanging up.

Knowing Dustin, he either needed Steve to hold the flashlight while he tinkered with an old radio or a cataclysmic event was occurring; there was really no way to tell until he showed up.  

Ms. Henderson’s car wasn’t in the driveway.  Steve was fairly certain that he’d passed her on his way out of the neighborhood.  But there was another car―a green Ford parked haphazardly, like the driver had been in a hurry.  Steve knew without looking that there was a dent on the bumper and a scratch on the left-side passenger door from Will’s bike.

It had better be a fucking cataclysmic event.  

Dustin flung the door open at Steve’s first knock, dragging him inside by the sleeve and steering him toward the couch.  Jonathan was perched on the opposite end, pointedly staring at his shoes; when Steve sat down, he curled in on himself even further.  

Sucking in a breath, Dustin launched into his speech.  “I called both of you because I need your combined strength and expertise.  Also, no one’s answering their goddamn walkie.”      

He paused, glancing meaningfully between them.  What expertise did he need that involved Steve, Jonathan, and a nail-studded baseball bat?  

“I have found an…interesting…creature.  For the purpose of science , I was keeping it in my turtle tank; but then it molted and broke out, and I think it’s something you two have dealt with before.” 

Jonathan figured it out a split-second sooner.  Steve noticed that he had the old machete at his side―Dustin must have given him marching orders on the phone, too.  

Slowly, already getting to his feet, Jonathan asked, “Where is it?” 

“I trapped it in the storm cellar after its face opened up and it ate my cat,” Dustin rushed out.  

Of course, Steve had only seen one thing that fit that description before.  

“Why the hell would you keep the demogorgon in your turtle tank , Henderson?” Steve asked.  He’d put the nail bat in his trunk and had of course neglected to bring it in, not taking into account the possible imminent threat of a monster.

Indignantly, Dustin screeched, “It’s not the demogorgon!  Dart’s just an adolescent-”

“And now it has a cutesy name!  Jesus Christ.” 

Jonathan cut both of them off with a stern, “Where’s the storm cellar?”

Dustin and Jonathan waited impatiently as Steve grabbed the bat from his trunk.  Dustin was actually tapping his foot and sighing like Steve wasn’t about to risk life and limb for his pet demogorgon, which was typical.

The short walk to the cellar door didn’t give Steve much time to steel himself.  He turned to Dustin and said, in earnest but also just stalling, “You should’ve called Nancy since, y’know, she can use an actual gun .”

Dustin narrowed his eyes at him like he was trying to assess just how low Steve’s IQ really was.  “I tried that.  No one’s seen Nancy in two days.” 

“ What? ”

“Mike heard her tell their mom that she’s on a journalism retreat with that girl Barb, but he thinks she’s totally lying so she can visit some guy.  Now can we focus on the task at hand, please?”  Dustin started unwinding the chain from around the door handles, indicating that he was done with this line of questioning.  

Jonathan nudged him out of the way.  “You go down last, bud.  We’re armed.”

Not to be outdone, Steve chimed in, “I’ll go first.  I’ve got the bat.”  

There was a moment where Jonathan glared at him like he was going to argue; or maybe that was just how Jonathan looked at him now.  In the end, Steve went first with the two of them close on his heels.  At the bottom of the stairs, he took a few experimental swings of the bat for good measure, but all he struck was a bag of overwintered vegetables.    

That was when the beam of Dustin’s flashlight swept over something in the corner: A slimy greenish pile that looked to Steve like a giant snakeskin.  In the cellar wall just above it, there was a hole where Dustin was now aiming the flashlight, his body leaned partway into it; before he could crawl in further, Jonathan beat Steve to yanking him back by the collar. 

 “Shit,” Dustin whispered.  Then, looking at both of them in turn, “Shit, shit, shit! ”

Steve was astute enough to gather that this wasn’t exactly the desired outcome.  He wasn’t sure what was: Him and Jonathan teaming up to kill it, monster hunters again?  Subduing and capturing it so that Dustin could donate it to science?

He knew for sure that none of the ideal outcomes involved the demogorgon molting again, as Dustin was rapidly explaining, and tunneling out into the greater Hawkins area.  

 ― 

After a few more minutes of staring into the tunnel, they returned, defeated, to the Henderson’s living room.  

Steve suggested they cut their hands again but Dustin shot him down, saying he’d been able to lure Dart―he was insistent that they call it that, even if it had eaten Mews―into the cellar with lunch meat.  Jonathan mumbled something about how Steve’s suggestion was unnecessarily dangerous as if he hadn’t been all for it a year ago.    

If Steve didn’t know any better, he would swear that it made the scar on his palm sting.  

Outside, the sun had long since gone down, meaning that Dustin’s pet demogorgon, the nocturnal hunter, would be on the prowl.  

Once again, Jonathan was one step ahead of him.  “Going after it in the dark is a suicide mission,” he said.  

Once again, it didn’t make Steve think of him as capable or level-headed; it just pissed him off, like Jonathan may as well have just turned to him and called him stupid and that what they did last year was nothing.  

In reality, Jonathan wasn’t looking at him at all―just at Dustin, or the floor, or a lamp in the corner.

“We went after it in the dark last year,” Steve sniped.  

We.  You.  Me.  Us.    

Without missing a beat, Jonathan shot back, “And it was a suicide mission.  We know better now.” 

“So what are we supposed to do?  Wait until it starts eating people? ” 

He could go really hurtful, if he wanted to: Wait until it takes your brother again?  But Jonathan had the upper hand, considering Will had lived and Tommy hadn’t.  And as much as he wanted to lash out, Will was a human being.  Will trusted him.  He wasn’t something for Steve and Jonathan to snatch back and forth between them like the cassette tape.    

He’s a human being you only care about because you have this weird, sick thing for his brother who wants nothing to do with you.

Steve stamped that thought out.  

“So what’s your plan, Byers?”  At that moment, Steve realized that Dustin was just gaping at the two of them.  Quickly, he added, “Henderson?  Any ideas?” 

Dustin’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.   “Uh, I figured we could just lure him in the morning.  He probably didn’t go far.  We’ll get him to a central location and then…” He mimed swinging a bat, like he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Steve nodded along, resigned to the fact that he and Jonathan were now regarded as The Monster Killers even if all they’d really managed to do to the demogorgon last year was piss it off.  He expected Jonathan, who he was pointedly not looking at, was doing the same.  

But then, standing and clearing his throat, Jonathan said, “Do you need me for this?” 

“I called you, didn’t I?” Dustin replied, indignant.  

“You called both of us.  Will’s sick.  I might need to stop by the pharmacy or something.” 

Dustin crossed his arms over his chest.  “Is your mom not home?” 

“ Yes , but she’s taking care of Will-” 

Cutting him off, Dustin yelled, “And I need both of you to help me take care of this , because none of my friends are answering their goddamn walkies and my mom can’t fight a demogorgon !”

Obediently, a wide-eyed, stunned Jonathan sank back onto the couch; Steve sat back farther too, if only to keep Dustin from rounding on him.  Dustin was still standing in the middle of the living room, staring them down.  “I need your help.  Both of you.”  He cleared his throat, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling.  “Please.”  

It almost sounded like he was trying not to cry.    

This time, finally, it was Steve who was ahead of Jonathan.  He pushed to his feet, crossing the living room to jostle Dustin by the shoulder.  “Of course, Henderson.”  

Jonathan stood up right after him, shooting a strained smile in Dustin’s direction.  “I do at least need to call my mom.”  

 ― 

The Byers’ answering machine picked up, the prerecorded message one that Steve had memorized by then: A younger Will saying Leave a message after the beep.

Jonathan cleared his throat and hunched over the receiver.  He looked like a prisoner making his one phone call, with Dustin standing off to the side as the warden.  

“Hi, Mom.  I’m staying at Eric’s house tonight.  Let me know if Will needs something.  Love you guys.” 

Eric’s house?  Pothead Eric?  Was that somewhere Joyce expected him to be on a Saturday night?

Not that smoking a little pot with your coworker was worse or more dangerous than what they were actually doing.  But still.  Steve didn’t particularly love the thought of Jonathan spending the night at Eric’s house, especially when he’d only stayed at Steve’s once.  

About to be twice, because Dustin had said that he didn’t want to explain to his mom about his “older male friends” staying over and no one wanted to catch Will’s cold. 

They drove to Loch Nora separately, with Jonathan offering to make a detour for pizza.  He made a point of refusing the cash Steve held out to him.  

Dustin spent the car ride in what was clearly a sulk, with his head hanging and his lower lip sticking out.  Finally, on what must have been his tenth dramatic sigh, Steve snapped, “What, Henderson?” 

Dustin shrugged in response.

“ Henderson .  You’ve gotta use your words.” 

“I did code reds all morning and no one ever answered me.  We’re supposed to be a party.  And it’s like…sometimes it’s like they forget about me unless they need something.”  Dustin’s head was turned, but Steve could hear sniffling.  “Mike’s pissed off all the time; Will’s different but he doesn’t want you to treat him different, so I piss him off too; and now there’s…this girl, and I like her but I think Lucas does, too, even though that totally goes against the rule of law.” 

So it wasn’t just a sulk.  

Steve could remember being thirteen and feeling like the world was going to end whenever he and Tommy fought, how he’d spend days moping around like his little dog just died; or earlier that month after there seemed to be a line drawn in the sand and kids stopped coming around as much, when he’d spent days drinking and wishing they’d come pester him about going to see Ghostbusters again.  He even missed Mike.

Tentatively, Steve placed a hand on Dustin’s shoulder.  “You guys are best friends, man.  You’ve just all gone through a lot more shit than a kid your age should’ve.  It might always be weird now, but you’ll always be a party, right?” 

Dustin shook his head.  

“And you don’t need to get yourself all bent out of shape over liking some girl, either.  A girl’s not worth losing your friends.”  

Steve couldn’t help it, what came to him next: Was Jonathan Byers worth losing all of mine?  

But Jonathan didn’t kill Tommy; Jonathan didn’t make Nancy break up with him; Jonathan didn’t even come between him and Carol, regardless of if it was what she always seemed to come back to.

That was all Steve, choosing and choosing and choosing Jonathan until there was no one left but a couple of kids.  The most humiliating thing of all was that Jonathan had never even asked him to; and he would have kept doing it if there was anything left.  

He was already about to fight a monster just for the chance to splatter some of its blood across Jonathan’s face.

Beside him, the sniffling seemed to have died down slightly.

Steve cleared his throat, blinked.  “I’m not really qualified to give you advice on your love life.  But you can always call me with your red alerts, okay?  Even if I’m last choice.” 

 ― 

By the time they reached the house, things were more or less normal.  Steve tossed Dustin a can of Coke; Dustin joked that Jonathan might not actually be coming back with a pizza; they dug through the deep freeze for meat to use as bait.

Against the odds, Jonathan pulled in fifteen minutes later with a box from Gino’s.  

Dustin was insistent that they sleep in the living room in shifts, weapons at the ready, which seemed to Steve a touch dramatic unless one of them was going to fling the door open and slit their wrists; but Jonathan almost looked miserable enough to do just that, curled in on himself and just picking at a piece of pizza, so Steve agreed.

Once he’d inhaled a few slices, Dustin promptly announced his intentions to rest his eyes.  

After a minute, Steve heard light snoring.  He picked up a nearby throw pillow, whacking Dustin’s leg.  “When’s your shift, Henderson?” 

“ Later ,” he mumbled sleepily.

Jesus.  Typical.  

Steve wasn’t sure what the protocol was for this.  Every time Jonathan spoke to him in that lifeless way it made Steve want to scream at him again, and he couldn’t keep doing that in front of Dustin.  But if he wasn’t being argumentative, Jonathan would probably just do that thing where he pretended Steve was a ghost.

Maybe the kid would sleep through a little screaming.

Steve settled for, “You can have the guest room.  You don’t need to sleep on the floor.”

For a minute, it seemed like Jonathan wasn’t even going to dignify him with a response.  

Finally, he said, “Dustin wants us both out here.” 

They were in opposite corners of the living room, both cross-legged on the floor in spite of the loveseat and the La-Z-Boy.  Steve knew that Jonathan wouldn’t agree to let him take the first shift; in all likelihood, neither of them would sleep at all and they’d be on the floor having a martyrdom contest until sunrise.

Steve wished they could at least sit closer to each other for it.

 ― 

The first few hours were, more or less, what Steve expected: Silent in a way that felt heavy enough to squeeze your brain until it leaked out of your ears.  He got up a few times to smoke or fiddle with the TV, which was never playing anything decent.

At half past midnight, Steve declared, “I’m gonna make a pot of coffee.”   

As the coffeemaker hissed and spluttered, he contemplated how fucking ridiculous it felt to have regressed this much.  Almost a year ago to the day, he’d been drinking coffee in the Byers’ kitchen while Jonathan all but called him a sociopath.  

In fact, this year was worse: Jonathan wasn’t actually speaking to him enough to call him anything.  

They should’ve already been together when Dustin called, been able to exchange a knowing look before grabbing the bat and the machete; should’ve been able to pile the three of them into one car instead of doing it all separately like divorcees with split custody.  

He and Jonathan should’ve been leading the charge together.  

The most infuriating part was how Steve found it borderline impossible to stay angry at him.  As soon as Jonathan so much as entered his thoughts, Steve went from wanting to strangle him for being such an asshole to wanting to grovel at his feet in thirty seconds flat; after a full night of Jonathan being right there, right fucking there, his resolve was nonexistent.  

If Jonathan would have decided to start acting normal at any point that night―at any point in the last six months―Steve would have taken it.  Jonathan could’ve walked into the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee and started talking about a new album he was listening to and Steve would’ve talked back.  Despite everything, he would have said show me.    

If Jonathan asked him to, Steve could say I don’t even care if you did this to me and almost mean it .  

Jonathan drank black coffee most of the time, which Steve took to be part of his suffering artist routine.  Steve considered pouring some in a mug and laying it down a few feet away on the living room floor, the way you’d feed a feral cat; but that would squash what was quickly becoming a full-fledged fantasy of a pre-battle reunion around the coffee pot.  

Rationally, he knew that it was the same kind of half-baked plan he’d executed multiple times with a zero percent success rate, that the best he could really hope for was screaming at each other again and even that was a long shot.  

But Steve still arranged himself at the kitchen island, carefully casual, before he called, “Coffee’s ready.”  

There was a groan from the living room that sounded like Dustin protesting an interruption to his beauty sleep; but a few seconds later, Steve could hear Jonathan start padding across the floor. 

Steve had already set out a clean mug― WORLD’S GREATEST DAD ―thinking Jonathan might remember talking about how much they both hated those. He could spin it into breaking the ice. 

Jonathan picked up the mug and poured his coffee without comment.  

Quick on his feet, Steve said, “We’ve got cream and sugar, but I know you don’t usually…”  He trailed off purposefully, gesturing with one hand as if to say I remember.  I know you.

There was a beat before he was rewarded with a curt nod from Jonathan and, “Yeah.  Thanks.” 

Steve weighed his options: End it there and leave Jonathan with a good impression of the powers of his memory; point out the obvious parallel between this and what they’d done last year; or unrelated small talk, which seemed the least likely to generate the infamous prickly response.

“So Will’s still sick, huh?”

Jonathan cocked his head to the side.  “Still?” 

“Dustin told me on Halloween.  Him and Sinclair came to show me their ghost vacuums.”  For effect, Steve mimicked the posture the kids had assumed when they were showing him their costumes.

Almost automatically, Jonathan corrected, “Proton packs.”

“Yeah, proton packs,” Steve said.  “They jumped all over me about that already.”

Jonathan didn’t exactly smile; but his voice wasn’t quite as flat as he said, “Will was really adamant about it too.” 

That was all Steve needed to take the topic and run with it.

“I saw it with them a few months ago.  When it first came out.” 

“Will told me,” Jonathan said.  He was leaning back against the counter, an improvement from a few minutes ago when he’d seemed prepared to dash for the door; but he had an air of the defensive about him, clutching the mug in front of his face like a shield.  

“Will’s awesome.  They’re cool kids, all of ‘em.  Even Mike.”  Steve smiled, meaning it.  Mike wasn’t even that bad most of the time: Just moody and overprotective and vaguely sad.  He could be a lot like Jonathan, sometimes even more than Will.  “I don’t know why they wanna keep hanging out with an old guy, though.” 

Jonathan clicked his teeth together.  “Because they think you’re Jesus Christ.”  

His lips were set in a thin, hard line, like it pained him to admit it.  

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  I have to hear about it all the time,” Jonathan said.  

For a while they just slurped their coffee―Jonathan in his typical broody silence, Steve scrambling for something else to talk about―until Jonathan drained the rest of his, set his empty mug in the sink, and turned to go.  

And maybe Steve should have left it at that: A pleasant conversation where nothing was resolved, but no one got their feelings hurt.  It was more than he’d hoped for; it could be a start.  

It could give Jonathan something to think about.  

Steve knew that he was going to be thinking about it.  How it felt like he’d almost been able to make Jonathan smile; how the kids apparently thought he was Jesus Christ; how Jonathan had looked clutching that WORLD’S GREATEST DAD mug, like he could actually belong in Steve’s kitchen if he’d just relax.  

But the stubborn, idealistic part of him― romantic , if he was being honest with himself―that wanted to go into the fight with the demogorgon tomorrow side-by-side couldn’t stop there, so he said, “Will talks about you all the time, too.  He showed me some of those mixtapes you’ve made him.”  When that at least slowed the pace at which Jonathan was walking away, Steve added, “I guess I’m not the only person you’ve turned on to The Cure.”

“Guess not,” Jonathan mumbled.  His back was still turned, but he’d paused in the doorway of the kitchen; Steve took a tentative step forward, towards him.

He asked, “Did you ever listen to The Top ?” and wondered if Jonathan could tell that what he really meant was Did you think about me?  I thought about you.  I probably think about you too much.  

He kept moving forward until he was close enough to Jonathan that he could reach out, touch his back, spin him around.  

But then Jonathan turned his head, glaring back at Steve over his shoulder, and snapped, “You probably don’t want to get any closer.  I’m contagious, remember?” 

Steve’s earlier reservations about half-baked plans with zero percent success rates came flying back at him.  The success rate of any apology he’d ever given Jonathan was similar; but the gauntlet was thrown down, so he might as well.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

Jonathan had turned so that they were fully facing each other, and Steve saw just how close he’d really gotten.  

“But you meant it,” Jonathan said, his voice infuriatingly flat again.  

Exasperated, Steve dragged his hands over his face.

 He half-expected Jonathan to utilize the moment his eyes were covered to scamper off, but Steve lowered his hands and he was still there.  Not exactly glaring anymore; just looking at Steve with his eyebrows pinched together and the corners of his mouth twisted into a frown, like he was bracing himself for Steve’s response.   

“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that,” Steve started.  Already, he could see that Jonathan’s hackles were back up.  “I don’t- it’s not like I think you’re contagious, okay?  You’re not diseased.  I don’t know what the hell’s going on, man.  I just know I miss hanging out with you and that sometimes…sometimes, I wanna do more than that.  And right when I started figuring that out, you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore, and it- it made me wanna hurt you back, so I did.”  Steve swallowed hard and remembered that sorry wasn’t something he should trust to be implied.  “I’m sorry, Jonathan.”  

“More than that,” Jonathan repeated, which wasn’t what Steve had expected him to take away from the whole thing.  He nodded.  There was no point in continuing to be coy about it.  He was probably still being too withholding, leaving more to do all the heavy-lifting; but even he hardly knew what it entailed.  “Just sometimes?”

“I haven’t really let myself think about it,” Steve admitted, training his gaze just behind Jonathan’s shoulder.  He felt like he was back in middle school, somewhere between thinking girls had cooties and that he wanted to kiss one; but it was Jonathan Byers instead of Holly Thurman, and he was eighteen fucking years old instead of twelve.

Slowly, Jonathan started to shake his head.  “Maybe we could talk, once you think about it.” 

 ― 

Even after the vision of his future wife and RV lost its thought-stopping powers, Steve hadn’t really let himself entertain the possibility of ever kissing Jonathan in real life while even talking to him again had felt so far-fetched.  Before, it always had to be abstracted through several layers of dreams and The Cure and crushing loneliness; now Jonathan was sitting on the other side of his living room, having agreed that they could talk.  

He looked almost cozy, leaning back on the front of the loveseat and idly flipping through one of the Archie comics Steve had picked up at the record store.  Experimentally, Steve allowed himself to think that he looked cute and spiraled from there.  

The bottom line was that Steve wanted to kiss him and he was here and the odds seemed to indicate that Jonathan may even kiss him back.  That was as far as he’d ever considered it with any of his girlfriends.  

But Jonathan was so skittish that Steve was afraid even scooting closer to him might be too startling; so he just watched him, appreciating that he was able to do that again.    

It didn’t keep him from mapping everything out in his head, though: Sinking down beside Jonathan, tilting his head towards his shoulder and snaking an arm around him as he pretended to read along, all the way to leaning in as soon as Jonathan snapped the comic closed.

Every few minutes, Steve bit back the urge to say, “I thought about it.  Let’s go upstairs.”  

Eventually, Steve was buzzing with so much nervous energy that he couldn’t say nothing , so he quipped, “I would think Archie’s beneath your refined tastes.” 

Jonathan snorted.  “It’s not exactly War and Peace. ”  

There was something about Archie that Steve had noticed months ago, actually; at the time, it’d quickly been sucked into the cyclone of other things swirling in his head, blending with Lou Reed and Holden Caulfield and Joni Mitchell.  It was the kind of thing he’d usually ask Jonathan about.  

“Jughead’s totally gay, right?” 

Without hesitation, Jonathan answered, “Completely.” 

“For a while I was scared I just thought everybody was gay because…you know.”  Steve waved a hand through the air, not quite able to articulate it, and certainly not about to try with Dustin sleeping fitfully on the couch nearby.  

“Like who?” Jonathan asked, comic discarded.  He had pulled his knees up and crossed his arms over top of them, resting his chin there.  

“Luke and Han.”     

Jonathan scoffed.  “Luke, maybe.”
“That’s wishful thinking on your part, Byers.” 

Jonathan shrugged, but didn’t deny it.  “What’s your reasoning?”
“I dunno.  They stare at each other a lot.”  Steve leaned forward with his best imitation of a penetrating stare, the kind Luke and Han exchanged an awful lot on that snow planet.  He was starting to feel giddy, whether from the conversation or from lack of sleep he couldn’t tell.  “Why not?  They already let him kiss his own sister.” 

Suddenly serious, Jonathan deadpanned, “You know they’re not related in real life, right?”

And then he was laughing.  Jonathan, actually laughing in Steve’s presence―even if it was at his expense.  Less than an hour ago, Steve had been sure that would never happen again. 

 ― 

They passed the night like that, lapsing into silence until Steve found something else ridiculous to ask like “What about Archie?  You think he and Jughead have ever had a moment?” which would elicit the inevitable groan and eye roll from Jonathan and usually, blessedly, a response.

Steve was dying to talk to him about real life―all the tapes he’d bought from Dan and what Jonathan thought of The Top and what he’d done all goddamn summer―but the air in the room felt too fragile, as if talking about something more than surface level risked breaking the spell.

He wanted to ask if Jonathan had missed him, too, if only to hear him say it out loud.  

But there would be time for that once they executed the plan with Dart and rode their heroes’ high for a few hours.  Steve was already planning on offering to swing by the pharmacy to grab some cold medicine for Will on the way back, to keep them in the car together for a few more minutes.

Just after sunrise, Dustin rolled to face them, grousing about how no one woke him for his shift.

Steve shrugged.  “Couldn’t have if I tried, Sleeping Beauty.”  

“Well don’t blame me if Dart eats you later because you’re sleep deprived.  I told you to wake me up,” Dustin said, scowling.

“Me and Jonathan are old pros, Henderson.  That’s why you called us, remember?”    

Across the room, Jonathan snorted.  

Still scowling, Dustin rolled gracelessly off of the couch.  “Did you make coffee?” 

Between the caffeine and alleged growth-stunting properties, Steve had tried not to get Will or any of the other kids hooked on drinking coffee; but Dustin claimed to have been drinking it for years as fuel for long nights spent tinkering, which he insisted his mother encouraged, so Steve never denied him.  

“Might be a little stale by now.”  Steve pushed to his feet, officially abandoning the idea of sleep and heading towards the kitchen with Dustin at his heels.  While he busied himself with dumping the old coffee into the sink and digging for a new filter, Dustin sidled up to the island and pulled out a stool.  

“You’re chipper this morning,” Dustin drawled.  

“I’m always chipper, Henderson.  I’ve got a very positive outlook on life.”    

“You didn’t seem very positive last night.”   

Careful to keep his voice even, Steve said, “I wasn’t thrilled about your pet monster.  Took the night to process.” 

“Jonathan’s all smiley too.”  Dustin was smiling, smug in the same way as when he got the best of one of the other kids in Risk without them realizing. 

Steve filled a clean mug partway― OHIO IS FOR LOVERS this time―and slid it across the island.  “Guess my zest for life’s contagious.” 

Dustin dragged the sugar canister over and began the elaborate ritual of turning his coffee into a tooth-rotting sludge; but he kept his narrowed eyes on Steve.  

 ― 

Before they left, Jonathan tried to call home one more time.  When Will’s little voice squeaked through the receiver again, he frowned.  “It’s kind of weird for her not to answer.  Usually she’d be beside herself wondering where I am.” 

“Maybe she was up late with Will.  She’s probably gotta sleep it off.”  Steve took the calculated risk of clapping Jonathan on the shoulder.  “We’ll stop by to check on them later, yeah?” 

His calculated risk was rewarded with a nod, a smile, and a soft, “Yeah, for sure.” 

Every time Steve made eye contact with Dustin, he found that he was either being intensely studied or given that incredulous look his mother sometimes gave him when he was clearly lying.  

Dragging a ten-gallon bucket full of lukewarm hamburger meat along the railroad tracks served as a good distraction from whatever was going on with him and Jonathan, as well as whatever Dustin thought was going on.  (Being too damn smart for his own good, he was probably right on the money.) 

After a half hour or so, Dustin seemed satisfied that he had gleaned as much from observing them as he possibly could and circled back to earlier topics.

“So I know you said not to let a girl ruin my friendships; but what if she’s, like, the coolest girl I’ve ever met?  Plays video games and everything?”  

Steve rifled through his brain for his tried-and-true strategies, all of them grown dusty from disuse.  “Don’t let her know you think she’s the coolest ever.  That’ll drive her crazy.”

“So what am I supposed to do instead?”

“Just be chill.  Act like you don’t care-”

From the other side of Dustin, Jonathan chimed in, “Do not do that.  Show a little emotional intelligence.”  

At the same time, Dustin and Steve echoed, “Emotional intelligence?” 

Jonathan rolled his eyes.  “You should learn things about her―stuff she likes, where she’s from, her family.  Let her know you’re interested in more than just how cool she is.” 

Instantly, Dustin’s head swiveled towards Jonathan, the next flurry of questions directed towards him: “So should I get into whatever she’s into?  What kind of stuff about her family?  Maybe I’ll ask if her parents are divorced too.” 

It was a humbling experience, to say the least.  Jonathan didn’t even like girls, and yet he was giving Dustin advice with the easy confidence of a guru.

“I mean, you don’t have to like everything she does.  But if she says she likes a book or an album, maybe you could ask her to let you borrow it.  That’ll give you something to talk about.  Don’t be super invasive about her family, at least not at first; figure out what her parents are like, if she has any siblings, that sort of thing.”  

Steve took longer than he’d like to admit to figure out that those were all things he had done.   Leaning across Dustin, he cut in, “Byers, scout ahead with me.”

“Steve, we’re in the middle of something,” Dustin whined. 
“It’s for your safety, Henderson!  Gotta make sure your friend Dart isn’t waiting around this next corner.” 

Once they were a few steps ahead, Steve said, “I didn’t realize you were so good at giving advice.”

“I mostly use my own experiences,” Jonathan mumbled, glancing off to the side.  He was blushing, which Steve had only seen a handful of times before.  The previous times hardly counted, since he’d never really let himself think about it beyond the quiet, persistent voice in his head that wanted to make it happen again but couldn’t articulate why.

“Well, you’ve still gotta return the favor.  Making fun of my plebeian taste in music doesn’t count.”  Steve punctuated this statement with a purposeful flinging down of the hamburger meat, partially to keep Dustin―who was making a show of loudly huffing and sighing―from rushing up to take over.  “I actually got some stuff from Dan that you might think is halfway decent.” 

Jonathan looked skeptical at best.  “Like what?”
“Joni Mitchell.”

“My mom likes Joni Mitchell.”

Steve jabbed him in the ribs with his free arm.  “And Joyce Byers is a very smart woman.  I’m gonna make you listen to Hank Williams, too.  I dug up some of my dad’s old tapes this summer and remembered how much I like yodeling.” 

He was gearing up for a demonstration―the chorus of “Lovesick Blues,” maybe―when Dustin started shouting behind them.  “ Lucas ?  Holy shit, where have you been?  I’ve been sending code reds since last night!  Meet me at the junkyard, okay?  Code red, I repeat -”

 ― 

Setting the final trap for Dart―a pile of meat and a trail of gasoline in the old junkyard, an abandoned bus fortified to keep the kids away from the carnage―was an infinitely more pleasant experience than Steve originally anticipated. 

Lucas showed up with the girl from Halloween, Max Mayfield, in tow, and it became immediately clear that she was the alleged coolest girl ever by the way he and Dustin both trailed after her like puppy dogs.  Steve shot Jonathan a look as Dustin fumbled through asking about her favorite movies and musicians and was met with why?  

As they passed each other a few minutes later, both hauling assorted armloads of junk, Steve leaned in just long enough to whisper, “I guess that only works on you.” 

It was mostly to see if Jonathan would blush again; when he did, Steve had to bite back the urge to do something ridiculous like jump in the air and click his heels together.  

Once night started to fall, Max and Lucas stationed themselves at the top of the bus, leaving Steve and Jonathan on the lower level with a forlorn Dustin.

Conspiratorially, out of the side of his mouth, Steve said, “It’s not too late to switch to my strategy.  Be chill.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dustin said, just as laughter floated down from the top of the bus.  He looked more miserable than ever.  

Steve clapped him between the shoulderblades; Jonathan shot him a sympathetic frown.

“Stop treating me like I’m terminally ill,” Dustin hissed.  “I just need to stop taking advice from two guys without girlfriends.” 

Steve clasped a hand over his heart in mock-offense.  “I’ve had plenty of girlfriends, Henderson.”
“And where are they now?” Dustin shot back.

Jonathan interjected, “Shakespeare said tis better to have loved and lost.” 

“Not you too,” Dustin groaned, his head in his hands.  “I don’t love anyone.”

It had never occurred to Steve before, but Jonathan teasing Dustin made him realize that it wasn’t just him who felt obligated to this ragtag gang of children.  Jonathan had been the one to bring them over to swim all those months ago; and he had known them all for years before that, was used to them scampering around underfoot in his house and nosily poking their heads into his bedroom. 

It had been so long since he’d seen Jonathan anything other than angry and scared; seeing him grinning and sarcastic and brotherly was so utterly human that it made Steve’s chest tight. 

He knocked his knee into Jonathan’s and let it linger, their legs pressed lightly together.  “I think that’s a nice quote, Byers.  Very timely.” 

For the first time, in the dark of the boarded-up bus, Jonathan shifted his weight and leaned into Steve in return.  

 ― 

Things started to go downhill once the actual monster arrived, a turn that Steve likely could have predicted if he wasn’t busy seeing just how much of Jonathan he could be flush against.  He had just fitted their shoulders together and was thinking of how to surreptitiously tangle their ankles when Lucas called down that Dart wasn’t taking the bait. 

Steve went out with the bat and ordered Jonathan to stay back with the kids, an order that he seemed to wholeheartedly resent.  

When there turned out to be more than one monster, it was Dustin and Jonathan who yanked him back into the bus with the pack of them snapping at his heels.  Jonathan even got a good slice at one with the machete, which Steve had always privately suspected was too dull to do any real damage.  

And when the monsters― demodogs , Dustin was calling them, because everything had to have some fantastical name―turned as if compelled by an unseen force and ran back into the woods, the group of them were possessed by just enough of that suicidal heroes’ high to follow.  

The woods spat them out in front of Hawkins Lab and the grill of Barbara Holland’s car.  

Nancy leaned out of the passenger door. “Steve?  Jonathan?” 

“Nancy?” 

In bits and pieces over the course of the night and the next few days, Steve was able to conclude that Nancy had, in fact, lied about being at a journalism retreat and run off to see some guy.  

The guy in question just happened to be Murray Bauman, the private investigator who had been haunting Steve’s every step this time last year.  

On the night of the fateful end-of-summer party where they last spoke, an inebriated Nancy had apparently spilled the details of their brush with the otherworldly to Barb and, being the aspiring investigative journalists they were, they had decided that it was within their power to do something about Hawkins Lab.  Murray Bauman helped them get their story straight and if he was to be believed, it would be leaked to the press by the time the Monday evening news rolled around.    

Their ending up there that night was a matter of pure coincidence, the result of Mrs. Wheeler asking them to swing by the Byers house and collect Mike on the way home.  

“It looked like an active war zone in there,” Nancy had whispered.  “It was covered in all these crazy drawings of vines and- well, we know what it was now, but at the time it was just scary.”

Amidst the chaos, there had been a note for Jonathan tacked to the fridge that read simply “ LAB.  I LOVE YOU.”  

Because of their activities over the weekend, Nancy and Barbara had felt obligated to investigate; or maybe they were still riding their journalistic high.  Maybe it was divine intervention, since Barbara’s car proved vital to shuttling them all away from the labs and the attacking demodogs. 

They burst through the gate just in time to scoop up a frantic Joyce, Chief Hopper, and Mike, with Hopper carrying a limp, unconscious Will in his arms like an oversized doll.

After that, every time Steve glanced at Jonathan, he looked sicker and paler than the time before.  

The rest of the night went quickly: Interrogating Will in the shed, a demodog attacking the house, the little Russian girl making a grand reappearance by killing it.  Mike screaming at Hopper and Dustin explaining everything with another one of his DND names, the Mindflayer this time; Jonathan the same each time Steve dared to look at him, glassy-eyed and not looking back.

When they decided to burn the Mindflayer out of Will and Jonathan flatly told Steve to stay back to protect the kids, Steve supposed it was fair―a sort of tit for tat.  Nancy and Barbara went along instead, armed with heaters and fire pokers.  

Steve got his ass kicked by Max Mayfield’s rabid stepbrother Billy Hargrove, resulting in the first of what later became a series of concussions.  As a result, a lot of what came next was coated in a fine layer of fuzz; but he distinctly remembered his unbridled terror when he opened his eyes and saw Max driving the car, almost worse than anything he had felt while facing monsters.

 ― 

Murray Bauman kept his word: Nancy and Barbara’s tapes leaked to every conceivable news station.  A few days later, Mrs. Hagan called sobbing, asking if he had heard, and Steve pretended that it was just as fresh for him as anybody else.  He was even able to cry.  

Still not cleared to drive, he rode to the funeral in Barb Holland’s car.  He stood at the gravesite with her and Nancy, their hands joined like a chain of paper dolls.  It was unlike Will’s false funeral in every way, with a Catholic mass at the start and people genuinely wailing and keening, an animalistic sound the likes of which Steve had never heard before.  Even with it being a closed, empty casket, he half-expected one of Tommy’s parents to throw themselves into the grave.  

Carol remained notably stoic throughout, standing in the receiving line alongside the Hagans with the barest quiver in her lower lip.  

Once everyone started the silent trek from the gravesite to their cars, she stayed behind.  Steve nodded towards her in a way that Nancy somehow understood, reluctantly dropping his hand and trotting after Barb.  

He cleared his throat, a warning; in the past year, he had gotten better at approaching people with caution.  “Hey, Carrie.” 

She didn’t speak or turn to face him.  The only indication that she had heard him at all was the slight lifting of her head.  

“I’m really fucking sorry.”  

Apologies at funerals was something he’d never understood before.  When people shook his parents’ hands and said it at his grandfather’s funeral, it had seemed like they all felt personally responsible for killing him, even after Steve’s mother had taken great pains to explain to him that he had been sick for a long time.  

But this sorry to Carol meant something else. It was all of the things he couldn’t say, not even with the lab exposed: I’m sorry for knowing for a whole year.  I’m sorry you’ll never find out what really happened.  I’m sorry that you hate me even if I don’t deserve it. Maybe I do.

Steve didn’t really expect a response; but he couldn’t bring himself to leave her there alone, trembling from the chill but maintaining a stiff upper lip as she watched the undertakers shovel dirt over the empty coffin.  

She looked smaller than he had ever seen her, smaller than she had been when they were eight years old playing tag in her backyard.  The last year had eaten at her, left her withered.  

So quietly that he almost missed it, Carol said, “I’m just so angry at him.”  She turned, hands balled into fists at her sides.  “For a year I thought- I thought-” 

She cut herself off on a wet, shuddering inhale.  For a moment Steve thought that she was finally going to start crying, collapse into him; and even after everything, he would have let her.

Then, as if shaken from a trance, her head snapped towards the parking lot where the Hagans and her own parents were waiting―someone called out to her, waved her down―and she hurried away without ever meeting Steve’s eyes.  

 ― 

Steve waited a month for Jonathan to call.  

In that month, he nursed his concussion with ice packs and an amount of care from his mom that he was no longer used to, so that it was almost a relief when she started to imply that he was milking it and needed to go back to school. 

Tommy’s last yearbook photo was installed above the basketball trophy case in a gold frame, signed by all of the current team members.  People talked about planting a memorial garden once the ground thawed, a nice idea that never came to fruition.  Carol came back to class in early December without her promise ring.  

Jonathan took a week to come back to school himself, which Steve had expected.  

What Steve hadn’t prepared for was the return to his earlier caginess, as if nothing had changed.  Sure, they had never been buddy-buddy at school even at the best of times; but they had never sat so closely that Steve could feel the heat of Jonathan’s leg through his jeans before, either.  A nod of acknowledgement would have suffice.  He could’ve ridden the high from a passing smile for at least a few days.  

In other ways, Steve was treated as forgiven.  The kids started coming around again, mostly Dustin and Lucas; Will was effectively under house arrest, and Mike refused to leave his side.  Sometimes they were accompanied by Max Mayfield, whose attention they still seemed to be engaged in quiet warfare over.

He cracked one day, asking Dustin, “Is Jonathan alright?” and was met with the evasive answer, “As alright as he usually is, I guess.”  

Steve wanted, desperately, to call; when he caved in to that desire after two weeks and could only ever get voicemail or Joyce, who always cheerily offered to take a message, he contemplated just showing up.  Resisting that urge required an amount of self-control that he was barely aware that he possessed.  But he knew Jonathan by then, the fine line he’d have to walk to keep him from feeling cornered.  

So for two more weeks, Steve waited.  Waited and thought of Jonathan’s long skinny legs and narrow shoulders, the way that it felt to be that close.  He thought all the time about kissing him, how once he finally could it was going to be hard to ever stop.  

By mid-December, when slowly turned back to if.  

On the night of the Snow Ball, Steve styled Dustin’s hair and chauffeured him, knowing the whole time that Jonathan would be there, manning the photo booth.  

It wasn’t like Steve would have cause to go inside: Dustin wanted to be dropped off practically at the street, seemingly embarrassed by the fact that he couldn’t drive himself despite the fact that none of his classmates could.  But if he saw Jonathan in the parking lot afterwards, or had to run inside to use the restroom―if an opportune moment presented itself, Steve would take it.

Just to say hi, he told himself.  To check on him.

At the end of the night, the remaining kids had largely spilled out onto the sidewalk, milling around in groups, but Dustin didn’t emerge.  Taking it as the closest thing he’d get to a sign, Steve let himself into the gym and found Dustin in the bleachers, watching with rapt attention as a few red-cheeked teachers swayed and twirled across the empty dance floor.  

A willowy male teacher waltzed past with a woman who Steve belatedly recognized as Ms. Click, who had mentioned chaperoning the Snow Ball in passing during one of their lunches.  Both of them had their heads thrown back, singing along with Joni Mitchell as she crooned about wishing she had a river she could skate away on.  

“They’ve all been drinking a lot of punch,” Dustin said.  Jabbing a finger towards Ms. Click and her dance partner, he continued, “We’ve gotta stay through the end.  I think Mr. Clarke’s about to start crying.” 

It wasn’t that Steve was actively looking for Jonathan; but he allowed his eyes to rove across the gym, if only to distract him from Joni Mitchell.  Nancy caught his eye and waved from the buffet table, where she and Barb were packing finger sandwiches into Ziploc bags.  A few of the other chaperones were swaying on the sidelines of the gym, all clutching sweaty glasses of punch.

And then there he was, wearing a suit coat and packing up his camera and looking, rather pointedly, anywhere but at Steve.  Joni Mitchell was building to a fever pitch at that point― I made my baby say goodbye.  

How long was this goddamn song anyways?  Long enough, Steve reasoned, to get across the gym to where Jonathan was standing.

“Henderson, I’m gonna-”

Dustin cut him off: “ Wait , it’s happening!  Holy shit , he’s crying really hard.” 

As if he’d somehow sensed that Steve needed to be saved from humiliation, Dustin grabbed his sleeve and anchored him to the spot for the remainder of the song.  He watched helplessly as Jonathan hefted his bag onto his shoulder and headed for the back entrance.  

 ― 

By the time they reached the car, Steve was resigned to wallowing in defeat.  Deciding that he may as well not wallow alone, he turned to Dustin.  “Do you wanna get McDonald’s or something?” 

“I’m actually supposed to go to Mike’s to debrief,” Dustin said.  

“Debrief?”

In an affected accent that Steve could only describe as cool dude , Dustin said, “We’re gonna talk about all the totally hot babes we danced with.” 

“So the hair helped you score some babes after all, huh?” Steve extended his arm, ruffling it, and was met with a shriek of protest.  “Told you.” 

Dustin launched into an explanation of how the hair did and didn’t help him―insistent that it was mostly his pearls― as Steve listened intently, glad to shift his focus to a middle schooler’s love life for a few minutes.  It served as an effective distraction from scheming up ways to run into Jonathan now that all hopes of a grand gesture as Joni Mitchell played softly in the background had been dashed.

After a few minutes of chattering with minimal response, Dustin said, apropos of nothing, “My mom says being so intelligent makes me more open-minded than most people.” 

“Yeah?” Steve glanced over at him to find that he was being studied again.  

“Yeah.”

“That’s good, Henderson.”  Steve cleared his throat, unsure of whether he should own up to what Dustin was probably implying.  It wasn’t an accusation; if anything, he seemed curious.  He had probably figured it out months ago, anyways.  Maybe it was just his way of letting Steve know that he’d been a lot more obvious in the gym than he’d thought.  “Wanna get McDonald’s tomorrow?” 

“Definitely.” 

 ― 

They made the short drive to the Wheelers’ in companionable silence, occasionally punctuated by a titillating detail of the dance that Dustin had forgotten in his initial retelling.  Steve leaned over to ruffle his hair again before he got out and suppressed a yelp of surprise when Dustin tugged him into a hug.  

As he trotted up the driveway, Dustin yelled back over his shoulder, “I want a large fry tomorrow.” 

Steve shot him a thumbs up and watched him until he was ushered in the front door by Mike.  He watched him so closely that as he started to back out of the driveway, he almost rolled right into the green Ford that had pulled up behind him.  

Will was in the passenger seat, nodding obediently but clearly in a hurry to get out of there, the door already propped open.  It was probably the first time all month that he’d been allowed out of the house for more than a few hours.  Steve slid his eyes to the driver’s side, expecting to see a frazzled Joyce; his hand was already half-raised in an apologetic wave for how close his bumper had gotten to the grill of her car.  

Of course, it would’ve been silly for her to pick Will up from the dance when Jonathan was already there, able to keep one eye on Will from the photo booth.  So it shouldn’t have knocked the wind out of him when Steve realized that that was who was fussing with the strap of Will’s overnight bag and hollering after him to call as soon as he woke up.  

Steve propped the door open to yell to Will that he looked sharp, received a thumbs-up of acknowledgement, and, before he could think better of it, found himself standing at the driver’s side of Jonathan’s car.  

The window was still down.  Steve rested one hand on the sill in a preventative measure, so that Jonathan couldn’t roll it up and drive away like he didn’t exist.

“Hey, man.” 

“Hey.” 

He didn’t really have a plan beyond hey.  For a while, Steve had been so sure that their next meeting would actually be less tense and involve something more than just talking.  That part of him was still there, lurking just under the surface, wanting to tug Jonathan in by the lapels of his wrinkled suit jacket; but it was joined by a persistent, creeping feeling that maybe Jonathan’s month of avoidance was his way of telling Steve to fuck off for good.   

But he had done that for six whole months and Steve hadn’t been able to stop himself from crawling back like a kicked dog.  He was at least determined to make Jonathan say it out loud this time.  He needed to hear it, for it to be something terrible that he could replay in his head and not just a weird silence he could read into, because Steve would end up reading hope into it every time.  

“Can we talk?” Steve asked.

“Here?” 

Steve didn’t love the idea of being dumped in the Wheelers’ driveway twice in one year―not that Jonathan could really dump him.  They had never even gotten to that point.  Steve barely even knew if he wanted to; he had been too focused on just kissing him at least once.

He didn’t want to do it at the Byers’ house either.  He had spent too many hours dreaming of being back in Jonathan’s bedroom for this to be the occasion, when he was increasingly certain that Jonathan was going to tell him that he found this whole thing desperate and creepy and strange.  

“What about that old church, the one between our houses?  We can park and just…talk.” 

 ― 

The church was marginally closer to Jonathan’s house than Steve’s.  It would give Jonathan an easy out, a quick drive home after whatever it was he had to say.  The kicked-dog part of Steve felt that he still owed him that kindness.  

He half-expected Jonathan to zip right past the church and go home; but he pulled in just before Steve, getting out of his car with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his breath clouding in front of him.  He’d shucked the suit jacket in favor of his old sherpa coat.  

Steve waited to see if Jonathan would make his way over to his car so that they could at least do this somewhere warm before relenting and going to sit on the church steps.  

Jonathan perched beside him, nearly as far apart as the stairs would allow; but his knees were angled towards Steve’s, almost touching.  

And that was the whole reason, really, why Steve needed him to just come out and say it: He was sick of driving himself crazy over bullshit like this, like the angle of another guy’s knees.  

“So,” Steve started.  

“So,” Jonathan echoed.  

Steve set his jaw, biting back the urge to start groveling for no reason in particular except to see if it worked.  “I didn’t think it’d take this long for us to see each other again, after everything.” 

“My family needed me.”  Jonathan wouldn’t look at him, staring vacantly across the church’s parking lot.  “Will needs me.”  

“I get that, but-”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Jonathan snapped; but then his face fell.  Softer, he said, “I should have been there when he was- when he got sick.  I should have known that something else was wrong with him.  They think that thing was inside of him for a whole year, and I’ve been so distracted that I didn’t even notice.”

“Distracted?” Steve asked, even though he thought he knew.  

“Yeah.  Distracted.”  Jonathan gestured between them.  “By you.  By this.  And I really can’t afford to be anymore.”  

Steve hadn’t come here wanting to argue with him; he had wanted to be told it’s not you, it’s me and go.  Get on with his life.  

But the way Jonathan called him a distraction made things feel almost salvageable.  

“It’s not like anyone expects you to be psychic, Jonathan.  There was no way for you to know what was going on.” 

“I should have.  I should’ve known,” Jonathan gritted out.  The heels of his hands were pressed to his eyes.  “You know the night he went missing, I was working late?  I was supposed to be home.  He expected me to be home.  And last month…Steve, he was dying.  I saw it.  It wanted to kill him.  It was in him, trying to kill him, and I was fucking around in the woods.”

“You were fighting fucking demogorgons in the woods, Jonathan!  The exact thing-” 

Jonathan interjected, “I didn’t need to be.  I needed to be there.  With him.”   

“But he made it.  You saved him.  Both times, you saved him.”

“But how many times can I do that?  How many times can I show up at just the right time to take a little credit?”  Jonathan swallowed.  “How many times can he live through something like that?” 

“He won’t have to!  The gate’s closed, Jonathan―all of those things are fucking dead or trapped on the other side of it.  We saw it happen.”  

“Like how we killed the demogorgon last year, right?  Like that?” 

Steve could feel his pulse hammering in his face.  

“So you’re just going to spend your whole life punishing yourself and waiting for the next thing to go wrong?  At that point in all this do you get to be happy?  Don’t you think Will wants you to be happy?” 

“If something happened to him…something worse than what’s already happened―I would never be happy again.  So I don’t think that really matters.”  Jonathan huffed, still leaning into his hands.  “And it’s not just that stuff.  There’s other bad things that can happen to us; that have happened to us before.”  

Weakly, Steve protested, “Your dad’s gone.” 

“And as soon as my mom thought Will was dead, as soon as she got scared, he was back.  She let him come back.  I know my mom wants to protect us, okay?  And I know it’s her job, not mine.  I know that I’ll never be his dad.  But we aren’t like other brothers either. 

“Before Will I was just- I just existed, I guess.  I don’t even remember being alive without him.  Then he was born and it was like I suddenly had this divine obligation to something bigger than me.  To take care of him.”  Jonathan exhaled shakily.  “He’s just…I’ve spent my whole life feeling like the only person who really gets him―the only person who can really keep him safe―and I’ve spent the last year fucking it up so massively. ”

Finally, Jonathan lifted his head.  In the glow of the streetlight, Steve could see just how big and dark his eyes were, that they were wet.  Almost too softly for him to hear, Jonathan said, “I like you, Steve.  I really like you.  I want to do all the same stuff you want to.  But I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to, and you shouldn’t- you shouldn’t wait around for me, because it might never happen.” 

Might.

It took one word, a single syllable, to make Steve feel that things were more than almost salvageable.  That if he could just make Jonathan see how patient he was, how willing he was, things would change.  It was already the most Jonathan had ever said to him at once, the most he’d ever let on about how he really felt; surely there was something in it that Steve could work with.  

“I’ve already been waiting around for you.  I can wait a little longer, Jonathan.” 

Might .  His chest was tight with the possibilities it contained.  

Then, Jonathan was looking away from him again.  “I don’t want you to.” 

Just as quickly, all of the things that might could be collapsed in on themselves and landed, with a thud, square in the center of Steve’s chest.  

Steve ground his teeth.  There was a lump rising in his throat that made it harder to control his voice, to sound angry instead of pitiful.  “But why do you always get to be the one that decides?  You decide we aren’t friends anymore so we aren’t; then you decide we can be just long enough that I get to touch you and ruin fucking Joni Mitchell listening to it and thinking about you.  It’s not fucking fair.  Why do you get to pick that for me?” 

Steve had worked for so long to figure Jonathan out: What opened him up and what shut him down; the way he was when he was truly curling in on himself and how sometimes, however rarely, he actually wanted to be coaxed out.  Steve had gotten so fucking good at it.  In some way, he had liked it.  

But Jonathan had gotten good at it, too.      

“Because you won’t pick it for yourself.”

And that was something else Steve had learned, one of the only things about Jonathan that he couldn’t spin into a positive no matter how long he thought about it: That even if Jonathan had said the kids thought Steve was Jesus Christ, Jonathan thought that of himself.  That he had some kind of holy burden to make people’s choices for them as soon as they objected to this idea he had of his future, this idea that he had that he was destined to be miserable until he died.  

Steve wanted to scream at him, kiss him, cry into his shirt; but Jonathan was angled away again, and he had said I don’t want you to, so Steve chose screaming.  “Because I don’t want to, for Christ’s sake!  I’m not like you, okay?  I can’t just start pretending you don’t exist.”

“I know you aren’t like me.  That’s the whole reason.  I’ve done nothing but spend a year making you fucking miserable; and I don’t want to do that, I don’t.  I don’t want to be as mean as I am.  So you can find some other guy and get it out of your system or have your big realization-”

“It’s not about you being a goddamn guy!  It’s about you.  I like you , Jonathan.  Don’t you think I wish all the time that you were a girl?  Because I do.  I can’t even think about girls because I’m- because I think about you all the time.  I think about you and how you look and all the stupid fucking music you like and how your goddamn hair smells and I want you.  I even like you when you’re mean.  I can’t stay mad at you.  I don’t even want to be mad at you right now and you’re breaking my fucking-”

“You won’t always feel like that,” Jonathan whispered.  He stood up, tugging his coat around him and looking down at his shoes.  “You’ll get over it.” 

And still, pathetically, Steve asked, “How can you say that?”

But Jonathan’s back was already to him, walking to his car.  Driving away.  

Retreating into himself and telling Steve that it was worthless to follow because he wouldn’t get anywhere.  

 ― 

“Jesus, Steve,” Robin whispers.  At some point his head had lolled onto her shoulder and stayed there; she tucks the same lock of hair behind his ear for the hundredth time and tugs it back out again.  “I thought you said it was you that needs to say sorry?” 

“I feel like it is,” he says.  He hasn’t talked about that night since he took Dustin to McDonald’s the next day, when he’d had to give a censored version after he started leaking tears into his Sprite; he can feel, now, that his cheeks are damp.  “Maybe it’s both of us.”

“It’s him ,” Robin insists fiercely, tugging Steve into her shoulder.  “Fuck him.  We are in the Fuck Jonathan Byers Club.”

“We?” he asks, muffled by the fabric of her t-shirt and how tightly she’s squeezing him. 
“Me and Marty, dingus.  But you can be a member too, once you realize he’s an asshole.” 

Steve disentangles himself from her so that he can speak clearly and shake out his arms, which have long since fallen asleep.  “I don’t think it’s that simple, Rob.  And I mean…we’ve talked some since then; I don’t think he feels good about it or anything.” 

Robin scoffs.  “And when you talked again did he get down on his knees and kiss your feet?  Because if not, I’m not satisfied-” 

“I mean, not exactly.  But he was a lot nicer.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that.” 

Chapter Text

You never mean it anyway, not really, and it only makes me that much more ashamed.

There’s only one thing I want, don’t make me say it, just get me bandages, I’m bleeding,

          I’m not just making conversation.

-Richard Siken, “Wishbone” 

 ― 

Steve slogged through the rest of the year.  

He spent Christmas in Ohio and spared his grandmother a tight-lipped smile when she asked about the girl he was always calling last year.  There were parties on New Years Eve that he wasn’t-not-invited to; but Billy Hargrove could be at any one of them and Steve still had one more appointment before he was cleared by the neurologist, so he watched the ball drop with the Hendersons and their new kitten, Tews.    

He sent off applications to a handful of colleges, essays he cobbled together and had proofread by Ms. Click.  A lot of them wanted to hear about challenges and adversity , and Steve might have been able to write something halfway decent if he could’ve told the truth: A monster killed my best friend, who was sort of an asshole but didn’t deserve it.  Then I had to fight those monsters―twice.  Now I’m a social pariah, and probably gay, and my only friends are thirteen.  

Since he couldn’t do that, he wrote about his grandfather fighting in the war―he enlisted Grandma Dot’s assistance over the phone for that one, because he couldn’t even say with one hundred percent certainty which war it was―and some bullshit about basketball.  On the whole, Steve wasn’t too concerned; it was common knowledge that a monkey with a typewriter could get into some of the state schools.  Maybe he’d just cut out the middleman and become the monkey with the typewriter by going to work for his dad.

Henderson was around far more than any of the other kids.  They watched a lot of movies: The Lord of the Rings , which Steve knew from Jonathan that all of the kids were crazy about; tons of sci-fi, Alien and The Thing and Invasion of the Body Snatchers ; Indiana Jones and Star Wars , which Steve had already seen but, according to Dustin, “not properly.”  They did the kind of stupid things Steve hadn’t done since he and Tommy were kids, like putting Goldfish crackers on the treadmill and trying to eat them as they came.  Sometimes Steve just gave him rides places, because it was something to do and Henderson was almost always up to grab McDonald’s or slushies afterwards.  

Once Will started to get some slack on his house arrest, Steve could expect him to be tagging along most of the time.  When Steve asked where Mike and Lucas were, he was met with one of a dozen creative code words for kissing― swapping spit, sucking face, playing tonsil tennis.  Sometimes Dustin would drive the point home by wrapping his arms around himself and making exaggerated kissing noises.  

The elephant in the room, as Steve saw it, was that Mike and Lucas both had girlfriends they were utterly obsessed with while Dustin and Will were still obsessed with DND.  Steve fit right in with them since he was still obsessed with Jonathan to a pathetic degree.

An unfortunate side effect of spending so much time with Dustin and Will was the high likelihood of Jonathan being the one to pick them up and drop them off.  

For once, it was Steve who wanted to avoid him ―at least, at first.  He was careful not to ask how Jonathan was doing.  He didn’t hang around by the front door when Will was being dropped off or crane his neck to get a glimpse of Jonathan in the driver’s seat.  If they passed in the hallway at school, he had perfected the Jonathan-style head-down-scurry-away.  

Sometimes, he was afraid other people might find it weird: Two guys who, to the knowledge of most, had never even interacted sprinting in opposite directions any time they saw each other.  But it would probably be weirder if he made eye contact with Jonathan and did something truly insane like start crying―that would get people talking for sure.

He knew that Dustin knew and it was likely that, by extension, so did Will; but they must have both had the same open-minded IQ level, because it never kept them away.  That day at McDonald’s, Dustin had even been willing to talk about it.  

“You helped me out with my girl problems,” he’d started.  Lowering his voice, he continued, “So I can talk to you about your… Jonathan problem.”

That was the point at which Steve started leaking tears into his Sprite.  It wasn’t even solely because he was upset―Dustin was just being so sweet.  Steve wished he could’ve been half that when he was fourteen; he’d been too busy treating Tommy’s ongoing terror campaign against Jonathan as a spectator sport.  

Jonathan.  God.  Maybe if he’d just been nicer to him earlier, if he’d taken a second to interrogate why he had such vivid memories of him in that green army jacket, things would be different.  Back then, Jonathan already had his perpetually exhausted look; but he was younger, and it was possible he hadn’t resigned himself to dying alone yet.  Steve could’ve said I like your jacket.  I like your bowl cut.  

He could’ve let himself like Jonathan if he’d only known how.  

He didn’t share any of this with Dustin.  He’d choked out, “I don’t really think there’s anything to do about it,” and left it at that.  

Since then, Steve had been determined to keep most of his pitifulness internalized, like a person with some actual fucking dignity.  For a while, he was even mildly successful.  

Nancy was the only person who’d ever dumped him before, though he’d never broken up with a girl either―not directly.  He would just gradually stop wanting to call them at midnight or sneak in their windows in favor of hanging out with Tommy and Carol, getting drunk and shooting beer cans off the fence.  A few weeks later, he’d see them walking around holding hands with some other guy and think that’s fair.  

With Nancy, it’d hurt like hell.  Steve was so used to her―their routines and their TV shows and even the stilted weeknight dinners with her family.  He had never gotten bored of her like he did with other girls.  She was nice, and witty, and his friend.  That was the thing Steve felt the loss of most acutely: His last friend.  

But he’d also been neck-deep in whatever this thing with Jonathan was, which had proved an excellent distraction.  It had been distracting him for a while at that point, really―ever since he saw Jonathan puking behind the funeral home.  Steve should have found it telling that even then, Jonathan had fallen into a category outside of friend in his mind.   

The aftermath of Jonathan was like nothing Steve had ever experienced before.  It didn’t feel like breaking up with a girl or being rejected or fighting with Tommy; in a lot of ways, it was all of the above.  

In a lot of ways, it was worse.  

Things in his house felt genuinely ruined.  

This is the kitchen and the mug he drank out of.  

This is the phone I called him on. 

This is the floor where I thought I was going to kiss him.  

Music, too―The Cure and Vashti Bunyan and especially Joni Fucking Mitchell.  Watching Star Wars with Dustin was an exercise in keeping a straight face every time Luke Skywalker was on screen.  Someone on a TV show would be named John or Johnny and he’d have to cut it off.  

The part that drove Steve the craziest was that he didn’t feel done .  He had just been accepting that those giddy, sappy feelings of having a crush―wanting to kiss them and run your fingers through their hair and take them to the movies―were something he could feel towards Jonathan.  Jonathan had even said that he liked him too, that he wanted all the same things Steve did.  

And then he’d said it might never happen, which was the worst thing he could’ve possibly said.  Steve spent months hung up on might.  

Depending on his mood, he’d pause his mental replay there or push on through to I don’t want you to.  That part was hard to get past, to argue about with the Jonathan in his head.  Steve had actually surprised himself in the moment by saying exactly what he would’ve wanted to say the first time around.  Maybe he could’ve fought back harder against certain things― you don’t make me miserable.  You’ve made me really happy, mostly.  I’m like you in the ways that count.

But Jonathan was an expert in hearing only what he wanted to.  A lot of the time,  he seemed to hear things Steve hadn’t said at all.  Giving him a bulleted list of all the ways he wasn’t mean would’ve just prolonged the inevitable you’ll get over it.

The nuclear family dream had long since lost its effectiveness and daydreaming about Jonathan felt like punching himself in the stomach; so for a while, Steve’s thought-stopping strategy consisted of thinking I hate him, I hate him, I hate him like a sort of mantra .  And for those few seconds, Steve could really hate Jonathan, and every stupid fucking band he’d ever shown him, and Luke Skywalker and the smell of Big Buy shampoo and goddamn “River.”  

He hated how Jonathan could never just give anyone a chance; how he seemed determined to be unhappy; how he thought everything bad that had ever happened to his family was his fault, his problem to fix.

And before Steve knew it, he was back to feeling sorry for Jonathan and sorry for himself and sorry that he didn’t meet Jonathan when they were younger.  He was back to missing him, to thinking maybe he could be okay with never kissing him or touching his leg again if they could just listen to tapes together the way they used to.  

 ― 

By February, Steve was finally able to listen to Blue again without wanting to swerve his car into oncoming traffic―he had come to really like it.  And if it sometimes made him feel like pulling into an empty parking lot and wallowing in self pity, he figured it was a healthy alternative to drowning it all in a six pack of beer.  

Every time the kids were in the car, they’d spend at least five minutes of the drive nosing around for an acceptable cassette.  It was usually an arduous process: Will’s taste seemed to mirror Jonathan’s with some minor deviations, while Dustin was more of a wild card.  Naturally, they both loved The Cure; Steve learned to grit his teeth through “Boys Don’t Cry.”  

One day, en route to the movies― The Breakfast Club, which Steve thought was fun but both of them ended up trashing the entire ride home―Will plucked Joni Mitchell out of the glovebox.  “I know this,” he declared.  

On days when they couldn’t agree on anything to listen to, that was often the deciding factor.  Obediently, Steve popped it in and decided he’d just make sure to talk through the worst parts.  

From the back seat, Dustin groaned.  “This sounds like something my mom would listen to.”

“My mom listens to it,” Will said, shrugging.  “And Jonathan.” 

 It had long since been established that Will thought anything Jonathan listened to was inarguably good; so much so that it took Steve a second to remember what they were listening to, and what Jonathan had said about it the last time they talked.  

He had to slam on the brakes to keep from running a stop sign.

“Son of a bitch!” Dustin screeched.  “Whiplash, Steve!  Ever heard of it?” 

Will was more subtle, grimacing and rubbing his neck.

“Since when does he listen to Joni Mitchell?” Steve blurted.  Seeing that Dustin was still glaring at him in the rearview mirror, he tacked on, “Sorry for brake-checking you, alright?”

Dustin gave a dissatisfied hmph in response.  

“A few months ago,” Will said slowly.  Hesitantly, like he regretted saying anything at all.  He was probably afraid Steve was going to enlist his courier services for another cassette.  “He’s been digging out Mom’s old stuff.” 

Steve really needed to stop paying for movie tickets and proceeding to spend the whole movie thinking about Jonathan.  Of course, it had only happened twice―but the movies had gotten pretty fucking expensive.  

“Were you even paying attention? ” Dustin demanded later.  “Because if you were, you’d see that Will and I have some totally valid points!” 

Maybe he hadn’t been.  Maybe he was busy thinking about which songs Jonathan liked the best on Blue and why.  Did he remember that “River” played at the Snow Ball?  Was he listening to it because of Steve at all?  He had to be.  Steve could at least let himself believe that.

As it turned out, letting himself believe that was dangerous.  It was almost comical how quickly it evolved into the stupidly hopeful, borderline magical thinking.  Magical thinking had been enough to sustain him last year while they lobbed The Top back and forth―wanting this was easier before he actually knew what it was he wanted.  The idea that he crossed Jonathan’s mind at all was a novel concept. 

But by now, he knew Jonathan thought about him, even liked him; and he knew that Jonathan could like someone, really like them, and leave them crying in a parking lot.  

Jonathan had said himself that he wasn’t like Steve.  He could shut things off, convincing himself it was for the greater good.  So what if he felt a little wistful and listened to Blue?  He would’ve never spoken to Steve again to begin with if it weren’t for the goddamn demogorgon.    

Steve still couldn’t hate him.  But he could hope that when Joni Mitchell said she was selfish and sad and hard to handle, Jonathan was thinking me too.

 ― 

In April, when rejection letters for more colleges than Steve even remembered applying to started flying into the mailbox, it was almost a relief.  At least his doomed future was something else to think about.  

The rejection from Ball State came last.  Steve remembered them from the reading material he’d snagged in the guidance counselor’s office: The brochure had specifically stressed their eighty percent acceptance rate.  

That weekend, his parents took him to dinner.  It was preferable, in a way; he knew that his dad was less likely to strangle him to death at Gino’s Pizzeria.  

Steve waited for his dad to say something in the car; he just cranked up Hank Williams. He waited for him to say something in the lull between ordering and getting their food, and again when the pizza was placed in front of them.  

His mother kept clearing her throat, starting to say something and thinking better of it.  Every few minutes, her eyes would dart nervously between them.  

Steve found himself cutting his slice with a fork and knife for something to do with his hands.    He had half-expected to have his hand slapped away from it― no pizza for the disowned . 

Finally, Steve couldn’t take it anymore.  If he was going to be strangled, he could at least say he tried.  He put on the parent-charmer smile―which, historically, charmed everyone’s parents but his own―and said, “I guess I’m working for you next year, Pops.” 

His mom cleared her throat again.  This time, it sounded more like a barely-suppressed screech.  

His dad leveled a glare at him the likes of which Steve hadn’t been on the receiving end of since he was much, much younger, before he’d learned to stay out of the way.  

“No, you won’t,” he said coolly.    

“What?”

“You won’t be working for me.  Not this year; maybe not ever.”

So that was why they’d taken him out to dinner: To publicly dump him.  

Steve’s dad had spent the better part of seventeen years telling him that he was going to take over everything one day.  At first it was a promise, accompanied by sweeping gestures and letting Steve shake employees’ hands, being called little boss man.  In recent years, it’d become a veiled threat― this is going to be yours before you know it.  You’d do well to shape up, start taking things seriously.  

Even college had been treated as a stepping stone, an option; the plan was always to go for some bullshit like business admin and earn a diploma to serve as wall art for his future office. 

“But you always said I should just skip school and go straight to-” 

Through bared teeth, his dad interjected, “And I see you took that to mean you didn’t have to apply yourself at all.  I wouldn’t hire anyone with a track record like yours, son.”  

It was sort of ironic.  Steve’s college essays had been god awful, in part, because he could barely tell the truth.  Now he wanted to defend himself, to say I was applying myself to fighting fucking monsters.  My friend died.  I used your gun.  I stole your gun.  Do you not ever wonder where I disappear to for days at a time in the fall and why I come back battered all to hell?  

And he couldn’t.  

Plus, his dad would probably be on the demogorgon’s side since it ate a Hagan and a Byers.  He would get some speech about trying to be tough, to be a hero, and what a waste of time it was.  Harringtons are not heroes.  Harringtons are the people who draw the curtains and lock the doors while somebody else fights for them.  

Harringtons are not supposed to apply themselves except for when they are, and it’s up to them to realize when the rules have changed.  Harringtons are supposed to stop moping about their dead friend and their concussion and Jonathan Byers, and start thinking about getting into Ball Motherfucking State.  

Eighty percent acceptance rate.  That other twenty percent of people was supposed to be kids who couldn’t even spell their own names right.  

Kids who couldn’t even spell their own names, and now Steve.  

Thinking about all the colleges who’d read his photocopied essay about his grandpa and whatever damn war he was in made him want to sink into the floor, to disappear.  He couldn’t believe he’d made Ms. Click read it.  She had even said that it was fine, passable, acceptable.  That must’ve been pity.  Maybe their whole thing was built on pity, whereas Steve had sort of started to think of her as an adult friend who also happened to be his teacher, the inverse of him and Dustin and Will.  

Of course, Dustin and Will probably pitied him too.  They were child geniuses who occasionally deigned to go to the movies with Steve―so that they could explain the plot to him afterwards, most likely.  An act of charity.  

It was like watching his entire world unravel with the red-and-white checkered vinyl tablecloths of Gino’s Pizzeria at the center.  His brain was firing off faster than he could keep up with, and the whole time his dad was still talking, looking sterner by the minute and Steve wasn’t hearing anything because his brain was swirling through stupid.  No friends.  Gay.  Homeless?  Probably homeless, soon.  Panic.  Time to panic.  Throw up?  No, cry.  Start crying.

His dad leaned across the table, red-faced.  “What are you doing?” he hissed.   

That wrenched Steve back to reality.  If he could explain what he was doing, maybe that would help; but when he opened his mouth, tears just fell into it.  At least he wasn’t making any noise, not yet.  If he drew the attention of anyone around them, he would actually be left with no choice but to fall to the floor and die.

He ended up being escorted to the car by his mom like a toddler having a tantrum.  He was done crying by the time he’d buckled his seat belt, but the damage was done.  He got the tongue-lashing of a lifetime for the entire drive home and well into the night, mostly variations of: What kind of parents do you want these people to think we are?  What has gotten into you?  Drugs, are you on drugs?  Oh, God, Martha.  It’s drugs.  

It had been so long since Steve had gotten yelled at like this that it kept making him tear up again.  He’d forgotten just how loud his dad could be and had to fight the little-kid urge to cover his ears.  

On the bright side, Steve learned that he could take homeless off his list of concerns unless he failed to get a job after graduation, leaving him with his usual longstanding issues: Stupid and gay and no friends.  

He didn’t know when gay had entered the equation; he’d just accepted it as a fact of life.  He’d liked girls before, thought they were pretty and even hot.  But he’d never been as bent out of shape over a girl as he was Jonathan Byers, which felt gay enough.  It would’ve been the cherry on top if, in his panic, he’d blurted that out: I can’t write a decent college essay because Jonathan Byers broke my heart.  

 ― 

Ms. Click was at least able to feign shock at the news.  It might have helped that Steve was puffy from crying and started to choke up again on the words, “Not even Ball State.” 

After a few seconds, she shrugged and threw her hands up.  “Who cares about Ball State?  Take a gap year.  Use it to get out from under their thumb.”

“Whose thumb?” he asked stupidly, his focus having shifted to bringing himself back from the brink of tears.  

“Your parents,” she said.  She leaned across the desk and lowered her voice.  “I mean, from what you tell me about your dad, do you really want to be stuck working for him forever?” 

He couldn’t remember ever talking about his dad.  Maybe it was more about what he hadn’t said, like when she asked about his holiday plans and he’d said, “I think I’m getting dumped off with my grandma in Ohio.” 

Steve sniffed.  “I guess not.”  

Ms. Click reached out and squeezed his shoulder.  Smiled at him.  Said, with utmost confidence, “Whatever you do, you’ll end up happy.  I know it.” 

Steve was able to smile back.

Later, he had this sort of hysterical thought that he wished she could be his mother, or someone like her; but if she was, she would’ve probably killed his dad a long time ago.  She certainly wouldn’t have sat at the table clearing her throat as Steve cried into his own mouth and said she had a migraine right after they got home, leaving him at the mercy of his father.  

 ― 

Steve let the fact that Ms. Click didn’t regard him as completely hopeless buoy him through the school week.  

That weekend, his parents were out of town―some college reunion, this time―and he was throwing the opposite of a Risky Business style rager: Having Dustin and Will over to swim and eat takeout.  They’d said Mike and Lucas might even be persuaded to unlock lips with their girlfriends long enough to drop by.

Steve didn’t really know why he felt compelled to tell them about college at all.  They’d asked what schools he’d applied to and if he’d heard back yet a few times; both of them, of course, had designs on going to out of state schools Steve had never heard of to study things like aerospace engineering.  

Lately, in the middle of goofing around―measuring Will’s height in Twizzlers or watching Dustin pop his veneers out with his tongue―Steve had started getting this giddy, fuzzy feeling he couldn’t exactly place; or if they were sleeping over, he’d see how small they looked curled up on opposite ends of the couch and get this primal urge to protect them from something, anything.  He found himself worrying about them during the school day, hoping that Will was adjusting well and kids weren’t being mean to Dustin about his teeth.  

When he was little, Steve had wanted a brother the way he also sometimes wanted a puppy or a goldfish―as something to fill the space where his parents weren’t.  Besides what he’d learned of it from Jonathan, Steve didn’t have any reference for actual brotherhood.  It didn’t feel as intense as Jonathan described it, not quite a divine obligation ; but Steve knew that he would throw himself in front of a monster for either of them, again and again.    

That had to count for something.  

Presently, Steve didn’t want Will and Dustin to realize that he was stupid―if they somehow hadn’t already.  

He’d been back and forth on that since his freakout at Gino’s.  They openly hated people like him in their grade, called them meatheads and mouthbreathers, said they were the kind of people who would end up working at McDonald’s and digging ditches.  But they at least seemed to think highly of the fact that Steve could drive and do a backflip off the diving board, and it had been almost two years since he’d been on any sports teams, so maybe he didn’t fall under the general meathead category anymore.  

It was on the drive to the China Dragon that Steve decided he couldn’t not tell them.  They’d already spent the night trading concerned glances in a way that was a lot less discreet than they must’ve thought.  At one point, Will had cautiously asked if he was okay; Dustin had told him that he was acting like he’d just found out he had cancer.  

Steve turned the radio down and ignored the groans of protest over interrupting “Boys Don’t Cry.”   Clearing his throat, he said, “I didn’t get into college.” 

“Which one?” Dustin asked, just as Will said, “Oh, no.” 

“Any of them.  Like, none.  Rejected across the board.” 

For a minute, he just stared at them in the rearview mirror.  They had chosen to sit in the back together instead of fighting over calling shotgun, for once, and had been unsubtly whispering and gesturing for half the drive.  Two pairs of rapidly-blinking eyes and twin frowns reflected back at him.  

Will spoke first: “So you’ll be in Hawkins for another year?” 

“Seems like it.” 

“So we can keep hanging out,” Will said.  He shot Steve a grin.  “Awesome.” 

“Awesome?”

Dustin was grinning, too, as he chimed in, “Yeah.  It was gonna suck if you got into some school super far away and forgot about us.”

Steve eased into a parking spot at China Dragon, farther from the door than he had to be, so that he could swipe at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.  “I wouldn’t forget about you guys.”  

He thought about telling them about the brother-feeling he’d been having lately, but he didn’t want to full blown sob at a restaurant for the second time that week.  Instead, he said, “We’re kinda the Three Musketeers now, huh?” 

Dustin started, “In the book, there were actually four of-” 

Will clapped a hand over Dustin’s mouth.  “Three Musketeers,” he agreed, in that solemn way he had of saying things.  

Steve hadn’t been able to stop himself from worrying what Jonathan would think of him getting rejected by Ball-fucking-State.  He’d probably just pity Steve for not being able to use college as a one way ticket out of Hawkins, which seemed to have been Jonathan’s plan since he was old enough to want to escape.  

Maybe when Jonathan went to NYU next year, he’d find the same kind of freedom Will seemed to have found in his friends.  Sometimes Steve looked at Will and saw that little boy carving a turkey with Jonathan standing behind him; others, like tonight, he was more like a wise little grandfather.  More like Jonathan.  On the whole, Will was more of the child―sarcastic and witty and quick to laugh―these days, which Steve preferred.  

It made him wonder if there was still a child part of Jonathan, hidden somewhere deep: A boy who hadn’t yet learned to flinch.  He wondered if that boy could ever resurface.

 ― 

The next morning, Steve was rudely awoken by the doorbell.  Figuring it was a package to be signed for (or in the worst case scenario, Mormons) Steve didn’t bother changing out of his plaid pajama pants and threadbare, stained sweatshirt before swinging the door open.

Steve’s mouth was open, the words I’m not interested already half-formed on his tongue, when he saw that the person on the other side of the door was Jonathan.

“Hi.”   

His hair was wet, dripping onto the collar of his shirt.  Steve thought he could almost smell his stupid fucking shampoo.  He was even sort of smiling, one hand lifted in a little wave.  

In spite of himself, Steve crossed his arms to cover the biggest of the stains on his shirt.  “Hi?” 

“I’m here for Will.  And Dustin.”  Jonathan lowered his hand, shoving it into his pocket.  His voice quivered and his eyes darted around nervously, which Steve wanted to be happy about and couldn’t bring himself to be.  “I know it’s sort of early.  I needed to get some stuff at the grocery store before my shift and I thought I’d just…save you the gas, I guess.”  

Steve narrowed his eyes.  “You usually honk.”

“It’s early,” Jonathan repeated.  “I didn’t think your neighbors would appreciate it.” 

Steve supposed he could force Jonathan to stand on the porch all morning with his hair wet, shivering; Jonathan wasn’t the type to shove his way into the house.  But Steve was only able to let it go on for a few more seconds before relenting.  “Come in.  I’ll wake ‘em up.”  

It took a solid five minutes of bitching and moaning to pry Will and Dustin off of the couch, and another ten for them to gather their stuff.  In less than twenty four hours, they could somehow manage to get all of their personal belongings strewn across the living room.

Steve thought about offering Jonathan some coffee, playing the good host.  But coffee was a gateway to standing in the kitchen together, and before Steve knew it he’d be saying So what about Spock and Captain Kirk? and being reminded that Jonathan was the world’s first non-religious monk.  So instead they hovered awkwardly in the door of the living room while Steve focused very hard on hating him.

Just as Dustin was finally zipping his backpack, Jonathan turned to him.  

“You were right about Joni Mitchell.” 

“What?”

“My mom, she had a copy of Blue.  That’s the one you like, right?” 

For the first time in his life, Steve found himself wishing Jonathan just wouldn’t talk.  Not trusting himself to speak, Steve shook his head in the affirmative.

Jonathan smiled.  Tucked his damp hair behind his ear.  “I liked it too―a lot.  I should’ve given it a chance sooner.”  

At that, the words he’s flirting, he’s flirting started up in Steve’s head, rising to the pitch of a tornado siren.

A fantasy with two outcomes formed rapidly: It diverged at the point of tackling Jonathan.  Steve didn’t know if he’d prefer to kiss him or kick his ass.  

It didn’t matter if Jonathan was actually talking about Joni Mitchell―and Steve was pretty sure he wasn’t, at least not completely, from the way he was acting.  This was the same person who’d said they could talk , then used that talk to tell Steve to give up and get lost and go fuck himself.    

“Cool,” Steve said, deadpan.

At some point, Dustin and Will had materialized in front of them; they seemed to be doing more of their not-so-secretive nonverbal communication.  When he noticed them, Steve almost jumped.  

“You guys ready?” Jonathan asked.  

Both of them nodded.  Steve was actually sad to see them go so early, but anything was better than standing here with Jonathan, talking but not talking .  Possibly―most likely―being flirted with.  

Dustin turned to Steve.  “Game night Thursday, right?”  

Steve nodded.  “For sure.” 

Will and Dustin shuffled out one after the other and didn’t make a secret of glancing back over their shoulders.  Jonathan spun on his heels to follow them, but turned back to Steve at the last minute.  “Is there anything else besides Joni Mitchell?  That’s similar, I mean?” 

In a matter of seconds, Steve’s mutinous brain supplied half a dozen names of singers and albums.  He gritted his teeth, willed them away.

He knew that “You should ask Dan.  He’ll know some stuff” was still more of an answer than Jonathan deserved.  But it was progress.  Jonathan didn’t get to ruin everything .

 ― 

What Jonathan did do was start coming to the door every time he dropped Will off or picked him up.  If Steve went to the Byers’ house, he would conveniently be standing in the doorway and waving them off.  

A lot of the time he was his usual self, quiet and jumpy; but he’d touch his hair a lot, or chew on his lower lip.  He seemed to make a concentrated effort to smile at Steve at least once.  There may even be a little small talk.  

Steve was careful to never offer him coffee.    

Three Saturdays later, Jonathan was propped in the doorway as Will and Dustin scrambled to pack.  He glanced at Steve and said, “Dan recommended a bunch of stuff to me.  Ever listen to Vashti Bunyan?” 

“A little bit,” Steve replied, hating Jonathan and Dan―and, however unfairly, Vashti Bunyan―the whole time.  

Jonathan didn’t seem to notice.  “He was a really big advocate for her.  Said she should be an international superstar.”  

Steve was almost too busy going over his mental checklist of things Jonathan had ruined to answer; so far he had girls, almost all music, and coffee.

“She should,” Steve snapped.  He felt weirdly defensive; whether it was of Vashti Bunyan or of his own taste, he couldn’t say.  

“She’s got a great voice.  Will likes the one about the three-legged dog.”  

Belatedly, Steve realized that Jonathan was employing the same tactics that he used to: Talking about something aimless in a soft voice as if calming a wild animal.  

Steve resented that for a number of reasons.  Most of all, he hated how no matter how things flipped, they seemed to be on Jonathan’s terms.  Any day now, Jonathan would remember he wasn’t allowed to be happy and start honking for Will from the street again, having breezed back into Steve’s life for just long enough to make him hate a few more things.  

He mulled over it through his final exams and graduation practice.  He mulled over it while he sweated on the football field in his too-short gown and too-tight cap and listened to Paul Whatever-hue give a tribute speech to our heavenly graduate Tommy Hagan.  He mulled over it as he spent the next two weeks putting job applications in everywhere but Melvald’s and the BP.  

Before Jonathan, Steve hadn’t realized it was even possible to be hung up on a person you’d barely ever touched for this long.  Maybe never touching him was a part of it and Steve really did need to get it out of his system ; but when he tried to make himself check out guys from school or in passing at the record store, the closest he could get was thinking they had the potential to be cute.  None of them―even the ones who’d catch him staring and quirk an eyebrow, shoot him a lopsided smile―looked or acted enough like Jonathan goddamn Byers to feel worth his time.

And then it’d be Saturday morning or Thursday night again, and Jonathan was ringing the doorbell and doing his weird version of flirting.  

The worst part was, of course, how close it was to working; Steve found it pretty impossible to hate Jonathan when the alternative was arguing over the lyrics to “Glow Worms.”  

One night, Jonathan showed up earlier than usual and sat through the end of a Monopoly game.  Somehow, The Breakfast Club came up; Dustin and Will were immediately wrinkling their noses and mock-gagging in distaste.

Steve expected Jonathan to join in, if only because it wasn’t in black-and-white or a foreign language and no one committed suicide onscreen.  

Jonathan didn’t weigh in.  He looked at Steve and asked, “You liked it, right?” 

Not The Breakfast Club too.  Fuck.  Steve had been so sure that that one was safe.

He resolved not to let on that he liked it―and truthfully, it wasn’t so much that he liked it as he was incredibly distracted during it.  “I didn’t think it was as bad as these shitheads did.” 

“I haven’t seen it.  But I mean, it looks good.  From the trailers.” 

Before he could stop himself, Steve said, “Bullshit, Byers.  There’s no way you’re into John Hughes movies.  They’re chick flicks.” 

Dustin was probably taking advantage of Steve’s being distracted and robbing the bank blind; but Jonathan being so agreeable was sort of unnerving.  In a weird way, Steve had always liked how unafraid he was to say things sucked.    

“I’d give it a chance,” Jonathan said.

“You’d hate it.  I know you―you’re a total snob.”

Jonathan sputtered, “I am not.”

“Come on.  You are!”  Steve was conscious of the fact that his voice was climbing higher and higher with each syllable.  But Jonathan always had that way of making him feel demon possessed, so he continued.  “Being a snob is, like, your whole thing!”   

“Well maybe I’m trying to be different.”

Jonathan was giving him a pleading look―the part of Steve that was still capable of rational thought interpreted it to mean we aren’t talking about The Breakfast Club anymore.  Let’s do this another time.   But another time with Jonathan could be later tonight or in a year or never, so Steve snapped, “Oh, go to hell Jonathan.”

That was when Steve noticed that Dustin wasn’t robbing the bank blind.  He and Will were just sitting there, wide-eyed and openly staring.    

Will collected himself first.  “I think me and you should forfeit.  Dustin owns pretty much everything.”  

With a stiff grin, Dustin fanned out the cards for all of his properties in front of his face.  Through gritted teeth, still smiling, he declared, “I win.”

From that night forward, Jonathan went back to honking from the driveway.

 ― 

“I think you’re pretty much caught up.” 

Marty had finally crept out from behind the toilet and fallen asleep, curled up with his front paws resting on Steve’s foot.  He dreads what’ll happen when he has to get up and disturb him, but his eyes are starting to shut of their own accord, and he’s pretty sure there’s gray light filtering in from outside.  

Around a jaw-cracking yawn, Robin protests, “Um, no.  When does he grovel?  When do you kiss ?”  

Quickly, ripping off the bandaid, Steve says, “We haven’t.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I swear, Rob-”

“What about seeing him wash his hair!” 

“I guess I didn’t see it, per se.  That time he swam over here there was no shampoo in the guest bathroom.  I asked him about it later and he said he just used soap.”  He nudges her with his elbow before gripping the edge of the sink and hauling himself off the floor, ignoring Marty’s hiss of protest.  “I didn’t realize you’d read into it like a little pervert.”  

Robin trails after him, still firing off questions.  “What the hell is it about Jonathan Byers?  You’ve never kissed him; you’ve barely talked to him; and when you do, it’s these weird double-speak fights about pop culture!  Have you seen him at all since then?”

Steve sighs.  He didn’t realize she meant it when she said she wanted to know everything.  

“A few times, yeah.  Don’t you remember him bringing the kids to buy ice cream?  You saw the whole thing.”

“I saw it,” Robin says slowly.  She throws up air quotes, then taps the center of her forehead as if to indicate a third eye―God, she’s ridiculous.  Regrettably, Steve loves it.  “But I didn’t see it!”

 ― 

There wasn’t much to see.  

Steve got the call about his job at Scoops later that week, Dustin went off to summer camp, and the other kids finally broke away from their girlfriends long enough to start coming around again.  They were quick to find out about and exploit any workplace privilege Steve might have, no matter how small.  Even Sinclair’s little sister was stopping by multiple times a week to hit him up for ungodly amounts of free samples.  

A few weeks into the job, the kids strolled in just before closing time.  Robin had seen them coming and ducked into the back, declaring that Steve could deal with his picky child friends on his own.  

Robotically, he launched into the speech: “Ahoy, gentlemen.  Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with m-”

“Is this necessary?” Mike sniped.  

“It’s my job, dickhead.”  Defeated, Steve unholstered his scooper.  “Make it snappy.  I’ve still gotta count the register.”  

“They let you handle money?” Mike asked skeptically.  He at least received dual elbows to the ribs from Max and Lucas for that one.

Just as they were getting ready to leave, Max piped up: “Will, won’t your brother want something?” 

Not looking up from his ice cream, Will mumbled, “I dunno.”  

Steve had cooled off significantly since their Breakfast Club argument; by then, he was circling back around to being pissed off that Jonathan hadn’t tried to talk to him again.  Steve had wanted him to come back so that, if nothing else, they could get into a proper fight, one where Steve wasn’t doing the groveling.  He had so far been robbed of the opportunity to tell Jonathan to go to hell for real.    

“Jonathan’s here?”

Will frowned at him.  “He’s in the bookstore.” 

Max cut in again: “Go get him!  He drove us―it would be totally rude not to get him something.”  Turning to Lucas, she added, “Do men think?  Do you have brains?  How do none of you know what kind of ice cream he likes?”

And then they were bickering, and Will was scampering off to the bookstore, and Steve was left to stare at Mike’s scowling face.  

If he let himself, he’d end up craning his neck and looking around for Jonathan like an over-eager dog.  He figured it wouldn’t hurt to make conversation with Mike instead.  Steve hadn’t seen much of him in the last few months.  Maybe there was even something for them to talk about.

He tried, “Does your secret superpowered girlfriend want something?” 

“I think it’d probably melt,” Mike deadpanned.  

No talking, then.  

A few minutes later, Will and Jonathan rounded the corner.  From the looks of it, they were arguing: Will was gesturing wildly with his hands while Jonathan emphatically shook his head.  Steve thought he heard stop being ridiculous.  

After a shove in the back from Will, there he was, standing in front of the counter wearing a button up and a tie, hair freshly re-bowled.  

“Ahoy,” Steve drawled.  

Jonathan raised his eyebrows.  “Ahoy?”

Steve tapped his sailor hat―also conveniently emblazoned with AHOY ―and made a sweeping gesture with one arm, with the intention of indicating the nautical decor on the walls and the jaunty sea shanty crackling out of the speakers.  “We have a theme.  Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me?” 

He kept it more monotone than usual, partially because of Jonathan―more double-speak, meant to convey something along the lines of you fucked up ―and partially because Robin kept scolding him about over-projecting his voice.  

Jonathan took a second to squint into the ice cream case.  “These are all sort of…out there.  Do you have butter pecan?” 

Steve rolled his eyes.  Only Jonathan would manage to find fault in a case full of whimsical ice cream flavors.  “Sorry, grandpa.  No butter pecan.  Can I interest you in Bluebeard’s Butterscotch?” 

Jonathan grimaced.  “I guess.” 

Unlike the kids, Jonathan did have the decency to pay in full for his ice cream.  Steve clamped the bills into their slots in the register.  Pointing at Will, he said, “Your brother here’s racked up quite the tab.”  

“Really?” Jonathan asked.  He went visibly pale, already reaching for his wallet.  

Steve savored it for a few seconds; but before Jonathan could actually produce another wad of bills, he said, “Jesus, Jonathan.  No―he gets a discount.”

“The five finger discount,” Lucas mock-whispered.  For emphasis, he wiggled his ice cream-sticky fingers.  

Jonathan’s shoulders relaxed.  “Jackass.”  

Part of Steve wanted to snap that he was being awfully familiar, that maybe Jonathan didn’t have the right to playfully call him a jackass anymore.  

Most of him liked it too much to say anything.

Steve pivoted.  “Why’re you dressed like you’re going to a middle school dance?” 

He didn’t actually look that bad―but they were already on uneven footing with Steve in the goddamn sailor costume, and he wasn’t about to tell Jonathan that he looked nice when he was still semi-devoted to hating his guts.  

“I’m doing some photography for the Post.”  Jonathan paused, self-consciously fiddling with his tie.  “I feel like a little kid playing dress-up every day.”

“You look like one.  Big boy job, though.” 

“Just an internship.” 

“Better than scooping ice cream for three bucks an hour.” 

Even though he’d been making a concentrated effort to be curt with Jonathan, Steve hadn’t meant for that to come out so snappy; more than anything, he was afraid it sounded bitter.  

Jonathan shrugged it off graciously.  Steve hated him more for that.  

“Work’s work.  Once school starts I’m back to selling cigarettes and lotto tickets.” 

“And then you’re off to the big apple.”

Steve had never really thought about Jonathan’s post-graduate plans until he started getting rejected from every college in the tri-state area.  The kids had been nervous about him going to school a few hours away; New York City may as well have been a different universe.  Steve tried to use that to convince himself that Jonathan being an android incapable of normal romantic feelings might have been for the best―if he was moving to New York next year, they were doomed no matter what.

Then Jonathan did that thing he was―in Steve’s mind―infamous for and said a single word with a hundred possible implications.  

“Maybe.” 

NYU had always been such a sure thing for Jonathan.  He wasn’t the type to sit around and talk at length about his dreams, not unless he was being held at gunpoint; but he had magazine articles and postcards tacked to the bulletin board in his room, which Steve had come to know as a shrine to everything he deemed important.  

Naturally, that was when Robin slid open the metal curtain separating the back room from the counter.  “I’d like to go home at some point tonight, if you don’t mind.”

In those early days, Steve had found her a little scary.  He sent Jonathan off with an apologetic tip of the sailor hat.  

 ― 

“I totally cockblocked you,” Robin mumbles sleepily.  

“Do not say cockblocked.   Jesus.”  

“I did!  I’m sure you were moments away from finally ravaging him in your sailor suit.”

 ― 

Robin really was present for most of the events, involving Jonathan or otherwise, that followed.  He brought the kids in for ice cream a few more times, always in his office clothes.  Steve would make a jab about his tie or his button up; once, Jonathan responded with “Cute hat,” which promptly burned itself into Steve’s memory.

Whatever they were doing, it was the stupidest thing they’d done yet.  

Steve almost felt like they were roleplaying as two semi-flirtatious acquaintances―the kind of person you enjoy running into at the grocery store but never want to actually take out.  Steve didn’t know what he wanted from Jonathan.  Depending on the day, he wanted to yell at him, kiss him, hang out with him.  Sometimes he would drift off at night thinking about how it’d be nice to just sleep in the same room again.

What he wanted was decidedly not what was happening.  Steve thought about confronting Jonathan during one of his infrequent visits to Scoops or marching up to the front door when he picked up Will; but then he’d remember cute hat and how much he wanted to hear something like that again and lose his nerve.  

Confronting Jonathan took even more of a backseat when, within ten minutes of finding out Dustin was home from camp, he and Will were sitting across from Steve in a food court booth and telling him they’d intercepted a Russian communication on Dustin’s super-powered walkie-talkie.  

It was as the Russians slugged him in the face for the thousandth time and sent a shower of sparks flying into his vision that Steve accepted that he was probably never going to kiss Jonathan Byers.  Once the truth serum loosened him up, it didn’t feel like much of a loss to admit it to Robin.  If whatever drug they’d been given didn’t have a side effect of feeling so good ―nothing hurt anymore, not even the bones of his eye socket shifting around beneath his skin in tiny pieces―he would’ve been really sad.  

When Dustin and Will and Erica burst in with the cattle prod, Steve still wasn’t completely sure that he wasn’t dying―they looked like something out of the Bible, a host of scrappy child angels coming to take him to Heaven.  He certainly didn’t feel his best.    

Per the hospital, he was concussed again and a stroke risk.  They kept making him smile and close his eyes and lift up his arms and legs, asking if he smelled anything burning; but no one pronounced him terminal.  There was no plug to pull.  That had to be a good sign.  

The hospital itself had sustained damage from the Mindflayer; Steve didn’t know how they were going to spin that one, a mall disaster and a hospital disaster all in the same night.  As a result, they weren’t afforded the luxury of privacy.  A nurse wheeled Steve into a big, cafeteria-esque room lined wall-to-wall with cots like something out of a FEMA camp.

Robin was still being examined.  Even after getting into a near screaming match with a nurse, they were insistent that they couldn’t speed things up so she could be with Steve.  

As they wheeled him away, it sounded like she hadn’t completely given up: “We almost died, you know.  I should at least be allowed to be with my loved ones.”

Maybe it was the lingering Russian drugs, but all Steve took away from that was loved ones.  Robin loves me.  

A few minutes later, an orderly hefted Jonathan onto the cot beside him; he landed with a thud and a groan.  

Steve had gathered from the nurses that he wasn’t supposed to be doing much flipping around.  Every time he turned his head, a fresh tidal wave of pain roared over his skull, shooting down his neck and into his arms.  He slid his eyes as far towards Jonathan as they’d go, until there was a blur of brown hair in his periphery.  From what he could tell, Jonathan was already looking at him.

“Your face,” Jonathan said, like it was a complete sentence.    

The nurses had actually made an effort to clean Steve up, putting some kind of medical glue on his split eyebrow and busted lip.  He hadn’t seen the results; when he’d touched his face after, all he could really discern was that touching it fucking hurt.  If it was the first thing Jonathan had to say to him―he was expecting to be chewed out for dragging Will into their suicide mission and having him missing for nearly forty eight hours―he must have looked worse than he thought.

“It’s that bad?” 

Jonathan hummed in agreement.  “It’s bad.  But I doubt it’ll put you out of business.” 

Steve wished he had the ability to whip his head towards Jonathan so that he could read his facial expressions.  Everything he’d said so far sounded pained―for once, Steve didn’t think that was his fault.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

There was a pause.  God, Steve wanted to see his face.  

Quietly, Jonathan said, “It means you’re still good-looking.” 

Steve wanted to say something about horrible timing; how the last time they’d done this, they were waiting for the demogorgon.  But he had also spent the last day accepting that he was going to bleed out of his eyeballs and die and never see Jonathan or Dustin or anyone ever again.  So he said, as lighthearted as he could, “I’ve got that freshly-tortured glow, huh?” 

“Tortured?” Jonathan asked.  He sounded more horrified than Steve expected him to be, until he realized they hadn’t really had time to go over it before now.  Maybe he figured whatever had roughed him up had gotten to Steve, too.  

“Mhm.  By the Russians.”

“Jesus, Steve.”

Steve grunted as if to say, Whatever.  I lived , which may not have been the best way to deal with things.  “What tossed you around?” 

“The Mindflayer, I think.  At first it looked like my dickhead coworkers from the newspaper.  Then Barb and Nancy thought they killed it and it turned into…that thing we saw tonight.”  

The Mindflayer―of course.  Everything they thought they killed or banished was only ever on vacation, apparently.  Placed on administrative leave and told to try again next year.  

At the mall, there had been a cut on Jonathan’s forehead.  It didn’t seem to be his main concern just then, judging by the way the orderlies were manhandling him like he could barely walk; but for the sake of conversation, Steve asked, “You in the concussion club now?”

“Yep.  Mike and Nancy too.”  Jonathan must have shifted on his cot.  Steve listened to the blankets rustling, his sharp inhales.  Whatever he did, it sounded like it hurt a whole hell of a lot.  “We should really start wearing helmets for this kind of thing.” 

Steve snorted and immediately regretted it when it felt like a red-hot poker through his septum.  “That’ll make us look really scary.  A bunch of kids in helmets.  Maybe we can wear knee pads too.” 

A noise escaped Jonathan that was something between a huff of laughter and a pained whimper.  There was more rustling, more quick shuddery breathing, before he explained, “My- my ribs.  They said they’re bruised, whatever that means.  So I can’t- I shouldn’t laugh.” 

“That won’t be a problem for you.  You hate laughing.  Hate fun.” 

“I don’t hate it.  God, you make me sound like Eeyore or something.” 

Unthinking, Steve wrinkled his nose.  He wished they had some more of whatever the Russians had shot them up with―every fucking facial expression hurt so much he thought he’d pass out.  “Eeyore?”  

“Will loved Winnie the Pooh.  Don’t pretend you haven’t seen it.” 

“We were way old by the time Winnie the Pooh came out.  I thought you were supposed to have good taste.”  

“I was like, nine―and it is good.  It’s really sweet, most of the time.  Everybody makes up, everybody gets along.  That kind of thing.” Steve could just make out that Jonathan was moving around again.  He wished they would’ve strapped him to the bed―it couldn’t be good for his ribs.  “I’m trying to broaden my horizons lately.  To- to listen to things that other people tell me to listen to.  People I care about.” 

Of course, that was when two voices carried to them from across the room, both shouting, “Steve!”  

Footsteps slapped across the tile floor.  Just before they reached them, Jonathan rushed out, “We should hang out sometime.  Once we’re better.” 

Robin and Dustin ground to a halt just in front of Steve.  It was a relief to be able to look at anyone, especially them, head-on, to see that they were more or less okay; but when they instinctively converged on him for a hug, he had to screech out in protest.  

Will was just behind, panting; he plopped down at the end of Jonathan’s cot.  

They must have wrenched away from whatever nurse was escorting them―or in Will’s case, Joyce.  Steve couldn’t help but eavesdrop on Will and Jonathan, who were talking rapidly in low voices.  He definitely heard the phrase grounded for all eternity leave Jonathan’s mouth; but it was shortly followed by something about being big damn heroes , which sounded reluctantly proud.  

 ― 

Steve thinks Robin has fallen asleep ― she knows this part, after all.  But then she giggles.

“See?  I really am a total cockblock.”

 ― 

Steve really wasn’t doing stalker drive-bys of the Byers’ house, most of the time: He was picking Will up or dropping him off.  And if he circled the block once or twice afterwards while contemplating whether to go in, it hardly qualified as stalking.

The dumbest parts of him―the ones that were typically in control of this sort of thing―thought it was a no-brainer to take Jonathan up on his offer to hang out.  Multiple brushes with death between them paired with Jonathan’s weird, overly-friendly behavior were a recipe for something to finally happen.  But then the for sale sign materialized in their yard, and Will called sniffling to say that they were being relocated , and Steve knew that would only add a new corridor of angst to Jonathan’s preexisting labyrinth of it.  

The final nail in the coffin came when Will said they’d gotten an offer accepted on a house in California.  NYU had still felt a lifetime away, something that was easy for Steve to forgive if it meant a whole year of hanging out beforehand; Lenora, California in a few months time was a different animal entirely.  It would’ve been masochistic to start anything at all, even if anything was only being civil to one another again.

But when Jonathan called, Steve answered.  How could he not?  

He was still holding his keys, having just gotten home from dropping Robin off after their trip to McDonald’s.  It was after midnight, and he was emotionally exhausted from reliving the origins of his chaste Victorian romance with Jonathan.  

As soon as the phone started to ring, he practically threw himself on top of it.  

“Hello?”

There was no one else who’d call so late.  Typically, even Jonathan didn’t initiate calls that late; that was always more Steve’s move, not caring if he woke anyone up if he wanted to hear Jonathan’s voice.  He could at least own up to being selfish in that way, back when he still allowed himself to be.

“Hi,” Jonathan said.  

On the other end of the line, there was the unmistakable clanking of dishes in a sink, music drifting out of a speaker somewhere.  

It sounded like time travel.  

It sounded  like everything Steve had been crying about for nearly a year.  

It sounded like Jonathan calling him from the kitchen, probably still wearing his work clothes and tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for an answer and Steve could see it; could see Jonathan picking up the phone and calling the Harringtons’ at midnight because he wanted to talk to him .    

Suddenly, it was very hard to regulate his breathing.  

“It’s late,” Steve said, because it was true and because this felt so surreal that it wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility that Jonathan didn’t know what time it was or who he was calling.

“I’ve been trying for a few hours and getting the machine.”  Clink.  Slurp.  

Jonathan was drinking coffee.  Jesus, Steve needed to sit down.  He dragged the corded phone as far as it would go and stationed himself at the kitchen island.  “I was out with Robin.” 

“Oh.  Robin,” Jonathan said.  Steve remembered that voice, too―the voice that came out when he mentioned Nancy or asked if Siouxsie Sioux was hot.  “Are you busy?”

“No, I’m not- it’s not like that.  Robin…”  He trailed off, realizing it wasn’t exactly his information to share.  Whatever Robin had going on was between her and Annie Lennox and Tammy Thompson.  He settled for, “We have a lot in common.  But it isn’t like that. ”

Jonathan audibly perked up.  “Okay.  Was it fun?” 

“We got McDonald’s.  Big night.” 

“McDonald’s is good.”

“Do you actually think that, or do you just wanna impress me?”
Jonathan huffed.  “I’m a red-blooded American.  I like McDonald’s.”  More clinking.  If Steve had been there, Jonathan would be shoving a dish towel into his hand by now―the plaid one, maybe, or the faded one with the frogs and little yellow ducks.  “I know we’re both sort of jobless at the moment, so I just- I just wanted to see if you’re busy this weekend.”  

“You’re moving,” Steve said flatly.

“Not this weekend.  And I wanna see you―talk to you―before I do.”  Steve could almost hear the click in Jonathan’s throat as he swallowed his pride; it wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped.  “Please.” 

“I’m hanging out with Robin tomorrow.”  Too late, he wished he’d let Jonathan think they were dating just to make him squirm a little more; to make him back off instead of saying please like he’d die if Steve said no.  “I could do Sunday, maybe.” 

Jonathan sighed―an actual, honest-to-God sigh of relief that made Steve glad he’d sat down.

“Sunday.  Okay.  I’ll pick you up?”

Steve hummed in agreement.  “Sure.”  Because he couldn’t help it, he tacked on, “No churches this time.”  

He almost said something else, if only to keep the conversation going― what are you listening to? What are you wearing?  

He almost said Jesus Christ, just come over now and stop fucking around.

He said, “Have a good night, Jonathan.” 

“You too, Steve.”

Chapter Text

Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently

we have had our difficulties and there are many things

I want to ask you.

-Richard Siken, “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”

I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room

where everyone finally gets what they want.

-Richard Siken, “Snow and Dirty Rain”

 ― 

Steve and Robin sleep until two o’clock in the afternoon.  It takes until four to convince her that she doesn’t need to chaperone him and Jonathan.

“I don’t trust that little weasel as far as I can throw him,” she insists.  She’s been standing in the foyer for nearly an hour, holding her shoes but showing no signs of putting them on.  “And I don’t trust you either.  Repeat after me, I have nothing to ap-”

Steve groans.  “ Robin.  I’m a grownup, okay?” 

She glares.  Slower this time, she says, “Repeat after me.” 

“I have nothing to apologize for!  According to you, anyways.  So what, should I just punch him?” 

“In a perfect world, I hide in the backseat and wait for the opportunity to arise so we can both punch him.”  She huffs, but leans down to tug on her shoes.  “But you aren’t ready to live in a perfect world, I suppose.” 

Even once Steve finally gets her in the car, she can’t quite let it go.

Turning as far as the seatbelt will allow, knees almost forming a right angle with the console, she says, “You know, it seemed like you were actually angry at him for a while.  Whatever happened to anger!  Anger is healing , healthy-”

“I’m sure I’ll be mad at him again once I actually see him.  It’s just hard for me to stay mad.”

Robin barks a disbelieving hmph .  “Easy enough for me.”  She reaches out to squeeze his shoulder.  “I can do it for both of us.” 

 ― 

When Jonathan knocks on the door, Steve is still working on being angry.  

Him being early―it’s 5:58, exactly two minutes before their agreed-upon time―helps nudge Steve into annoyed territory.  His hair isn’t finished drying; he was thinking about changing his shirt; Marty has crept out and fallen asleep on his foot again, and Steve had needed those two minutes to figure out how to get free of him.  

Ignoring the hisses of protest, Steve extracts his foot from underneath the bulk of Marty and heads for the door, stooping down at the last minute to swipe cat hair off of his pant leg.  It’s barely been twenty four hours, but Marty sheds like a son of a bitch―anything he’s so much as passed by  is dusted in white fur.

Even though Jonathan used to have a dog, Steve doesn’t remember the Byers’ house being particularly covered in hair.  Maybe that’s what they’ll end up talking about tonight: Housekeeping tips and tricks.  It would be smart to stick to something like that, something so far beyond surface level that it levitates, sneering, above all of the things they aren’t talking about.

There’s another round of knocks; Steve spends a few more seconds drowning it out by thinking hard about pet hair.  He plucks a few off of his shirt sleeve, his right hip―God, he really does need a lint brush.  

When a timid voice calls out, “Anyone home?” Steve finally decides that trying to pick every individual hair off of his clothes is as pointless as whatever conversation he’s about to have with Jonathan.  He squares his shoulders, sucks in a breath, and swings the door open.

It’s not like the person on the other side is a surprise.  There’s no mystery to it.  

It’s just Jonathan.

He doesn’t look all that different from the last time Steve saw him, except he’s not visibly writhing in pain and he’s ditched his Serious Newspaper Employee getup for jeans and a t-shirt.  He almost looks like any other kid at the end of summer break―his bangs are starting to trail into his eyes, hair a little lighter from the sun.  

But it’s Jonathan , and when their eyes catch it makes Steve’s chest feel like it’s going to collapse in on itself, and then he’s saying, “Hi” and Steve is losing his grip on angry just as he was starting to believe he’d caught it.

Steve clears his throat.  Anything to buy a little time, a few more seconds to gape at Jonathan and pretend not to; a few more seconds before he has to leave the relative safety of the foyer for Jonathan’s car, accepting the possibility that he’s probably going to end the night with his heart stomped on again.

He forces out, “Hey, man.”

Jonathan smiles and jerks his head towards the driveway, where his car is idling.  “I thought we could drive around for a bit.  If you want.” 

What Steve wants is for one of them to acknowledge how fucking awkward this is; to start groveling; to make a joke.  

A joke, at least, would be easy enough―Jonathan had taken the last no churches jab in stride.  Steve could say no Joni Mitchell and open the door to talking shit about music the way they used to, or to yelling at Jonathan for ruining that too, for ruining all the things Steve went out of his way to find and not even being sorry.  

Steve does neither of those things; neither does Jonathan, which shouldn’t be a disappointment or a surprise and somehow manages to be both.  After a beat of silence, he nods and steps over the threshold. 

 ― 

Once they’re out of Loch Nora, Steve halfheartedly offers Jonathan directions to the handful of places they can park in relative privacy―the shutdown steel mill, the overgrown Civil War graveyard behind the park, the quarry.  He pointedly avoids mentioning that these are all places he used to take girls.  Jonathan would have some retort about how romantic it is to be felt up underneath a crumbling statue of Abraham Lincoln, and then Steve would be thinking about feeling him up and-

And Steve is thinking about that anyways thanks to the fake conversation they’re having in his head.  In reality, Jonathan flips on the blinker and says, “I don’t really like the quarry.  Ever since…y’know, Will.  And all the Mindflayer stuff was at the steel mill.” 

So the Civil War graveyard and the crumbling Abraham Lincoln statue it is, even though Steve is fairly certain no one’s getting felt up.  “Hang a left up here, then.” 

They spend a few minutes driving in uncomfortable silence; but the graveyard is a lot closer than Steve remembered, and soon Jonathan’s tires are crunching across the gravel lot as he asks Steve if it’s actually okay to park here. 

“I’ve only gotten busted here once.  All Hopper made me do was go home.” 

Hopper : That’s something else, besides the obvious, that they can talk about.  

For a few weeks, everyone except Joyce had been in denial.  

Sure, she had seen it―maybe the gate really had vaporized him.  

But it was Hopper , for Christ’s sake.  He’s fought Demogorgons; he’s been to the Upside Down; and before all that, he spent years pounding enough pills and liquor to kill a lesser man before most people had even eaten breakfast.  So because it was Hopper and there was no body in the pile of rubble the military spent the next month sorting through, the town hasn’t come together for an empty-casket funeral or a parade in his honor.  It seemed impossible that he wouldn’t crawl out from under something eventually, a lit cigarette already wagging out of his mouth.  

But after a few weeks, Steve learned from Will that El has officially moved into the Byers’ spare room and that Joyce had been sure to look for four bedrooms while she house-hunted; Calvin Powell was named sheriff by the guy serving as interim mayor; and there’s starting to be talk in town of that holding that funeral, organizing that parade, whenever Hopper is finally declared legally dead.  

Steve clears his throat.  “I’m sure the cops have bigger fish to fry right now.  How’s she doing?” 

“My mom, or El?” Jonathan asks, head cocked.  

“Both.” 

“Mom’s throwing herself into the whole moving thing―dragging out everything we own and going through it, applying for jobs out there.  I think it’s good for her.  Keeps her from going catatonic.”  Jonathan kills the engine.  They’ve ended up in the far corner of the parking lot, one of the few places the street light doesn’t quite hit.  It’s cast further into shadow by a big oak tree.  Steve is not unfamiliar with this parking spot: It’s the one you pick if you don’t want to be seen.  He’s almost ready to suggest they move the car when Jonathan continues, “El’s quiet.  She mostly wants to be with Mike or Max or by herself.  Mom’s trying to get her excited about public school, telling her about all the cool stuff she’ll get to do.”

“Like?”

Jonathan shrugs.  “Sports.  Theater.  Pottery.  Seems like she’s just throwing something new out there every few days and hoping one sticks.” 

“Pottery?”  Steve wrinkles his nose.  As of last year, Hawkins High barely even had an art class―it can’t have changed that much in four months.  Of course, it hits him a second later: Another one of those things―maybe the biggest yet―that they’ve talked about without talking about it.  

Stubbornly, Steve wants to keep doing that.  To pretend Jonathan moving to California is something that’ll never actually happen, that it’s just a date that’ll get pushed infinitely further and further out.  It would almost make sense, since nothing ever seems to happen where Jonathan is concerned―only almost does, over and over again, until it fades into obscurity.  

Kissing.  

NYU, apparently.  

Why should California be any different?

But this isn’t just Jonathan.  It’s his entire family.  Will insists on saying they’re being relocated instead of moving; Joyce has tacked up signs in front of Melvald’s and Dan’s advertising a yard sale on September 14th; there have even been a few showings at the Byers’ house, though Will says none of them have come to anything.  

The Byers are moving three thousand miles away, and soon―though even Will won’t say how soon.  

It doesn’t make their situation look very promising, considering the fact that Jonathan has spent nearly two years perfecting the art of being impossible to reach from a mile down the road.  But he’s here, at least for tonight; has put himself here and seems intent on staying, digging his heels into the growing awkward silence between them in the parking lot of the Civil War graveyard.  

But Jonathan is still Jonathan and Steve knows that if he isn’t the one to push it, they’ll waste the night talking about nothing important, maybe listen to a few tapes.  Steve knows that it would be stupid to waste what might be the last time, even if what they’d be wasting it on is all he really wants to do.

Well, not all―but most.  He’d probably need another year of this to get what he really wants.

“Maybe at your fancy California school,” Steve says, and it feels like throwing the first punch.

Jonathan nods before letting his head flop back onto the headrest.  Quietly, he says, “Yeah.  It was in the brochure.” 

“Brochure.  Really is fancy.” 

Jonathan scoffs.  “I don’t know if they do that for everyone or just families like mine.”  

It’s Steve’s turn to cock his head.  “Like yours?” 

“Yeah.  The lucky ones―people who get relocated by the government.” 

“Why now?  Shouldn’t they have done it the first time something like this happened?” 

“They did offer it to my mom―a few times, apparently, but she always said no, called it blood money.  I think what’s different is that this time they’re not asking.  They’re telling.”  Jonathan swallows.  “El’s powers are just…gone.  And no more powers means no more weapon.  Now she’s just another liability in whatever happens next; Will, too.  So they’d rather ship them off and hope that’s enough to keep them safe.” 

“Next?” Steve asks.  

He feels stupid almost immediately.  

Steve’s been here since the beginning; he knows how this works.  The down time between cataclysmic events has already gotten exponentially shorter since the first time; but there’s always those few weeks of foolish hope that the good guys won this round and the monster is really dead, done, never coming back.  Up to this moment, Steve’s been unknowingly riding that high.  

“Yeah.  Next,” Jonathan says bitterly.  “At least they’re not lying about things going back to normal anymore.” 

“When are you moving?” Steve blurts, because he’s gotten sidetracked in spite of himself and if he doesn’t do it now he might not do it at all.

He watches Jonathan.  How his throat bobs as he swallows; how he sits up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders like he’s bracing himself.  Finally, Jonathan says, “October at the latest.  They want us out of here before any of the anniversaries.  Sooner, if the house sells.” 

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then they’ll take it off our hands.  Me and Will think that’s what they’re gonna do no matter what.  Everyone that’s come for a showing so far is some perfect nuclear family from somewhere out of town that talks like they’re reading lines for a school play.”  Jonathan clears his throat, pitching his voice up: “ Hawkins seems like such a nice, sleepy town to start a family in.  You’ve raised two―or is it three?―great kids here, Ms. Byers.  You’ve seen the news, you know that’s bullshit.  If you ask anybody that actually lives here, they’ll say they think we’re living on top of a gate to hell.” 

The words gate to hell had actually been uttered on the six o’clock news a few weeks ago, complete with an interview with the concerned clergy of Hawkins.  Steve’s dad had called it sensationalist crap and changed the channel to a rerun of Bonanza.

He had called the lab story sensationalist crap, too.  He said that the Hagans must be too ashamed to admit whatever really happened to Tommy, that he’d gotten boozed up and ran his car off a bridge or gone to the city and caught the queer disease.  

Steve had said, “There really was a lab, Dad.  You can drive out and see it.  It’s not far-” and was met with, “See how damn gullible people are?  Even you.  It’s a glorified power plant.”

That was back when Steve was still trying to stay in his dad’s good graces in the hopes of working for him after graduation; so instead of arguing that he’d never seen monsters pour out of a power plant, Steve had nodded along.  Dropped it.  You’re right, dad. 

“Guess you’ll be happy to get away from the gates of hell,” Steve says.  He pivots in his seat, angling himself towards Jonathan.  He tries not to think about all the times he’s done this exact thing in this exact spot before, what it had meant was about to happen.  “Why’d you call me?” 

“I’m not really happy about it.  Everything I’ve ever known is here, everybody.”  Jonathan turns towards him.  If not for the console, their knees would be touching; Steve fights the reflexive urge to pull his legs back.  “You’re here.  It’s like I said on the phone―I wanted to see you, talk to you.  Not in front of Will and Dustin; not at the hospital; not at a church.  I mean, I guess a graveyard isn’t that much better.”

Jonathan sighs, blowing his overgrown bangs out of his eyes.  He seems to be launching into a speech, which has historically only ever ended in crying or screaming―both of those, usually, from Steve.  

But Robin’s voice is in his head this time, talking about holding on to anger; at the very least, holding on to a singular shred of his dignity.  

Steve snaps, “What’s there to talk about?  Joni Mitchell?  Wanna throw a Cure tape at me again for old times sake?” 

“I’m sorry about the tape.  It was a nice gesture, okay?  I listen to it all the time.”  Somehow, Jonathan manages to make it look like getting each word out requires concentrated physical effort; worse, he manages to actually look sorry.  “I- I think about you, all the time.  I miss you.”  

Jonathan leans forward, one elbow on the console, and Steve has seen this move before, has executed it before.   

Suddenly, Steve doesn’t have to focus on holding on to anger.  It’s just there, boiling over in his chest and pouring out of his mouth: “Well that’s just fucking great, Byers.  Real sweet of you.”  When Jonathan recoils like he’s been slapped, Steve is almost glad.  It’s a reaction he hasn’t gotten out of him in a while.  “You’re moving across the goddamn country in two months.  I guess that’s why you’re doing this now, right?  Because it doesn’t matter any more.

“You know what your problem is, man?  You’re fucked up.  Something’s missing in your brain, I don’t know.  You’re moving so you say hey, might as well call up Steve who I’ve been avoiding for a full fucking year; and I know he’ll probably answer since he’s spent that long being pathetic.  Fuck you, Byers.”

“I don’t think that’s fair-”

Steve cuts him off.  For once, he gets to be the one launching into a speech.  “What’s not fair is whatever the hell you’re doing.  I mean, we aren’t even friends anymore!  How long has it been since we had a normal conversation that didn’t turn into something like this?  And do you know how fucking sick I am of fighting with someone who barely even fights back?”

Jonathan, his voice infuriatingly even, says, “We could be friends.  I want to be your friend.  I don’t wanna fight.” 

“It’s kind of too late for that.  We’re in a fight.  We’ve been in a fight.”

“Have we?” Jonathan asks, sounding genuinely confused.  

Steve feels dangerously close to ripping his hair out.

“Are you trying to make me feel fucking crazy right now?  Because it’s working.” 

“I’m not trying to do anything,” Jonathan snaps.  Great , Steve thinks.  Now they’re definitely in a fight.  “I don’t know what I’m doing, alright?  I keep telling you that I’m not like you.  That’s not just me being dramatic―I know you think I’m mopey and selfish or that I just don’t like you back; but the bad part is that I do, I really do, I just can’t-”

Steve cuts in, “I never said you were mopey or selfish.”

He’d just thought it, and a hundred variations besides.

“Okay, sorry: I know you think that I’m fucked up and have something missing in my brain.  Is that better?”  Jonathan isn’t looking at him any more, but staring vacantly through the windshield to somewhere past the graveyard wall.  

God, Steve fucking hates this: This circular argument with Jonathan that inevitably follows their annual near-apocalypse, in which they briefly team up and fight for the same side instead of with each other.  Steve got less than six months to recover from the first round with the Mindflayer; he hurts all over all the fucking time; he’s on his second concussion, and it seems like he’s at the doctor’s office more than he’s at home.  He’s not even supposed to be driving yet, though he’s kept that from Robin and Dustin and Will since he can see fine unless it gets too dark or rains too hard.  

And Jonathan still can’t just act normal , or at least leave him alone.

Still not looking at him, Jonathan whispers, “It feels like I should’ve let you keep hating me.  I really thought you hated me.” 

“If I hated you, I wouldn’t be in the car with you.  So don’t do that.” 

It might not have been the best thing to say in the moment―an admission of non-hatred, a show of weakness―but Steve doesn’t account for the possibility that Jonathan might start laughing.  It seems, at best, a highly inappropriate reaction; soon, he’s full-on clutching his sides, gasping for air.  It sort of looks like he’s having a nervous breakdown.  Steve knows he’s on the verge of one himself.

After a minute, Jonathan wheezes out, “Sorry, just- just I- I said that to you once.  Almost the exact same thing.  We’ve- we’ve had this conversation before, isn’t that ridiculous?  Last time it was about how I should hate you ―so now we’re full circle.  God, maybe I really am fucked up.”  Jonathan scrubs his hands over his face; when he looks back at Steve, he isn’t laughing anymore.  “I definitely fucked this up.”

Steve knows Robin would swat him for what he’s about to say.  But Robin isn’t here, and Jonathan has the remnants of a sort-of-scary sort-of-endearing maniacal grin on his face; Steve can feel himself deflating the longer he looks at Jonathan, the fight going right out of him.  It’s true enough that he’s fucked things up plenty of times, even if he likes to think that he stopped being an ant-killer a long time ago.  

Still, he tries not to sound as defeated as he feels as he says, “We both fucked it up.  Just at different times.” 

“I guess so.”  Jonathan sighs again, his head knocking against the headrest.  “I at least showed you some cool music, right?  Better than top 40.”    

Steve can tell that he’s trying to lighten the mood, but he just sounds sad.  Drained.  Resigned to the fact that they’re not getting anywhere, tonight or maybe ever; they only have two months.  Part of Steve wants to reignite the argument, poke the bruise: I just called you a fucked-up psychopath, remember?  Be mad at me, for Christ’s sake.  

But most of him just wants to go home, to crawl into bed and play out the ideal version of this conversation in his head, the one he wishes they’d had.

That part of him rolls its eyes and says, “Don’t be cocky.  I still don’t like Lou Reed; and now you can’t say that it’s because I’m just a bigot.  Plus, I turned you on to Joni Mitchell.”  

Jonathan hums in agreement.  “She’s great.  But I liked Vashti Bunyan better.” 

“Be sure you tell Dan that before you move.  He needs to know his plan to make her a star is working.” 

“I’ll probably be in there soon.  Gotta get some tapes for the road trip.  You should come with me.”  There’s a fleeting moment of insanity in which Steve thinks Jonathan is asking him to come to California before he tacks on, “To Dan’s, I mean.  If you’ll be seen in public with me.” 

The most insane part of all is that Steve isn’t sure what his answer would’ve been.  

“I’ll go, jackass.  But I’ve got an appointment in Fort Wayne tomorrow.”  

“What for?”

“Neurologist.  Turns out the Russians knocked my brain around pretty good.”  

For effect, Steve knocks on the side of his head.  It actually hurts, though only a little.  He grits his teeth through it.

“I’ve gotta drive up there tomorrow too.  Physical therapy―from where the Mindflayer knocked me around pretty good.  Will’s going.  We could…carpool, if you want.”

Spending even more time trapped in a car with Jonathan would be torture.  Voluntary torture, no less, possibly complete with whatever shitty band Jonathan is currently into.   But the part of Steve’s brain that wants to go home is right next to the part that stupidly thinks things can still go back to being easy, that he and Jonathan just have to spend enough time around each other to go back to how things were before.  That part of his brain opens his mouth and says, “Yeah, sure.” 

 ― 

“So you know you like each other, but you kind of had a fight where nothing really happened…and now we’re carpooling to the neurologist with him?” 

Every other word is punctuated by some noise from Robin’s end of the line―the faucet turning on, a tea kettle whistling somewhere far off, spitting.  It sounds like she’s brushing her teeth.  Once, she called while she was washing dye out of her hair.  Phone calls with Robin are actually a lot like the noisy ones he used to have with Jonathan, though Steve would never tell her that.  He’s sure she’d take it as a grave insult.

“It’s fuel-efficient, Rob.  Good for the environment.  Shouldn’t you be happy about that?”

By virtue of working in such close quarters and then almost dying together, Steve has learned a lot about Robin in the last few months.  Her middle name is Ruth after her great grandma; she speaks four languages and plays the French horn; and her parents are the kind of weird hippies who eat wheat meat and have chickens in their backyard.  Robin said she’d gotten “the lecture to end all lectures” about eating at McDonald’s, how it was pink slime that would give her cancer and destroy planet Earth.  Steve thought that was pretty extreme.  

Robin spits again.  “Right now, I am not happy about anything involving Jonathan Byers.  We’re taking his car?”  

“ Yes, Robin.  I’m not even supposed to be driving myself to these things; I’ve been telling them you do it.” 

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to be driving to these things?  So you’re forbidden from driving, but only to appointments?  Or you’re not supposed to be driving at all ?”  Robin takes the next moment of silence as an answer.  “Do you want to die?  Is that your goal?  Does endangering yourself and others make you happy?” 

Indignant, Steve sputters, “Who’s supposed to haul me around?  You? Dustin?  I can drive just fine, mostly!” 

“Well, I guess now I have to be happy that you and Jonathan Byers have reignited your weird little romance.  Do I need to start sitting in on these appointments?”

That’s another thing he’s learned about Robin: She alternates between acting like an ultra-rebellious punk and an overbearing mother.  

“It’s bad enough that you’re always in the waiting room.  The nurse keeps asking if you’re my girlfriend; last week, they said ‘your wife.’”

Robin gags.  “God, ew.  Does Fort Wayne have a child bride epidemic?” 

“What about child husbands?  I don’t look that damn old.” 

“Not anymore, with your youthful new highlights,” Robin chirps.  She’s clearly swishing water around in her mouth, not bothering to move the receiver away.  “I think he’s here.  Jesus, why does he have to pick me up first ?” 

Jesus Christ.  There’s the third side of Robin: Stubborn child.  “You live closer.” 

“Well I hope you know that I’m not talking to him.” 

“For Christ’s sake, Rob.  It’s like, a two minute drive.”

It really can’t be more than three minutes; Steve barely has time to yank his shoes on and feed Marty before there’s a honk from the driveway.

Jonathan waves from the driver’s seat; Robin is in the back, arms crossed stubbornly over her chest, with El on the other side of her.  El’s forehead is tilted against the window―she almost looks like she’s sleeping.  Luckily, Steve is saved from making a choice between front and back by virtue of Will being in the passenger seat.  He slides over Robin, ignoring a squeal of protest, and settles into the remaining sliver of a middle seat.  

Jonathan clears his throat.  “Everyone buckled?”

After the answering chorus of yeps and mhms, they pull into the road.  Jonathan’s eyes slide over to Steve’s in the rearview mirror more than once; beside him, he thinks he might actually feel Robin vibrate with rage.  

“We’re probably breaking some kind of law about how many people you can have in a car,” Will says drily.  

Steve shrugs him off.  “I’ve had you and ten of your friends piled into my car a million times.  Where’s Henderson?”     

“With his dad,” Will grouses.  “He lives in Fort Wayne, but he always wants to do father-son bullshit like camping, so they aren’t even there.”  

“You sure they actually went this time?”

Will rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, for once.  Right before I move across the country.” 

In the past, Dustin has variously referred to his dad as the king of broken promises, a haver of many big ideas and doer of none, and an asshole.  To Steve’s knowledge, he’s been calling to talk about going camping for nearly a year; he doesn’t recall Dustin actually seeing him once.  

“He’ll be back this weekend,” Jonathan cuts in.  “It’s not like they’re moving to the woods.” 

“Maybe that’ll be his next grand idea.  Going off grid.”  

To Steve’s surprise, Robin pipes up.  “My parents went off grid for a while―they said it gets boring.  Plus, Dustin can just hijack a radio tower or something.  He’s already got Cerebral.” 

“Cerebro,” Will corrects automatically.  He seems almost determined to stay sullen; but curiosity must get the better of him.  Turning to Robin, he asks, “When did they do that?” 

“A year or two before I was born.  They lived in an old VW bus and like, bathed in the river and everything; then my mom got knocked up and they realized raising a baby in a car would royally suck.” 

Will wrinkles his nose.  “Bathed in the river?  Ew.” 

Jonathan glances at him, smiling.  A second later, almost perfectly in sync, he and Will say, “Brain-eating amoebas.” 

As if she’s just been reminded of―and greatly disturbed by―his presence, Robin turns to glare at Jonathan.  “What?” 

“Our mom.  She was crazy about brain-eating amoebas when we were little,” Jonathan says.  He’s not smiling anymore, which means he’s either caught a glimpse of Robin in the rearview mirror or he can feel the hatred rolling off of her in waves. 

“Among other things,” Will mumbles.

Jonathan swats at him.  “She was super protective.  I think it’s something she saw in some trashy Enquirer article and never got over.  She never wanted us to go swimming because of it.”

“Robin’s mom thinks McDonald’s causes cancer,” Steve says.  

He throws it out there, in part, because he realizes he’s been too busy glancing nervously between Robin and Jonathan to see if she’s going to reach around the seat and slit his throat to actually participate in conversation.  Maybe it’ll function as a bonding experience.

At that, El lifts her head.  Turning her wide eyes on Steve, she whispers, “Cancer?” 

“It doesn’t give you cancer,” Jonathan rushes out.  “Robin’s mom just said something crazy-”

“She isn’t crazy ,” Robin starts.  Steve cuts her off with an elbow to the ribs.  Relenting, she looks at El.  “But no, it doesn’t give you cancer.  It’s just a delicious pile of salt and grease.” 

Seemingly satisfied, El relaxes back into her seat; Will asks if they can get McDonald’s after Jonathan's appointment; and Robin resumes her attempt to bore a hole into the back of Jonathan’s head with her eyes.

 ― 

What follows is in the running for the longest hour of Steve’s life.  The only thing that comes close is the time they spent trapped under the mall; adrenaline had made most of that pass pretty quickly, all things considered.  There’s shockingly little adrenaline involved in being sandwiched between Robin and El as Jonathan drives at exactly the speed limit and Will plays “Boys Don’t Cry” for the hundredth time.  

Finally, they pull into the parking lot of the medical mall.  Jonathan points at everyone in the car in turn: “Physical therapy.  Not allowed to be home by himself.  Neurologist.”  At Robin, he hesitates.  “Neurologist?”

“I’m just his keeper,” she says, grabbing Steve’s arm with what he feels is unnecessary force.   

The neurologist is the same as the last fifty times: Steve is a model patient, touching his nose with his index finger and lifting his arms and walking heel-to-toe in a straight line down the hallway.  Like always, there’s much concerned tutting as he tries and fails to read the third line of the letter chart.  They shine a pinlight in his eyeballs and say his optic nerve looks a little swollen.  There are going to be more scans, more appointments; he can drive, but only short distances and never at night; he might need glasses.

As if she’s read his mind, the nurse whispers, “I promise they won’t ruin your good looks, hon.”  

Steve smiles and nods, the whole time knowing he’ll be taking his chances with driving and eye strain and whatever the other hazards of not wearing glasses could be.  Nevermind his good looks, though they have been carefully curated; he’d rather spend his life squinting than have something sitting on his face all day.  

Robin is in the waiting room, flipping idly through a copy of Country Living.  She claps it shut when she spots Steve.  

“I was just learning how to cook on a wood stove,” she says.    

“Guess we’ll never learn how to use ours,” Steve says apologetically.  He grabs the door for her, earning a smile and have a good day, you two from the secretary.  

Robin snorts.  “Imagine: Me, your little wifey cooking on the woodstove while you plow the fields.  We’re living in a cabin like Little House on the Prairie .  You wish, dingus.” 

“Doesn’t sound so bad.  We could have bunk beds if you wanted.” 

“Only if I get top bunk.  You’d probably roll off in the middle of the night and break your neck.” 

They wait for a while, propped against the side of Jonathan’s car; physical therapy must take a little longer than touching your nose and being mistaken for a married man.  Steve knows Jonathan must be somewhere in the vicinity when Robin goes from complaining about her parents’ friends being in town and taking her bedroom again to glaring across the parking lot.  

Jabbing a finger in his general direction, Robin hisses, “Over there.  I’m trying to kill him with my mind.” 

It actually doesn’t look like she’d need much help to do that―Jonathan and El are both just barely shuffling along, with El limping and leaning on Will for support.  Since the night of Starcourt, Steve hasn’t actually seen Jonathan outside the confines of a car for more than a few minutes.  He looks pitiful, gritting his teeth and walking more hunched over than usual.  Knowing Jonathan, it actually hurts a hell of a lot worse than he’s letting on and he just doesn’t want to scare anybody.

“For god’s sake, Rob.  He’s already injured,” Steve says, swatting her arm.   

“What do you want me to do about that?” Robin sneers.  

Steve rolls his eyes.  “I don’t know―be satisfied?”  

For most people, the walk from the physical therapist’s office to where the car is parked isn’t far; but it takes the three of them so long that Steve debates jogging ahead to help.  Maybe Jonathan could lean on him the way El is with Will.  Maybe Steve wants that for selfish reasons.  

In the end, he settles for calling out, “Do you need help?”

Immediately, Jonathan shakes his head no.  Of course he does.  

 ― 

They do end up going to McDonald’s.  Steve isn’t sure if Robin actually eats anything, or just spends the whole time glaring daggers at Jonathan.  He’s almost afraid she’ll try to interrogate him; luckily, Will and El do most of the talking.    

When El laments that she already has two Hamburglars, Will smiles and says, “I got Birdie.  You don’t have her, right?” 

El nods, shoots Will a tight-lipped smile, and tucks the toy into her pocket.  Privately, Steve wonders if they aren’t a little old for the whole Happy Meal thing, but feels guilty right after―El probably doesn’t have a concept of too old , considering.  

As if he’s read Steve’s mind, Will turns to Jonathan.  “Do you think me and El are too big for the slide?  Like, physically.”

Jonathan glances over his shoulder at the play place just outside the window, considering.  He shrugs.  “Probably not.”

Will turns to El.  “Have you ever been on a slide?”

“A slide?” El asks, cocking her head.  

Steve hasn’t spent much time around her in the last two years.  He noticed when she grew her hair out and started wearing clothes you’d see other kids wear, stuff from the Gap; he was pleasantly surprised when she asked Jonathan to play the song she likes in the car and proceeded to bob her head happily to “Material Girl;” but she still has that underlying raised by wolves quality Steve had observed in her the first time they met.  He hears it in the puzzled, almost frightened way she asks about things she doesn’t know―as if anything unfamiliar is a threat until proven otherwise.

In that way, she fits right in with the Byers.

Will grabs her hand, the two of them crawling over Jonathan and out of the booth.  

“Don’t trample any toddlers,” Jonathan warns.  “And stay where I can see you.”

“Okay, dad ,” Will groans.

After a second, El mimics him: “Okay, dad.” 

They scamper off, both grinning, as Jonathan watches.  He probably is at least a little afraid that they’ll get kidnapped; and it isn’t exactly outside the realm of possibilities.  

It’s a nice moment, the kind Steve likes seeing Jonathan in and hasn’t nearly enough: Somebody’s big brother, smiling and joking with no mention of divine obligations, of horrible things that can and will and have happened.  

The moment is cut short when Steve glances from Robin to Jonathan.  They’re locked in some weird sort of staring match, except the challenge is to look away the second before the other turns their death stare on you.  Jonathan’s isn’t so much a death stare as a look of bewilderment; but Robin has clearly resumed her earlier task of killing him with her mind.  

Clearing his throat, Steve says, “Robin, don’t you like weird music?”

Without tearing her eyes away from Jonathan, she deadpans, “Define weird.” 

“I dunno―what’d you call it, punk?”  He kicks Robin’s foot under the table before jabbing a french fry at Jonathan.  “Byers here is totally goth.  I thought you might have something in common.” 

“Goth and punk are two different things,” Robin snaps, just as Jonathan says, “I like that one Black Flag album.” 

Robin narrows her eyes.  “Which one?” 

“Um, Damaged .  It’s the only one I’ve heard of.” 

“Of course it is,” Robin says.  Somehow, she’s managing to make chewing on her straw and fiddling with the charm on her necklace look incredibly menacing.  “The Slits are better.  Steve tells me you’re into The Cure.” 

Robin says it like she’s saying she’s heard he’s into child murder, but Jonathan takes it in stride.  “Yeah.  I love The Cure.”  Glancing at Steve, he adds, “They’ve got a new album coming out at the end of the month.”  

 ― 

“ They’ve got a new album coming out at the end of the month ,” Robin squeaks for what must be the hundredth time.  “God, he is so predictable!  And you―you’re almost worse!  I can’t keep defending you, Steve.  Every time he speaks, I look over and you’re swooning around like he’s the second coming of Christ!”

She’s actually at home, under the pretense of participating in a dinner of wheat meat and a bunch of other hippie-adjacent foods Steve has never heard of with her parents and their houseguests.  Somehow, this didn’t stop her from calling Steve almost as soon as Jonathan dropped her off to debrief ; debriefing, as it turns out, mostly consists of her mocking Jonathan and Steve in turn.

The rest of the trip was uneventful―the three of them talking stiffly about music while Will introduced El to the mysterious world of slides and monkey bars and then riding home in the same tense silence as before.  As Steve, the first to be dropped off, climbed out of the car, Jonathan had smiled at him in the rearview mirror and asked if he was free to go to Dan’s tomorrow.  

He’d said yes, of course―Steve has never denied that he is, overall, pretty weak.  But he didn’t account for Robin piping up, “I’ve never been to Dan’s.  Can I come?” 

It resulted in Will and El wanting to go too, until it suddenly went from something akin to a date (if two people who know they like one another but are almost certainly not going to do anything about it going to the record store counts as a date) to another group outing.

“Remember what you said about being a cockblock?” Steve asks.  

Predictably, Robin groans in disgust.  “At this point, it’s for your own good.  You need an intervention.  I mean, you started off so strong last night, really making mama proud with the whole fucked up thing-” 

This time, it’s Steve who groans.  “And in this case, you are mama?”

“Someone has to be.  You need mothering.” 

“I’m older than you,” he protests.   

Robin scoffs.  “Mentally, girls are about five years older.  It’s been studied.” 

 ― 

Over the next two weeks, Robin mothers him through the trip to Dan’s, two more carpools to Fort Wayne, and one board game night.    

If she can help it, Steve never finds himself alone with or sitting next to Jonathan for more than a minute.  On nights she isn’t over, she makes a habit of calling.  Steve doesn’t mind it―he likes having someone to talk to while he halfheartedly flips through the HELP WANTED section and pokes at a TV dinner.  And over the last few months, Robin has grown to be his most age-appropriate best friend.  But more than once, he wonders if she’s partially doing it to keep the phone line tied up.

Eventually, circumstances out of Robin’s control―of which there don’t seem to be very many―leave Steve unattended for a full day.  When the phone rings just after three, he half expects it to be her calling from a pay phone.

“Hello?”

But the voice on the other end is exactly what Robin’s spent two weeks working against: Jonathan, asking, “Are you busy?” 

Marty has recently developed an interest in playing; Steve’s plans for the day mostly consist of trailing an old shoe string around the house and letting him catch it.  

“Not particularly.”  

“No plans with Robin?” Jonathan asks.  

“She’s out of town.  Funeral.”

“Bummer,” Jonathan says, sounding the least bummed Steve has ever heard him.  “Dan got the new Cure in early.  I was gonna go pick it up.”

Even if Steve sometimes feels that Robin’s hatred of Jonathan has taken a turn for the extreme, he has to give her some credit: He really can be so fucking predictable.  

“Cool,” Steve drawls, because he at least has enough self-respect not to play fill-in-the-blanks.   

After a pause, Jonathan says, “I thought maybe we could listen to it together.” 

Because he only has so much self-respect to spare, Steve has to bite back the urge to cave immediately.  He at least manages stalling: “At your house?” 

“All the kids are here.  I was thinking we’d drive around.” 

Steve has a―probably-misplaced―confidence in his abilities to remain in control if they’re in his house; maybe it’s because in his mind, Jonathan’s car is already marked as an unlucky spot, whereas the last time they were here was the best he’d ever felt about where things were going; or maybe it’s the ongoing demonic possession.  

Whatever it is, it makes Steve say, “You could just come over.  I’ve got a tape deck, too.” 

 ― 

For all her cockblocking, Steve wishes he could call Robin.  Increasingly, it seems like she’s right, and what she’s doing is not so much cockblocking as keeping Steve from doing something insane.  It’d taken less than twenty four hours without her for Steve to invite Jonathan to his house to listen to The Cure.  

He even gets desperate enough to entertain the thought of calling Will or Dustin before remembering they’re already at the Byers’ house, busy holding a seminar for the other kids on how to operate Cerebro once Will moves.  

The talk in the car had felt sort of like accepting defeat―a lot of could’ve, should’ve, would’ve, won’t .  End scene, roll credits.  Finished.

There was that fleeting moment when it seemed like Jonathan was leaning towards him, leaning in before Steve pulled back.  He hasn’t tried anything like it before or since; but then, he hasn’t had the opportunity to with Robin running interference.  He probably won’t try anything like that again either way.  Steve’s sure he’s already done his equivalent of wearing a hair shirt and sleeping on a stone slab for even thinking about it.  Maybe the hair shirt is driving Steve to the neurologist, and the stone slab is never saying no when Robin insists on coming.  Steve wouldn’t be surprised if that’s all this is: Jonathan’s own weird form of penance before he moves.  

So really, there’s no reason to panic.  He isn’t having Jonathan over the way he’d have a girl over―though he hasn’t done that in a million years, either, and he doesn’t know if he was ever half as nervous beforehand as he is right now.  

When the doorbell rings at 6:12 Steve actually jumps, making Marty hiss and scramble under the couch.  

It’ll be nice if one of these days Steve can open the door to see that Jonathan is still Jonathan and it doesn’t immediately feel like someone’s got their fist around his heart; but it isn’t today.  For his part, Jonathan looks giddy, shoving the cassette into Steve’s hands: The Head on the Door.  Steve’s seen the cover on a promo poster at Dan’s before, though he still can’t make out if it’s a blurry image of hands or some kind of yellow fairy.  

They make their way up the stairs, Jonathan rattling off his latest collection of facts: They’d done a world tour for The Top and released a live album; they fired their new bassist for fucking up a hotel room; but now Simon Gallup is back, which is apparently a net positive.  

Every other time Jonathan has done this, Steve thought it was a sort of compulsion, the result of being full of things to talk about without ever actually talking.  It’s only now that he thinks Jonathan seems nervous, talking fast and jittery like he’s doing it mostly for the sake of having something to talk about .  

On some level, Steve gets it―the two of them alone will probably never feel normal again.  Where it used to be easy for them to pass a night washing dishes and smoking behind the house, now every lapse into silence is unbearably tense; for someone as quiet as Jonathan, lapses into silence must be hard to avoid unless he forces himself to keep going.  

Steve keeps telling himself that every time he’s alone with Jonathan could be the last time.  And even if it’s never going to turn into some big, romantic thing―no kissing in the rain or undying proclamations of love―it doesn’t have to be painful.  

So he says, “Simon Gallup left after Pornography, right?”

Jonathan beams at him.  “Yeah, exactly.”

What he says next will be harder to play off as a simple courtesy in his recap to Robin later.  

“I know I’ve had my brain scrambled a few times since then; but I still remember most of the stuff you told me.  Lou Reed being Jewish, Robert Smith’s high school girlfriend, all that.” 

“I still remember your, um―your hair.”  Jonathan makes a sweeping gesture with his hand.  “Farrah Fawcett spray.  You said you’d kill me if I told anybody.  Do you still do that?” 

“When I feel like it,” Steve says, shrugging.  He doesn’t mention that he’s done it tonight, in a panic, about an hour before Jonathan came over; he’s sure that he can tell.

The whole thing is giving Steve a creeping sense of deja vu that only increases when the tape is in and he realizes Jonathan is hovering awkwardly in the middle of his room, trying to figure out where he’s allowed to sit.  

“You can sit wherever,” Steve says.  Once he’s pressed play, he slides down against the side of the bed to sit cross-legged on the floor; after a second, Jonathan mimics him, sitting close enough that their legs are in danger of touching.  Jonatha must notice it, too―he pulls his knees up to his chest.  

At least they won’t have to talk for a while.  

Even when he could almost hate Jonathan, Steve was never quite able to convince himself he didn’t like The Cure.  The Head on the Door is no different: It’s undeniably good, even if he spends the first track annoyed at Jonathan for pulling his legs away.  

It still sounds like sex music, though Steve has started to wonder lately if that’s just because of Robert Smith’s voice and who he associates it with.  The irony of hearing I’ve waited hours for this, I’ve made myself so sick while he sits next to Jonathan, reeking of hairspray and stealing glances at him every few lines, isn’t lost on him.  

As usual, Jonathan ends up with his eyes closed and his forehead creased in concentration.  Steve had always found it fascinating; or it might’ve been that he found it cute but didn’t have the words for that yet.  It would be cute now if it didn’t make him so fucking sad.  

He looks at Jonathan and for the hundredth time wishes that one of them was different, different in a way that might actually count for something: That Steve hadn’t stood by and laughed at Jonathan in eighth grade, or that Jonathan hadn’t run out after Steve asked him about Luke Skywalker.  That at some point in the last two years, one of them had gotten their shit together long enough to just kiss the other one.  He probably could’ve kissed Jonathan on any of those nights in his bedroom instead of talking about how mean their dads were or Holden Caulfield.  

Steve has always liked talking to Jonathan, listening to music together; but it was never all he wanted.  It probably never will be that simple again, even with half a country between them.  He’ll just see guys who look like Jonathan at the grocery store or at stoplights and, for a second, get the same weird pang in his chest.  

 ― 

Steve isn’t sure how long they sit in the floor after the tape ends; just that the light filtering through his blinds goes orange, then gray, then disappears completely so that the room is dark except for his desk lamp.

Jonathan speaks up first.  “Are we still in a fight?” 

Steve had been expecting more dead air filler, something about the production or the mixing on the guitar.  At some point, he’d pulled his knees up to his chest too; he rests his chin on top of them, contemplating.  

They’d never really made up; Jonathan never really said sorry; and Steve is still mad at him, when he can force himself to be.

“Maybe.” 

“I don’t wanna be,” Jonathan says.  He huffs, squeezes his eyes shut again.  “I know I need to apologize.  I really do keep meaning to.  Then we end up arguing and I just- I don’t know, it’s like I turn into this stupid little animal.  I know it sounds ridiculous; but I get scared and forget what I wanna say.” 

Steve swallows.  “You could say it now.  I’ll try not to argue.” 

Jonathan pivots towards him, unfolding his legs.  “I know I bring Will up all the time.  And it’s not that I’m trying to use him as an excuse for being an asshole, okay?  But my entire life has kind of revolved around him.  He was the only friend I had before you; and I know I’ve told you about that.  How I felt like I needed to keep him safe.  So I could justify hanging out with him, having fun with him―because that was part of it.  I was keeping him happy.

“And then with you, I don’t know…I didn’t even like you at first, but you just wouldn’t leave me alone.  I kept thinking you would, that you’d get sick of hanging out with someone that didn’t even know how to have friends.  But you just kept calling.  Kept coming over.  

“So I started to like you, really like you; and I just knew that once you figured that out, we wouldn’t be friends anymore.  Then you figured it out anyways and still wanted to be my friend and I just- I couldn’t do that; and then last year, when you said all that stuff to me about what you…what you wanted, I couldn’t do that either.  It feels like I’ve already let myself do too much just talking to you about it.  But I just don’t want to move and have you think that I never- that being friends with you wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had.  That I didn’t like you just as much, because I did, I do.  And I’m sorry, Steve.  Really.” 

True to his word, Steve doesn’t argue; he can’t, really.  It almost feels like something he’d make up, Jonathan saying everything he wants to hear in the exact order Steve wants to hear it.

It’d probably be worse than arguing to do what he really wants to in the moment, which is yank Jonathan over to him by the collar of his shirt―another layer of complication just after Jonathan lays everything bare.  

So the talk in the car really wasn’t them accepting defeat: This is.  This is I like you and you like me and I’m moving two thousand miles away.  Sorry, Steve; bye, Steve.

There’s no argument to remedy the inevitable, no more point in getting mean.  Quietly, Steve says, “I liked being your friend, Byers.  I wish we would’ve been friends sooner.” 

Jonathan smiles, close-mouthed and tight.  “Me too.”  He stands up―with a groan, Steve notices, one hand flying briefly to his ribs.  He ejects the tape, taking longer than Steve thinks is entirely necessary to pop it back into the case.  Finally, rolling his shoulders, he says, “I should probably get home.  Kids needing rides, y’know.”

Steve nods, pulling himself to his feet.  “I’m counting down the days ‘til Henderson gets his license.  He owes me big time.  It’s gonna be a bitch without you here to split chauffeur duty.” 

“I’m gonna do enough driving to last me the rest of my life soon.  Mom has this whole scenic route planned.  I’ll send you a postcard from The Spam Museum.” 

“I always wanted to do that.  Not the Spam part―but like, The Great American Road Trip.”

The night is ending on a better note than Steve had hoped for; so he doesn’t add, I wanted to do it with the wife and kids I used to want before you fucked up my life.  

“I could call and tell you if it’s worth it after.  I think the government’s gonna be gracious enough to let us have a phone.  I mean, there’ll be a time difference-”

Steve interjects, “I’d like that.  I can listen to you do whatever people in California do.”  

Steve really would like for Jonathan to call.  Just now, he’d also like for him to get the hell out, because it’s starting to feel like when a girl turns you down and then goes on at length about how you can still be friends.  Steve just wants to hold onto the fact that Jonathan likes him―present tense―for a little bit longer.  

He walks Jonathan to the door, resisting the urge to push him out.  It’s getting harder by the minute to delude himself into thinking this is the preferred ending and not a complete nightmare, and if he’s going to cry he’d really like to be alone.

At the last minute, Jonathan turns back.  Not to make any grand declarations, but to ask, “Do you need a ride to Fort Wayne this week?  Me and El graduated PT, but I mean, I don’t have anything else going on.” 

Steve shakes his head.  “I can drive in the daytime now.  Thanks, though.” 

For a split second, Jonathan looks wounded; or maybe Steve hopes he does.  

“Alright.  Well, I’m sure I’ll see you at some point.”

Steve manages a strained smile.  “For sure.” 

“Have a good night,” Jonathan says, nodding jerkily.  

“You too, man.” 

 ― 

Steve doesn’t start crying when the door shuts; but he feels like he’s coming out of a trance.  

He doesn’t know when he got so docile.  He supposes part of it’s noble enough: Steve doesn’t like the idea of anything he does making Jonathan feel like a scared little animal.  But kissing isn’t arguing, even if he sometimes feels like kissing Jonathan would be a good way to settle the score.  And he’s almost certain, this time more than ever, that he could’ve kissed Jonathan a dozen different times tonight.  He’d almost seemed to be hoping for it, finding ways to stall.    

If Robin was here, she’d say that it’s because he’s taking the mature route, avoiding heartbreak a month from now.  But it feels a hell of a lot like a punishment, depriving himself when he knows Future Steve is going to end up miserable either way.  Present Steve could’ve at least had a month or a night or an instance of kissing Jonathan first, instead of wondering what it’d be like for the rest of his life.  

He’s supposed to be Steve fucking Harrington , for Christ’s sake, even if that doesn’t really mean anything anymore.  He’s not a martyr, a hair-shirt wearer; he’s not Jonathan .  He just likes Jonathan, so much that it makes him feel a little insane.  Just now, Steve wants to tell Jonathan how much he likes him, and touch him, and once, just once, he wants it not to hurt.  

He’s halfway to grabbing his car keys when there’s a knock on the door. 

It’s Jonathan―just Jonathan, who’s never really been just Jonathan, even when Steve could hardly remember his name.  

For once, Steve stamps out the thought that he must’ve forgotten his keys in Steve’s room and lets himself think that maybe, for the first time, what they want and what they’re going to allow themselves to do has finally lined up.  

He isn’t sure how he knows.  Jonathan doesn’t look particularly dramatic.  He doesn’t pull Steve in and kiss him on the porch in front of God and everyone.  He says, “Can I come in?” and when Steve nods, he pauses to wipe his shoes on the mat first.  

Steve is frantically trying to organize his thoughts, which are currently buzzing around his skull like a swarm of bees: I like you.  You like me.  Kiss?  Yes, kissing.  We should try it.  

He’s never really accounted for the possibility of Jonathan kissing him first.  It just didn’t fit into their dynamic: Jonathan being the one who runs and Steve being the one who always, without fail, chases.  Privately, Steve has always thought it’s possible that Jonathan has never kissed anyone before.  At some point, it’d just become a part of the reconciliation fantasy: Big tearful apology; profession of feelings; Steve leans in for the big one. 

Jonathan waits until the door is shut and locked behind them; but he kisses Steve first, with an audible, shuddery intake of breath before leaning in so fast that Steve can barely tell what’s happening.  Jonathan kisses Steve like somebody who fears the consequences of kissing, holding himself rigid like he expects to be pushed away.  There’s no arm sliding around Steve’s waist, no hand coming up to cup his cheek.  It can’t last more than a few seconds, and the first word out of his mouth is, “Sorry.” 

And Steve wants to do it again.  Exactly like that if he has to, with Jonathan barely kissing back even if he was the one who started it.  

So he leans in, one hand fisted in the front of Jonathan’s t-shirt, and does.

Chapter Text

Here is the part where everyone was happy all the time and we were all

               forgiven,

even though we didn’t deserve it.

-Richard Siken, “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”

― 

Jonathan really does have to go: Half the kids didn’t bring their bikes because Barb and Nancy drove them over and it’s supposed to start raining soon.  They shouldn’t even bother moving out of the foyer; they certainly shouldn’t start stumbling backwards, towards the stairs.  

Jonathan is still kissing like it’s entirely alien to him, with his mouth shut tight and his arms shaking so hard that Steve can feel it; but he can only feel it because those arms are looped around his neck, and he didn’t even have to put them there.  That has to count for something.  

Steve almost wants to pull back, to ask if he’s okay.  But Jonathan might clam up if he does that, get prickly and take it to mean Steve wants to stop; so instead, he rests a hand on Jonathan’s hip and when it isn’t met with a flinch, he leaves it there.     

Jonathan’s feet clear the bottom step―even without the added height, he’s taller than Steve is used to―and Steve is just about to try shuffling him backwards, to see how far they can get up the stairs without having to stop, when there’s a thunderclap and the unmistakable sound of pouring, driving rain against the roof.  

Steve is tempted to keep going, to say wait it out here.  

But Jonathan pulls back―jumps back, almost, so that he stumbles and has to catch himself on the railing.  He’s red-cheeked and blinking rapidly, as if he’s readjusting the light.  Beyond that, his face doesn’t really give Steve anything to work with―his mouth is set in a thin, flat line, not exactly smiilng or grimacing.  He seems incapable of holding eye contact, though Steve is used to that by now.  

After a few seconds, Jonathan clears his throat and says, “I should go.”

Maybe the storm is a sign from God: He kissed you.  Don’t push your luck.  Although, from what Steve knows about God (which is hardly anything), it doesn’t seem like he’s in the business of helping you out once you finally make a move on another guy.

Steve nods.  “I guess you should.  Can’t let the little shits walk home in this―if Henderson gets sick it’ll mess with his crypto-cranial thing.” 

“Dustin’s probably not leaving.  Not unless we force him to.”  Jonathan hops off the stairs.  Steve steps aside, letting him pass; he’d like to reach out, try to catch Jonathan’s hand while he’s still close enough.  Do something cutesy like pull him back in for another quick kiss or just plant one on the top of his head, since he guesses he’s allowed to do that now.  But Jonathan’s already got one hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding his keys.  “I guess I won’t let Max and Lucas get struck by lightning, though.” 

“What about Mike?” 

Steve’s had to hear all about Mike’s continued antics from Will and Dustin: He doesn’t talk to anybody, doesn’t hang out with anybody.  He’s obsessed with swapping spit with El at every opportunity.  Steve tries to be a voice of reason, partly owing to the boys’ habit of directly quoting him to each other to prove a point; but it really does seem normal that Mike would be glued to his girlfriend now, in the aftermath of Starcourt.  Of Hopper.  

Of course, he’s always met with an argument: It’s been like this since last year.  He ditched Dustin on his first day home from camp, a sore spot that’s been revisited both thoroughly and often.  He never wants to play DND anymore.  Eventually, Steve will concede that it’s lame or bogus of him―both things that have already been carried back to Mike in prior arguments, to be thrown back at Steve a few weeks later during Risk or Monopoly once they’ve all made up.

He’s sure Jonathan has heard similar; maybe more, since El is living with them now.  Mostly, it’s something to talk about.  Something to keep Jonathan here a little bit longer, before today inevitably falls off the constantly-dwindling calendar of days until he moves across the country.        

Jonathan throws a mock salute.  “Godspeed to him.”   

Steve knows he could ask him to stay the night, to come back after he takes the kids home; or he could go to the Byers' house, park at the church the way he used to.  He’d even sleep in the floor.  

There’s more thunder, loud and close enough to rattle the shutters: Don’t push your luck.

But he has to push it a little, doesn’t he?  God, in His infinite wisdom, must understand concepts like running out of time.  

So Steve crosses the foyer and says, “Wanna go to Dan’s tomorrow?  For more road trip tapes?”

And when Jonathan shakes his head and says, “Sure,” Steve kisses him―only once, fast and close-mouthed―and holds the door open for him on his way out.  

 ―

The phone rings just after nine.  Steve half-hopes it’s Jonathan, half-hopes that it isn’t: It’s been just long enough that he could’ve taxied everyone home, reflected on what they’d done, and decided it’s an affront to his destiny of dying alone and miserable.  

More likely than not, it’s his parents making their obligate Call of the Trip; they’re in Michigan for the week, Steve thinks, or maybe Ohio―for what, he isn’t sure.  Most of the time, he’s not entirely convinced that they’re going where they say they are, or actually going together.    

But if it is Jonathan, there’s a chance that he’s just calling to say he wants to listen to tapes and fall asleep on the phone together; better yet, to say come over, stay the night .  Steve wouldn’t object to that.

He’s in the middle of making a grilled cheese―he uses that for a few rings worth of stalling, giving it a final flip and grabbing a paper plate and swiping his hands on a dish towel before he makes his way across the kitchen to grab the phone.

Robin’s voice on the other end is a pleasant surprise.  

“I thought you were going to let me go to the machine,” she says, clearly insulted. 

“I thought you were at a funeral,” Steve shoots back.  “And I was making a sandwich.”

“What kind?”

“Grilled cheese.”

“Kraft singles?” she asks.  Steve can hear the slightest snarl in her voice.

Defensively, he asks, “What else can you use?”

“Every single one of those is wrapped in plastic, Steve.  The waste alone is horrific―not to mention the ingredients.  And the taste- ”

“Sorry.  I forgot I was talking to the president of Greenpeace.  Are Kraft singles gonna give me cancer, too?”

“No.  They’ll just be destroying the planet while the literal cancer sticks you insist on smoking give you cancer.  And don’t tell me that I sound like my mother, because I was trapped in a car with her for six hours today.  Anything I say has been absorbed via forced osmosis.”  

“Well I’ll have you and your mom know that Kraft Singles contain the calcium of five ounces of milk.”  He reads the last bit straight from the wrapper, making sure to sound as indignant as possible.  “Where are you now?”

“Hell,” Robin says curtly.  “But officially, we’re somewhere near Owensboro, Kentucky.  Hard to tell the difference.  We’re staying at Mitch and Brenda’s―they’re the organic farmers , remember?”   

The first time Robin used that term, even though it came complete with air quotes and waggling eyebrows, Steve hadn’t gotten it until she spelled it out: “Weed, Steve.  Cannabis.  Marijuana .” 

At least he’s hip to it, now.  He hums in the affirmative.  “Bringing any back with you?”

“I’m sure my parents will.  They’re getting some air on the patio right now.”

“And you’re not partaking?”

“I think if I go out there they’ll pretend it’s just cigarettes.  And I don’t want to partake; I wanna talk on the phone with my dear friend Steve.”  

It's not that Robin’s a complete narc.  She’d told Steve, back when they first became friends outside of Scoops Ahoy or being tortured together, that it’s called being straight edge: “Ian MacKaye said it best: Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t fuck.  Not like the don’t fuck part is hard for me to do here, anyways.”      

She’s insistent that it isn’t about self-flagellation, but staying clear-headed and thinking for yourself; Steve thinks it sounds an awful lot like that Nancy Reagan JUST SAY NO bullshit they sometimes show ahead of the previews at the movie theater.  But he can’t deny that it’s nice to have a friend―one that isn’t thirteen―who’s into more than just getting drunk and loitering in parking lots.  Steve’s not supposed to be drinking anyways; neurologists’ orders, due to something about his intracranial pressure.   

Like a lot of things about Robin, it was the same thing he’d liked about Jonathan, the insistence that he didn’t want to smell someone’s beer breath echoing in Steve’s head whenever Robin snatches up a cigarette butt he’s flicked aside and disgustedly calls it a cancer stick.  

Still, he’s obligated to snort and say, “You’re a complete square, Rob.” 

She doesn’t rise to the bait.  “How’s my nephew?”

“Good.  We’ve been playing shoestring.”  He doesn’t mention that they only started playing shoestring about a half hour ago, because up to then Marty was cowering behind the TV stand.  He’d wedged himself there at the sound of Jonathan’s car pulling into the driveway.  “How was the funeral?”

“Oh, you know.  Party of the century.  Great food, hot babes.”

“Weed.” 

“Only for the after party,” Robin trills.  “Hold on―I’m taking you to the living room.”  There’s the squeak of a chair scraping back, followed by Robin muttering to herself as she presumably drags the corded phone around a corner and the squeal of couch springs as she plops down.    “I’ve reached my destination.  What’d you do today?”

“Hung around the house.  Shoestring with Marty, like I said.  Will and Henderson are busy with Cerebro.”

He’d really rather not tell her the rest, at least not over the phone.  Maybe not at all. 

Hating Jonathan had almost seemed like a joke at first, something for Steve’s benefit; but in two weeks of being around both of them more often than not, Steve hasn’t noticed her softening on him.  Even Jonathan bringing up an artist they both like or offering to pay for her lunch is met with glares at his turned back and unimpressed scoffs.  

They chat about Cerebro for a while, the logistics of it and whether it’ll really revolutionize everything and save the kids the cost of long distance phone calls; privately, Steve wonders if he should ask Dustin to show him how it works.  Robin talks about the funeral and the guy it was for, who she says “isn’t her uncle but they always called him that even though I only met him, like, three times.”   

She thinks he must be the guy whose van was parked next to her parents’ in their year off-grid, an old neighbor of sorts.    

By the time Robin slips in, “How was Jonathan?” it’s so casual―so calm, cool, and collected―that Steve automatically responds with, “Good” before he can even consider the implications.

“I knew it! ” she shrieks.

Steve stammers, backpedaling: “I mean, I guess he’s good.  God, I don’t know.  I mean- are you- are you fucking psychic or something?”  

“I don’t need to be a psychic, Steve―I knew I couldn’t trust you!  I’ve been gone for one day.”  Somehow, he can sense that she’s throwing her hands up in exasperation.  Voice lowered, she asks, “Did anything happen?” 

He might as well; maybe the six hour car ride back will give her enough time to cool down.  Steve starts, “Well-”

Immediately, Robin cuts him off, groaning.  “Oh, God.  It did.  I feel sick.”

He exhales, slow and steady, through his nose.

“He kissed me.” 

“And?” Robin prompts. 

“I don’t know.  We kissed, and then he had to go so he left.  It was like, five minutes.”  The silence on the other end of the line is so complete that Steve can almost hear the static crackling between them.  Hurriedly, he adds, “He said he was sorry first.  He seemed really sorry.” 

“He’s seemed really sorry lots of times,” Robin snaps.  

Steve’s only met Mrs. Buckley a few times, running into her at the mailbox when he’s picking Robin up or her waving from the porch when he drops her off.  He certainly doesn’t know her well enough to say with any conviction if Robin sounds like her mother; but she sounds like a mother, disappointed and disapproving.    

And he can’t take it, just now―not from Robin, the one person he can even tell this happened, the one person besides Jonathan who can make it feel real.  

His grilled cheese is on the counter, gone cold.  For a while, he mulls over what to say and fills the silence by picking at it, flicking away a burnt piece and debating just sliding it into the trash can.

The best he can come up with is, “Rob.  Don’t be mad at me.  Please.” 

On the other side, Robin sighs.  “I’m not mad at you.  I’m… cautious for you.”  There’s another sigh.  She continues―through her teeth, it sounds like―“Personal distaste aside: He’s moving to California, Steve.  Soon.”  

“I know.  We talked about it.  Sort of.” 

“Sort of?” 

“I mean, we both understand reality; but I also wanna be happy and pretend everything is normal for a month.  Not that this is- I know it isn’t normal, really.  It’s never been like this before.  I don’t even know what it’ll be like.”  Steve swallows.  “I just wanna be happy, Rob.  For a while.”  

Marty strolls into the kitchen, flopping over to rub himself against Steve’s pant-leg; he stoops down to scratch him and considers putting the phone up to Marty’s face, to see if Robin can hear him purring.  A diversion, a change of subject.  

Steve never thought he’d like someone the way he does Jonathan again.  And he doesn’t like Robin that way: In the way that, to most people, counts for something.  

But he likes her in the way that he wants to talk to her every single day and drive around aimlessly listening to tapes together; wants her opinion on shirts he buys and the few things he attempts to cook; gets a surge in his chest when she hugs him or kisses his forehead or holds his hand that isn’t what he’s felt with other girls or Jonathan.  It’s somewhere on the border of the brother-feeling of Dustin and Will and what he had with Carol a million years ago―sister-feeling, he guesses.  

Steve is desperate to keep it.  To live in a world where, for one month, he gets Robin and Dustin and Will and Jonathan and nobody dies or disappears, of their own volition or otherwise.  No monsters, no Russian soldiers; just rented movies and McDonald’s french fries and a few more trips to Fort Wayne, if they have to.  

After what feels like an eternity, Robin says, “I want you to be happy too.  That’s why I’m worried.  Because I care about you, dingus.  And I don’t like the idea of Jonathan Byers, of all people, having the power to ruin your life.  Again.” 

Her voice is lighter somehow.  Softer.  

For now, Steve can take that as a win.

“I’m not gonna let him ruin my life again.  You won’t let me do anything that stupid.“  It isn’t true, of course: He did something stupid as soon as Robin’s back was turned, something that set him firmly on a trajectory toward the life-ruining.  But Robin breathes a laugh, so he adds, teasing, “You called me your loved one in the hospital.  I heard you.  You love me.”  

“You sound like a kindergartener.  Next you’ll accuse me of having cooties,” Robin scoffs.  “And so what if I do?  You love me too.  I know it.” 

Steve allows himself to exhale―one crisis averted, for now.  “You caught me.  I do.  Marty, too.  He keeps headbutting the phone.”  

“He wants to see Aunt Robin.  Don’t you, Mart?” she coos, as if he’ll be able to hear her.  “He says you let the evil man come over in my absence.”

“He hides from him,” Steve says, hoping to reassure her of her status as favorite.

Robin tuts.  “He’s smarter than you, then.” 

 ― 

Jonathan is the same as always, sliding into the passenger seat of Steve’s car with a tight-lipped smile and making idle conversation about a movie he watched with the kids last night the whole way there.  Steve hms and ahs along, the whole time thinking how he’d like to rest his free hand on his knee. 

He doesn’t.  Increasingly, it feels like last night was a weird fever dream and Jonathan is determined to treat it as such.  Once the car is parked, he’s out of his seat half-jogging towards the record store before Steve can even begin to debate whether it’s safe to lean over and kiss him―just once, quickly, to see if he still can.

Dan’s is the same as always, too: Dusty shelves sagging beneath the weight of box after box of records and tapes; the smell a cross between the library and a musty basement; a display rack of candy and beef jerky of questionable freshness.  Jonathan trots off on his own to exhaustively comb through the same shelves he probably combed through yesterday; but he shoots Steve a grin over his shoulder first.  

Steve decides he’ll take that, for now, and wanders over to the new arrivals.  

The Head on the Door is front and center, as new as new gets, with John Mellencamp and Neil Young on either side of it.  Jonathan already shot both of those down on previous visits.  Thankfully, he’s stopped doing that weird thing where he pretends to like anything Steve might; he’d called John Mellencamp a goofball and curled his lip at Neil Young, neither of which Steve minds terribly.  

When he was little, he always liked how his dad would get sentimental after a few drinks and play “Heart of Gold.”  Sometimes he would even dance Steve’s mom around the kitchen, letting Steve slip in between them to stand on his feet.  

He wonders, not for the first time, if Jonathan ever had his own dancing around the kitchen; except for memories of Will, he doesn’t talk about being little.  He told Steve once, during that era of smoking behind the house, that he doesn’t really remember it:  “It’s like I blinked and next thing I knew, I was fourteen.” 

In the aftermath of Billy Hargrove and Starcourt, Steve’s memory has gotten progressively worse.  Mostly it’s the small stuff: He loses his keys and forgets to switch the laundry over, brings himself almost to tears from frustration if he goes to the grocery store without a list.  Sometimes he scares himself by forgetting Dustin’s middle name or Robin’s house number, though only for a few seconds―he has to wrack his brain a hell of a lot harder than most people, harder than he ever used to.  

But he remembers being a little kid and standing on his dad’s feet, the smell of whiskey breath and his mom’s perfume.  

It’s been a long time since his dad had a glass of whiskey and let Steve pick a movie for everyone to watch without it feeling like a sort of trap; but he thinks his mom's perfume is the same.  Sometimes, when the search for his keys gets especially desperate, he opens the door of his parents’ room and the smell hits him like walking into a wall, like unsealing a tomb.

He knows Jonathan hates the smell of beer now; but was there a time when he smelled it and thought dad’s gonna be fun tonight ?  Was there a time when he and Steve were more alike than not?  And, having missed that window, is this the best it’ll ever get―stilted kissing in the foyer and avoidance in the aftermath, a desire to touch stopped by the fear that it’ll be jerked away from?

Steve doesn’t want to think so.  He grasps for that Steve fucking Harrington feeling from last night, the one that made him grab his keys to begin with.  The one that propelled him towards Jonathan and made everything else feel unimportant in comparison, time and California and the way Jonathan wouldn’t open his mouth into the kiss no matter what Steve tried.

He hears Robin talking about caution and stamps it out.  He can walk over to Jonathan and rest his chin on his shoulder, toss an arm around him, in the relative emptiness of Dan’s.  He’s allowed that much until Jonathan says otherwise.  

In the end, maybe that’s what keeps him rooted to the spot: The nagging feeling that Jonathan is going to say otherwise, and soon.  

Either way, a voice from behind snaps him out of his thoughts and ruins his plans.  

“Steve Harrington, is that you?” 

Ms. Click, like a lot of people, called him up in the aftermath of Starcourt.  She sent a card and a fruit basket and offered half a hundred times to bring him dinner, in phone calls and messages on the machine.  Steve didn’t want to avoid her; but he didn’t like explaining to his parents who Lucy Click was or the cold way his dad, a few drinks in, had said, “So you actually were going to school.  I’d started to wonder.” 

She’s in full Lucy mode today, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with her hair held back from her face by a pair of sunglasses.  There’s an empty tupperware container in one of her hands.  She sets it on the nearest shelf and pulls him into a hug, murmuring, “How’ve you been?” into his hair.

“Good.”  When she pulls back, still holding him by the shoulders with her eyebrows raised in disbelief, he amends, “Better.  Working on it, y’know.”

“I bet.”  Seemingly satisfied, he releases his shoulders.  “What’s new?”

Steve shrugs, buying time because he can’t say, well gee, Ms. Click.  I got tortured.  My brain is officially toast―even more than before.  Oh, remember how you said Jonathan Byers was good for me?  I kissed him last night.  He’s in here somewhere, hiding from me so I don’t do it again.  

In the end, he manages, “I got a cat.”

At that, Ms. Click claps her hands together.  “The first cat!  You really are a grown up.  What’s his name?”

The first―it isn't lost on him, though he probably wouldn’t mind having five if they were all like Marty. 

“Marty.  Like Marty McFly.”  When that’s met with a blank look, he adds, “ Back to the Future.  It came out this summer.  That Alex P. Keaton guy’s in it.”

At the clarification, Ms. Click waves her hand dismissively.  “Oh, we don’t go to the movies.  Too old.  I’ll rent it when it comes out on tape.”

Before Steve has time to ask who we is―he doubts the cats would go to the movies regardless―Jonathan rounds the corner empty-handed.   Ms. Click spots him first, pulling him into a hug and already asking how he is, how his brother is.  

Perhaps childishly, Steve has always felt territorial over Ms. Click.  Jonathan got to be the prodigy in class, the one whose essay on Jude won second place in a state competition; so Steve should get to be the only one she calls her buddy and asks to house sit for her over the summer.  When they weren’t talking for the majority of senior year, he’d been especially resentful of any mention of Jonathan borrowing another non-assignment book or stopping by the classroom during lunch, though he always scurried off at the sight of Steve.

Belatedly, Steve wonders if the Byers got a fruit basket too.

But soon, Ms. Click is back to fussing over each of them in turn.  She’s delighted to see both of them alive and in one piece, and even more so that it’s here, and most of all that they’re together; she wants them to come for dinner tomorrow, and she’ll make whatever they’d like if they bring a picture of Marty.  Steve agrees to lasagna and a polaroid while Jonathan nods along.  

Ms. Click leaves them with a hug apiece and an invitation for Will to come too, if he wants, so she can get to know him.  “I’m sure he’ll be in my Honors class next year if he’s anything like his brother.”

They watch her go in silence, the earlier we clicking for Steve as Dan appears to walk her out and stoops over to kiss her cheek at the door.  

“Huh,” Steve says. 

He turns to Jonathan, who doesn’t look nearly as surprised as he should.  He shrugs and says, “I figured.  She’s in here all the time.”   

“ I’m in here all the time," Steve objects.  "I’ve only run into her, like, once.”  

“Place is open from ten to six.  You never ran into me either.”

He’d actually seen Jonathan’s Galaxie parked out front quite a few times over the past year.  It always made him turn around and go home.  He’s sure―or he’d like to think―that Jonathan saw the BMW and did the same. 

“How come she doesn’t know you’re moving?” Steve asks.  

“We’re not close personal friends like you two are.”

Steve jabs an elbow at him for that, which Jonathan dodges.  “Me and Lucy ate lunch together every day for a year and a half.  I even watched her cats once.  Last summer.”

“Dustin told me about that,” Jonathan says.  “Or  well, he told Will about it.  I heard your name so I…”

He trails off, gesturing vaguely with his hands.  

“Eavesdropped?” Steve suggests.

Jonathan looks down, blushing, eyes on his shoes.  “I guess.” 

“Weirdo.”

Quietly, Jonathan says, “You like it.” 

Steve can’t argue with him there.     

 ― 

They leave Dan’s with nothing to show for it but the dinner invitation, Jonathan conceding that, “I think I’ve looked at every tape in there a hundred times by now.  I even got desperate enough to look at pop. ”

Steve rolls his eyes.  “God forbid: Music that other people would enjoy listening to.”  

“It’ll just be me and Will in the car.  He’s got good taste.”

“ Your taste, you mean.”

Since knowing him, Steve’s learned that Will has a lot of things that are his own― Dungeons and Dragons, Lord of the Rings, drawing .  But at the core of it all―if you were to ask him what he thinks is the best of the best―is Jonathan.  Steve knows it was Jonathan who showed Will Bladerunner and made him a mixtape with “Boys Don’t Cry” on it, that it was Jonathan talking when Will called the ending of The Breakfast Club “saccharine.” 

Jonathan has that effect on people.  He’s the reason Steve’s car has Pornography in the cassette player instead of the new John Mellencamp.  Even if he kisses like an alien and hunches over when he walks, the one thing Jonathan’s undoubtedly confident in is his superior taste in movies and music.  Robin has called it obscure for the sake of being obscure ; Steve is kind enough not to point out that her favorite movie is Dr. Zhivago and half the bands she listens to are so niche they don’t even have tapes for sale at Dan’s.

With a snort, Jonathan says, “Like I said: Good taste.” 

Point proven.

Something about running out of time, about trying to be Steve fucking Harrington again, about it having been two hours without so much as touching each other when it’s all he wants to do, makes Steve ask, “In everything?  What about guys?” 

Jonathan looks him over.  “Decent, at least.”  

It’s the closest he’s gotten to flirting; and there’s acknowledgement there, of what’s going on.  Of what’s already happened.  

Then, eyes darting away, Jonathan blurts, “Wanna go back to my house?”

 ―

The Byers’ house is empty.  Not just of people―though Will and Dustin are out somewhere together, Joyce is working out a notice at Melvald’s, and El is at Max’s.  The loveseat is gone and the kitchen table, for once, isn’t covered in a layer of bills and homework.  The hallway is devoid of baby pictures and knick knack shelves, with only the nail-holes to show where they once were.  The starkest difference is in Jonathan's room: It's stripped almost bare, posters rolled up in tubes and most of the contents of his bookshelves already in boxes.

“Jesus,” Steve breathes.  

Jonathan stops short behind him in the doorway.  “Weird, right?”

“Really fucking weird.”  

Jonathan nudges past him, already making for his tape deck.  “I just wanted to get it over with.  No use pretending things are normal.” 

Could’ve fooled me.  

Like he’s read Steve’s mind, Jonathan clears his throat.  Changes the subject.  

“I haven’t packed my cassettes yet, if you wanna listen to something.” 

Jonathan may not want to pretend most things are normal; but as Steve sinks cross-legged onto the bed and Jonathan puts on Vashti Bunyan, it sure feels like he’s making a valiant effort.  

There are a few key differences today, beyond the blank walls and empty shelves.  First, Jonathan sits down right next to Steve, their knees touching, and doesn’t pull away.  Then, somewhere around “Swallow Song,” Steve loops their ankles together.  Jonathan keeps trying to sneak glances at him, looking up through his bangs; though the sneaking fails, largely because Steve is already staring at him.  

Finally, he asks, “What, Byers?” 

Automatically, Jonathan says, “Nothing.” 

“No, something.  Obviously.” 

“I’m just- I’m looking.  I don’t know.” 

“I’m looking, too.  It’s not a secret.  You already kissed me.” 

Suddenly, with a sigh, Jonathan flops backward onto the bed.  

Steve follows him down, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling.  It’s a view he’s familiar with, individual water stains and uneven bits memorized through months of lying awake on the floor.  The view isn’t much different from the bed, except that when he turns his head to the side he’s forehead-to-forehead with Jonathan instead of the dust ruffle.  

“You already kissed me,” Steve repeats.

Jonathan stares past him, not meeting his eyes as he whispers, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

Here it comes, Steve thinks: I don’t know what I’m doing.  I experienced a fit of temporary insanity that clouded my judgment and forced me to kiss you.       

Figuring he might as well beat him to the punch, Steve says, “We don’t have to do it again.” 

That gets Jonathan to look at him, at least.  “You don’t want to?”

“It seems like you don’t-”

“Of course I want to,” Jonathan rushes out.  “It’s just- I- I’ve never.  Before last night.” 

Steve’s heart, which has been steadily clawing its way up his throat since Jonathan started talking, slams to a stop.  Jesus Christ, he thinks, this is all so dramatic.  Maybe it’s his fault for expecting anything less from someone who took two years and a handful of pseudo-breakups just to plant one on him.  

Steve feels like he can make it easy, going forward, now that they’ve moved beyond dancing around each other and talking endlessly in double-speak.  You want to kiss me, I want to kiss you : Even for Jonathan, how difficult can that be? 

Nonchalant, Steve says, “With a guy?  I haven’t either.”   

Jonathan is looking past him again.

“With anybody.” 

Steve has thought it before, secretly; but the confirmation of it as fact and not just something he hoped was true makes the idea seem ridiculous.  Jonathan may be quiet, and awkward, and generally unapproachable―but surely someone besides Steve is into that sort of thing.  There has to have been some doggedly determined girl in the past who latched onto his bowlcut and his weird music, wore him down until she got a kiss or two after photographing a basketball game.  

Steve wants to make this easy; he wants to stop talking , he really does.  But he can’t stop himself from saying, “Bullshit.”

“I’m serious,” Jonathan says, and it sounds so pained that Steve believes him.  “I- I landed on Barb Holland once, in spin the bottle.  Eighth grade.  Everyone was playing during a journalism retreat and they said we all had to go at least once.  I thought I was going to pass out, but she just stage-kissed me.”   

“Stage-kissed?” 

“You put your thumb between your mouths so they don’t really touch.  It tricks the audience if you turn your heads right.”  Jonathan splays a hand out on the side of his own face, demonstrating.  “Kind of like this.” 

What Steve says next is the kind of move that would work on a girl; he thinks it might even work on Jonathan, weird as he is.  It could make things easier. 

“Show me.” 

It works.  

Jonathan shuffles over to him, propped up on one elbow with his other hand behind Steve’s ear and his thumb covering Steve’s lips; after a few seconds, Steve slides his hand away.  They’re so close that what he says next is almost directly into Jonathan’s mouth: “Can I real kiss you now?”

Slowly, Jonathan starts to nod.  It knocks their foreheads together.  

“Yeah.  Yeah, you can.”

 ― 

For the rest of the night, they don’t talk much; Jonathan still kisses with his mouth closed and Steve finds he minds it less and less, because at least he’s kissing back.  

The next day, during their lasagna dinner, Ms. Click offers them both a glass of wine, which Jonathan turns down immediately and Steve sips at just enough to be polite.  

Up to this point, his drinking scope has been limited to beer and the occasional whiskey stolen from somebody’s father.  His mom used to have a glass at restaurants sometimes, on birthdays or anniversaries.  He doesn’t know how she choked it down; it tastes, to him, like the worst parts of cheese and over-ripe fruit.

Ms. Click has a glass or two herself, holding it by the stem as she tells Steve to get Marty a scratcher and some catnip, and something he can perch on to look out the window.  “It’s like TV for them,” she insists.

“He loves looking at birds,” Steve agrees.  “He makes this weird noise-”

“Chirping?”

“Yeah, exactly!”

“Oh, cats,” Ms. Click sighs, settling back into her chair.  

Steve is inclined to agree: Besides the obvious, Marty has been the most exciting part of the last month and change.  He’s warmed up to people besides Steve and Robin by degrees, has just gotten to the point of creeping up between Will and Dustin on the couch or rubbing himself against Jonathan’s legs.  Robin resents this, of course; but Steve reassures her that she’s still his only aunt.  

The picture Jonathan took of Marty this afternoon (staring right into the camera, thanks to his beloved shoestring dangling just out of frame) elicits a squeal of delight from Ms. Click.

She turns to Jonathan next: “Senior year, so exciting!  How are we feeling?” 

“Well,” Jonathan starts―starts, and goes nowhere.  He’s focusing intently on his plate, as if trying to read the smeared remnants of sauce and noodles like a psychic reads tea leaves.

“Well?” Ms. Click prompts.  

“I’m moving,” Jonathan says.

Before he can stop himself, Steve tacks on, “To California.”

Ms. Click glances rapidly between the two of them.  “ What?  When did this happen?” 

Jonathan recovers enough to say, “My mom listed the house a while ago.  We’re moving at the beginning of next month.”

It’s a lie in the same way Steve was lying when he told her his split lip―which stubbornly refuses to go away, but he refuses to accept as a permanent scar just yet―is from falling while escaping the mall fire and not being savagely beaten.  

Almost like she senses it, Ms. Click looks to Steve for confirmation.  He nods.  

“Why California?  Do you have family out there?”

“No.  But my mom- she…she got a job offer out there,” Jonathan sputters.  This bit must be part of a government-provided script, since it’s nothing Steve has heard before.  “Doing telemarketing.” 

Ms. Click cocks her head.  “Can’t you do telemarketing from anywhere?” 

“She wants to go somewhere sunnier.  Seasonal depression.” 

On second thought―Jonathan might just be improvising.  Poorly.

Steve swoops in: “Her doctor recommended it.” 

It only serves to turn Ms. Click's disbelieving gaze back on him.  But after a second, she relents.  “Well, that’s a shame.  Who am I supposed to send to literary meet?” 

For a while, Jonathan and Ms. Click debate whether Nancy will have time in her schedule for literary meets and essay competitions once she becomes senior editor.  Steve almost tosses Robin’s name into the ring, since she speaks four languages and can probably write decently in at least one of them; but he thinks she might resent him for it later, since she’s only ever referred to Ms. Click as Ms. Clickety-clackety and said how she hated her class last year.

At the end of the night, Ms. Click packs a grocery bag full of leftovers and tells them they can leave the empty tupperwares at Dan’s.  When Steve shoots her a look, she seems almost embarrassed.  “Spinster no more,” she declares, patting his arm.  “Guess I should thank you for telling me to go in, huh?” 

Steve nudges Jonathan’s foot with his own.  “Thank him.  He’s the one who told me.”  

She’s rosy-cheeked and giggly, having had a third glass of wine and part of a fourth.  She turns to Jonathan with a mock-bow.  “Thank you, Mr. Byers.  I expect postcards from California.”  

“You got it, Ms. Click-”

“Lucy!” she interjects.  “I’m not your teacher anymore―just Lucy.  I’ve already had a hard enough time getting this one to stop.”  She jabs a finger at Steve.  “I’ll be keeping tabs on you through him.  So be good.” 

She sends them off with another hug each, Jonathan promising to be good and Steve to keep him in line.

 ― 

Later, as Steve is smoking by the pool―they’ve stopped by his house because Steve feels guilty for leaving Marty alone so much in the past few days and Jonathan insisted that he needs the leftovers more than the Byers’ do, so he should stick them in the fridge―Jonathan turns to him and says, “I’ve been thinking.” 

It sets Steve wracking his brain as to what.  He’s been better with his keys lately, but worse about feeding Marty three or four times a day on accident.  They’re supposed to go to Weathertop with Will and Henderson tomorrow for a lesson in Cerebro; he put it on his calendar, purchased at Big Buy per Robin’s insistence.  

He refuses to believe this is going to be the we should stop speech he’d spent most of yesterday bracing himself for―not after this streak of several good days in a row, a historical first.  So in the end, he’s got nothing.  “About what?” 

Haltingly, Jonathan says, “You should spend the night sometime.  If you want.”

The knot that was starting to form in his chest snaps.  This, he can do.  He stubs his cigarette out on the concrete and mock-swoons towards Jonathan.

“You trying to get in my pants already, Byers?” 

Jonathan thumps him on the leg.  “Don’t be gross.  I’m trying to… spend time together.  Isn’t that what people do?”

Steve thumps him back; after, he opens his palm on Jonathan’s knee and leaves it there.  “Yeah, weirdo.  It’s what people do.”  

“Then spend the night with me.”   

 ―  

Steve spends the night.  Somehow, he’d forgotten the Byers’ house doesn’t have AC until he and Jonathan are practically on top of each other, sweltering under flannel sheets as the window unit chugs away uselessly in the corner.  He wakes up the next morning with one arm half-glued to Jonathan’s back with sweat, having kicked the blankets off at some point in the middle of the night.  

But Jonathan’s head and his are on the same pillow; no more reaching in the dark, groping for a hold on Jonathan’s ankle from his pallet on the floor.  Steve can just reach up and touch him, push his hair back or trace his fingers from Jonathan’s jaw down to the top of his narrow shoulders, if he wants to.  

He wants to.  

He does.

 ― 

The next few days are a blur of watching movies and kissing and the trip to Weathertop, where Dustin scolds Steve that Cerebro “is not a phone sex hotline.” 

Steve rolls his eyes.  “I’m aware, Henderson.”  

Dustin glances meaningfully between Steve and Jonathan, who’s wandered off down the hill with Will and El.  “Are you?” 

“We’ll have phone sex on our own time,” Steve hisses.  “Jesus, can you stop being so smart for a second?” 

Now it’s Dustin’s turn to roll his eyes.  

“You’re completely indiscrete, jackass; you guys’ eyes are practically popping out of your skulls every time you look at each other.  It’d be an insult to my intelligence if you thought I wouldn’t figure it out.” 

“Well, your Junior Sleuth prize will be in the mail shortly,” Steve snipes.  He glances after Jonathan to be sure he’s suitably far away before adding, “I’ll be in the same boat as you soon, I guess.”

A shrill voice in his head adds, in the best case scenario .  Beyond making sure both of them want to keep doing what they’re doing, they haven’t really talked about it; but Jonathan is learning to use Cerebro the same as Steve, which he’s convinced himself has to mean something.

“As me?” Dustin asks, head cocked as if he’s either forgotten Jonathan’s moving or who the hell he built Cerebro for in the first place.

“Did you have a stroke or something?  When Jonathan moves, shithead―we’ll be doing that long distance thing like you and Suzie.”  For emphasis, Steve reaches over and knocks on the side of Dustin’s head: Anybody home?   

Henderson blinks rapidly, as if he’s recovering from a terrible shock.  Eventually, with a slow shake of his head he says, “Oh, yeah.  Me and Suzie.” 

Steve has bought weed in the alley behind The Hawk from people acting less shifty.  Skeptically, he asks, “That still going good?” 

“Totally,” Dustin squeaks.  

“Liar,” he accuses.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go around calling people liars if I were you, Mister Secretly Dating Will’s Brother.” 

“It’s not lying to not go around declaring it.  Jesus.  Will’s intelligent enough; I’m sure he figured it out, same as you.”  Hesitantly, Steve adds, “And we aren’t dating.” 

“ Whatever you’re doing,” Dustin insists, though Steve can tell he doesn’t believe him, “it’s called lying by omission.  I am not a liar.  I have no reason to lie.” 

Steve throws his hands up in surrender.  “Whatever you say, Henderson.” 

 ― 

It still takes almost a week for Jonathan to stop reacting to every attempted kiss like a sneak attack.

Now that he knows Steve will kiss him first, he doesn’t seem eager to lean in and do it himself; but Steve will catch him staring at his mouth, contemplating.  Nine times out of ten, if they’re alone, Steve just leans in and goes for it.  

The one time out of ten, he raises his eyebrows and says, “What, Byers?” 

Sometimes Jonathan kisses him; a lot of the time, he huffs and changes the subject. 

In the same way, Steve learns that he apparently isn’t supposed to stare at Jonathan ―whenever he does, Jonathan gets prickly and ends up snapping something along the lines of, “What are you looking at?” 

“You,” Steve says one day.  They’re on the couch, waiting for Will and Dustin to grab popcorn out of the microwave so they can watch Bladerunner.  Steve, meaning to take advantage of them being out of the room, had scooted closer to Jonathan on the couch and looped an arm around his shoulder.  It’s another one of those moves that always worked on girls; increasingly, he’s finding out that Jonathan is just as susceptible, with some added eye-rolling and pretending not to be.  “Am I not allowed to do that?” 

Jonathan looks away from him, down at his feet.  Sheepishly, he says, “It makes me nervous.  I start thinking there’s something on my face.” 

“Well there’s not, weirdo.” 

Without meaning for it to, weirdo has become a sort of pet name.  It lacks the bite of freak , something Jonathan might’ve had spat at him at school; but he really is fucking weird about a lot of things, stuff Steve wouldn’t even consider.    

Steve kisses him, quick, just as Dustin and Will’s voices come carrying back down the hall.  

Being able to kiss Jonathan is a victory of its own, even if it’s usually not for as long as he’d like to and he has to stop himself from doing it in the weirdest places, the chip aisle at Big Buy or across the booth at iHop.  It’s an adjustment, going from pinning girls against their lockers in front of God and the principal and everyone to checking over his shoulder before so much as walking a little closer to Jonathan.  

But even if it wasn’t outright dangerous, he knows Jonathan―who has to be wheedled and pouted at to hold Steve’s hand in the car, arguing that it’s distracted driving ―would probably be opposed to PDA on principle. 

And, at least at first, there’s a thrill in keeping a secret.  Steve likes touching Jonathan’s leg under the table; they've established little rituals, like following each other to the kitchen under the pretense of getting a glass of water just to kiss beside the refrigerator.  

He’s able to enjoy it more when Robin returns from Kentucky and it doesn’t stop her from coming around, though she repeatedly stresses that she “does not want to see anything.”

“There’s nothing to see,” Steve protests, indignant.  “We aren’t thirteen.” 

But he feels thirteen, a lot of the time.  It’s the inverse of kissing Holly Thurman and finding out girls wear padded bras and cherry chapstick, feeling Jonathan’s stubble scrape his cheek.  He finds himself asking permission for things he wouldn’t have thought twice about before, always equal parts ecstatic and surprised when Jonathan meets him with a yes.  

One night, after Steve is already half asleep, Jonathan asks, “Am I bad at it?” 

It’s only the second time he’s slept over.  He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to how small this fucking bed is―not that he has a lot of time to.  When Steve opens his eyes, Jonathan’s right there, the tips of their noses touching.

Groggily, he asks, “At what?” 

“Kissing.”  

“What?  No.  Jesus, Jonathan.”

Jonathan doubles down.  “It’s just- I can tell you’re good at it; that it’s easy for you.  And it makes me feel stupid, like I’m playing catch up.”

Steve’s eyes want, desperately, to be closed.  He props himself on his elbow, trying to force them open through the sheer force of discomfort.

“You don’t need to catch up to anything.  I’m just happy to be here.” 

“But am I bad at it?  I think I might be-” 

“You’re not bad at anything,” Steve hisses.  Jonathan has his eyebrows pinched together, squinting at Steve like he can’t believe a word he says.  Reluctantly, Steve adds, “You seem a little scared sometimes.  But it isn’t-”  

“So I am bad at it,” Jonathan says over him.  

“ No ,” Steve insists.   “Stop saying that.  It just feels like you’re not…like you’re not letting yourself do what you want to, I guess.”

Apparently, this only serves to perplex Jonathan more.

“I want to kiss you, so I kiss you.  What else is there to do?” 

“I don’t know, Jonathan!  That’s the point―I’m not you.   It’s about more than just what I want.  Didn’t you ever think about stuff you’d wanna do when you finally kissed someone?”  When Jonathan just goes scarlet and averts his eyes, Steve adds, “I thought all kinds of stuff about you.” 

“Shut up,” Jonathan groans. 

“I’m not kidding.  I wanted to-”

“ Steve, seriously.”  Jonathan twists away from him, flopping onto his back.  He looks ridiculous, half his body dangling off the side of the bed.  “This is humiliating.” 

Steve follows him, bracing a hand on either side of Jonathan’s head.  “It’s not supposed to be.  It’s normal .” 

Jonathan groans again.  “Are you going to give me the birds and the bees talk?” 

“I don’t think that applies to our situation.  Bees and bees, maybe.  Or would it be birds and birds?” 

Jonathan drags his hands over his face.  Peeking out from between his fingers, he says, “I think I’m just gonna go to sleep before I die of embarrassment.”

Steve rolls away, though he can’t go far; once Jonathan is settled again, Steve slings an arm over his waist and tugs him closer, whispering into the back of his neck, “You aren’t bad at it.” 

“I’m asleep,” Jonathan deadpans.

For a while, Steve just lays there, feeling like an asshole and sweating through his t-shirt.  He should’ve known better than to say that thing about seeming scared; but Jonathan has this way of refusing to take no for an answer, even if it’s something he really won’t want to hear.

Just as Steve is about to try something else― sorry, most likely―Jonathan flips to face him.  

“You were right―about me being scared.” 

Stupidly, because he wasn’t expecting it, Steve asks, “Of kissing?” 

“Of everything,” Jonathan says quietly.  Then, somehow even quieter, “Are we being stupid?” 

From past experience, Steve knows that no matter what he says, hesitation at a moment like this will be taken as a yes.  Quickly, before he can think better of it, he blurts out, “I think we deserve to be a little stupid.”  When Jonathan raises his eyebrows but doesn’t argue, Steve continues, “How many times have we almost died?  And you said yourself it’ll probably happen again, right?  So maybe, in between near death experiences…we get to be stupid.”  

For the second time in as many weeks, Jonathan surges forward and kisses him without warning.  

He doesn’t stay still this time: He grabs at the sides of Steve’s face and the back of his head, skates his hands across his shoulders and the space in between.  Steve grabs him in turn, though he’s mindful of Jonathan’s skittishness and the size of the bed, hovering on his elbows to keep from pinning him.  

Underneath him, Jonathan’s mouth opens.  Their teeth click together almost immediately, enough to jar them both out of it for a moment; still, Steve has to keep himself from diving on Jonathan and sticking his tongue down his throat.  It’s something his first few girlfriends complained about, an impulse he’d mostly curbed before over a year of celibacy that’s made even harder to fight by the fact that he spent that whole year wanting this .  

Still, he forces himself to wrench away after a few seconds, to pant out, “Are you good?” 

“Do I seem,” Jonathan pauses, sucking in a few shuddery breaths of his own, “not good?”

“You weren’t good a few minutes ago.  I don’t want you to think you have to- it’s just- there’s no rush, right?”

Jonathan blinks up at him, frowning like they both know that was the stupidest thing he could’ve said.

Softly, Jonathan says, “There kind of is.”

Steve’s arms are in danger of falling asleep; it’s distracting, almost as much as Jonathan being underneath him with his face red and his hair fucked up.  Slowly, he lowers himself to the mattress, pressing his forehead against Jonathan's.

“We’ve got a few weeks.”   

Chapter Text

The click and flash of cigarettes

being smoked on the lawn, and just a little kiss before we say goodnight.

It spins like a wheel inside you: green yellow, green blue,

green beautiful green.

It's simple: it isn't over, it's just begun. It's green. It's still green.

-Richard Siken, “Meanwhile”

 ―   

In those last precious weeks of September, Steve admits defeat.  

Robin accompanies him to the optometrist and does a valiant job of pretending the big, wire frames he settles for―because it’s either that or plastic, which make him look even more like someone’s grandfather―don’t do him a terrible disservice; when they’re delivered a week later, Jonathan insists on taking his picture; Will and Dustin tell him that he looks like John Denver.

Steve is (very generously, he thinks) driving them to the thrift store, so that they don’t have to haul Will’s latest load of donations into town on their bikes.  Resisting the urge to slam on the brakes, he settles for shooting them a glare in the rearview mirror.  “John Denver?  Like, ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads?’  Screw you guys.” 

“He’s not bad-looking!” Will protests. 

It would be more convincing if Dustin wasn’t red-faced and snickering behind his hands. 

“Well, it’s not exactly what I’m going for,” Steve says, deadpan.  

For emphasis, he pushes the offending glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

Even if they didn’t make him look like John Denver, they’re driving him fucking crazy, inching down all day and constantly needing to be swiped clean on his shirt.  He doesn’t even know what they’re coming into contact with for them to be so damn filthy all the time―he’s careful not to touch the lenses, and he’s been militaristic about taking them off before kissing Jonathan since the first time he tried, when all they did was get in the way and eventually fall off to smack Jonathan in the forehead.  He can see up close just fine, anyways; he needs them to keep from running stop signs, not for making out.    

Naturally, Dustin chooses this moment to pipe up: “Does Jonathan like them?”  

He even waggles his eyebrows.  

“He put that picture on his-” Will starts.

Steve cuts him off.  “Why don’t we stop talking for a while?  Check out those trees.”  He gestures vaguely out the window, towards the roadside trees rushing past in rapid succession.  “Will, you know they don’t have seasons in California?  This might be the last time you see leaves-”

“There’s still seasons, Steve,” Dustin interjects.  “It just doesn’t snow.”

Steve aims another dirty look at him in the rearview mirror.  

“ Snow is part of the seasons, Henderson.  It isn’t winter if it doesn’t snow.  So they don’t have all the seasons.”  

He doesn’t mean to start bickering with Dustin in earnest; but before he knows it, he’s getting a lecture about the chlorophyll content of leaves in the fall and how it’s the shorter days, not the temperature, that makes them change.  

By the time they reach the thrift store, Steve has been reduced to, “Well they won’t be Hawkins leaves.”

“ Leaves are leaves ,” Dustin sputters.  Turning to Will, he adds, “Mail me a leaf when you get there.  We’ll see if Indiana's premiere leaf expert here can tell which is which.”  

Will grins and nods in wordless, traitorous agreement; at least it stops them from talking about Steve’s John Denver glasses.

 ― 

That night, all Jonathan can do is echo Will, saying that John Denver is handsome in his own way.  

They’re sitting on the floor of Jonathan’s bedroom, sorting photos into piles.  Not that Jonathan will part with any; but he’s so far ahead of everyone else on packing that he can afford to screw around, sorting his cassettes by genre and neatly packaging his pictures into manila envelopes labeled by year.  

“I’m going to stop wearing them,” Steve declares, flinging his glasses away with a flourish.  “I cannot look like John Denver.   I can’t.” 

Jonathan rolls his eyes.  “The glasses look like his; you don’t look like him… facially.   You look the same as you did before.”  He thrusts the glasses back towards Steve.  Reluctantly, he puts them back on.  Once he does, Jonathan adds, smirking, “But you could probably be him for Halloween.”   

Steve swats his arm.  “And you can be Moe from The Three Stooges, jackass.” 

Jonathan briefly clutches his chest in mock-offense before returning to the task at hand.  

Steve―unsure of what year Jonathan would’ve photographed a pair of ratty shoes sitting on a tree stump or the highschool’s empty parking lot―has spent most of the night peering over Jonathan’s shoulder, observing.  

Occasionally, something catches his eye: Dustin sitting on a park bench, smiling wide as he showed off his temporary pearls; El and Will with their backs turned, walking somewhere away from the camera; a few of a much-younger Chester, trotting through the woods and sleeping under a lit Christmas tree.  

Eventually, Steve even spots himself, grinning like an idiot and hanging upside down from Jonathan’s bed.  

“I know that one,” he says, already reaching for it.  “1984.” 

“And you say your memory’s shot,” Jonathan drawls, handing it to him.  

“I remember some things better than others.”  Steve elbows him.  “I remember you didn’t wanna put me in your picture box.” 

“And I remember you practically begging to be in it,” Jonathan retorts.  

Steve shrugs, but doesn’t deny it.  “It’s a good picture.”

He holds the picture up, looking at it for what must be the second time since it was taken.  It really is a good picture, of someone deliriously happy to be in Jonathan Byers’ room and oblivious as to why.  Even after all his crawling through windows, falling asleep on the phone and, later, on the floor like a dog, just to be near him.  Steve’s not sure if he ever would’ve figured it out, if it weren’t for those six months of silence when all he could do was get drunk and brood.  Otherwise, he might’ve kept chalking it up to how nice it was to have a friend.  

He’d probably still be sorting photos in Jonathan’s room tonight, swooning towards him, always almost touching―but he wouldn’t have been able to ask what he does next. 

“When’d you know you liked me?” 

Jonathan’s response is a distracted hm?, not looking up from the envelope in his lap.  

Steve snatches the envelope away, hoisting it above his head and just out of reach.  “Pay attention to me.  When’d you know?”

“Pay attention to me,” Jonathan mimics, voice high and whiny.  He makes another futile grab for the envelope; in response, Steve tosses it behind them, onto the bed.  With a resigned huff, he says, “It’s gonna sound fucked up.”  

“Try me.”

“Do you remember when we talked about our dads?”

Briefly, Steve tries to remember the significant times; but there are too many to choose from, half a dozen instances of fuck your dad and fuck my dad and fuck them both scattered across the last two years, all of them spoken like some kind of oath.

“You’ll have to be a lot more specific than that.”

“It was the time you told me I should’ve killed mine,” Jonathan rushes out.  Then, quieter, “You said it would’ve been good riddance; that was when I knew.” 

It is a little fucked up.  But it’s Jonathan, and Steve knew better than to hope for something about him looking at Steve one day and seeing a ray of light coming down from Heaven as a choir of angels sang.  

Steve remembers that night; remembers the look Jonathan had given him.  He wishes he’d known, at the time, what it had meant.  

He grabs one of Jonathan’s hands, holding it loosely without interlocking their fingers.  It’s still new, like everything―Jonathan seems almost scared of it, half the time, wriggling away after a minute or two.  

“I meant it.”

“I could tell.”  Jonathan swallows.  “Nobody’d ever said anything like that to me before.  Even with my mom, it’s always been well, he’s still your dad.  It just made me feel like you- like you really got it.  You know how people say I could kiss you right now when you do them a favor?  That was how I felt, sort of.” 

Steve smirks at him.  “Shoulda kissed me, then.”

“Yeah.  That would’ve gone over really well.”  

“I think I would’ve taken it in stride.” 

Jonathan pulls his hand back.  It seems like typical Jonathan behavior until, without looking at Steve, he asks, “Do you still think I did this to you?” 

Well, fuck.  It’s not where Steve intended for the conversation to go.  Really, he’d meant for it to function as a segue into telling Jonathan how he knew he’d liked him ; a segue into kissing, or at least something to break up the monotony of the never-ending process of packing.  

Sometimes, it almost feels like whoever was going at each other over Chester’s grave were people Steve has only heard about or something he saw on TV.  He tries not to dwell on just how many times they’ve been on opposite sides of things, how even a screaming match had felt like relief after months and months of nothing; how fighting used to feel like the closest they would ever get to kissing.  

They’ve both surrendered now, said sorry to each other more than most people probably say it in their whole lives.  Bringing it up tonight, Steve had meant it as a life raft, an island: Remember how things used to be?  Isn’t this better?  Shouldn’t we keep doing this ?  

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he responds, automatic.  He watches Jonathan for a few seconds, resisting the urge to scold him as he uses his newly-freed hand to worry at his cuticles.  “And of course I don’t; but I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t care if you did.  I like this.  It’s…preferable.  To me.” 

“Preferable?” 

“Yeah.  Preferable.  I prefer this,” and Steve does grab his hand now, just to drive his point home, “to pretty much everything.”

Jonathan doesn’t take his hand back; instead, he surprises Steve by curling it around his palm, letting out a hmph of satisfaction.  “What about you?”

Regardless of how thankful he is―however selfish that might be―for the redirection, it takes Steve a moment to remember where they were before this detour.  

Once he collects his thoughts, he provides Jonathan with a censored version: “I was listening to The Top a nd I just- I finally let myself think about it.  About you.”

“Yours is a lot more wholesome.”

Sheepishly, Steve adds, “I puked after.” 

“After?”  Jonathan asks, head tilted.  Before Steve can say anything more―and he doesn’t want to, not when he already feels like he could die of embarrassment just remembering it―Jonathan’s expression shifts into something like a grimace of understanding.  “Oh.”

“ Oh, ” Steve echoes.  “I bet you thought about me too, Byers.”  The picture of him hanging off the bed is still on the floor, discarded between them; Steve picks it up, flapping it in the air for emphasis.  “Did you ever look at it?  When we weren’t talking?”

Predictably, Jonathan goes scarlet.  

Steve makes a show of rolling his eyes, even with that telltale sunburnt feeling creeping up the back of his neck.  “Jesus, Jonathan.  I don’t actually mean it like that, like how you’d look at a Playboy; I mean, I’d be flattered.  But did you ever…you know, just―when you were thinking about me.  When you missed me.”  

Jonathan recovers quickly enough.  Raising his eyebrows, he asks, “ When I missed you?  Not if?”

“Yeah, yeah―you already told me you were eavesdropping on a couple thirteen year olds just to hear about my adventures in cat-sitting.  So don’t act all cool now.” 

Jonathan shrugs; but his mouth quirks up at the corners as he says, “I looked at it a couple times.  In a God-honoring way.”

“All I had was Robert Smith.  And I couldn’t even ask you to translate it for me,” Steve says mournfully.  He reaches across Jonathan for the envelope labeled 1984, tucking the photo away.  “Y’know, that gives you two pictures to my zero.” 

Jonathan's response is a blank stare. 

Steve clears his throat.  “I’d like to have one.  Of you.  Before you go.” 

He’s been thinking about it for a while now: He’d taken movie theater photo booth strips with half the girls in Hawkins, and Will and Dustin besides.  He even has a couple polaroids of Robin and Marty.  They’re mostly shoved into his desk drawer, waiting for a permanent place that he feels, increasingly, isn’t anywhere in his parents’ house.  But it still doesn’t feel right, not having one of Jonathan somewhere in the pile.  He’d like a picture of him just like he is now, bleach-stained t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, dark circles and a flat spot at the back of his hair from resting his head against the bed frame.    

“It’s not like I’m going off to war,” Jonathan says, sounding almost as embarrassed as if they were still talking about Playboy .

Steve wants to point out that they can’t be sure of that, that they’ve fought in at least three little wars in as many years.  

He wants to say that Jonathan shouldn’t have to be going off to war to have his picture taken; that he can have his picture taken because he’s young and handsome and there’s someone who’d like to have it, and have that be enough.

Softly, Steve says, “But you’re going.  So I’d like to have one.”  

 ― 

On the couch the next day, Robin assures him that he doesn’t look like John Denver at all.

Cheerily, she says, “You look like my Uncle Dave.” 

“How old is Uncle Dave?” Steve asks, though he doesn’t think he really wants to know.

“Well, he’s technically my mom’s uncle.  So approximately,” she pauses, moving her lips and ticking off on her fingers, “seventy three.  But there’s some young pictures of him where you can tell he used to be hot!”

Miserably, Steve says, “I used to be hot.  I remember it like it was a week ago―because it was.” 

“Stop being dramatic,” Robin hisses.   “You squinted all the time; now, everyone can see that you have the big, beautiful eyes of a baby cow.“

For effect, she widens her own eyes.  

“You’re no help,” Steve grouses. 

“You’re beyond my help.”  Robin pulls her feet onto the couch, tucking them underneath her, and turns to face him.  “Speaking of you being beyond my help,” she starts, complete with a meaningfully quirked eyebrow.

“Jonathan’s fine.” 

Robin’s lip curls just slightly; but they’re at least past the point of her calling Jonathan a wretched creature or a sniveling worm out loud anymore.  If he didn’t know her better, Steve would almost think he’s growing on her. 

“Glad to hear it.”  

Steve scoffs.  “I’m sure.”

“Your happiness is my happiness,” Robin says, monotone.  She grabs her coffee mug from the table, taking an enthusiastic―exaggerated, Steve would guess, as a sort of punctuation―slurp; almost immediately, she hisses in pain.  “Mother fucker .  I just burnt the first layer of skin off my tongue.”

Steve tuts.  “That’s God punishing you for being hateful.”

“Since when do you believe in God?” she asks, swiping her mouth with the back of one hand and setting her mug on the floor, in the perfect spot to be kicked over and spilled onto the beige carpet of the living room.  

His parents stopped paying for a housekeeper when Steve was sixteen, saying he was tidy enough.  The unspoken truth of it was that they just weren’t home enough to bother; and on the rare occasions they were, they could expect Steve to scramble to dispose of anything incriminating before they so much as walked in the door.

So it would be just perfect if―after years of successfully hiding the evidence of beer and weed and girls―what small amount of trust they have in him is lost on a coffee stain.  Shooting her a disapproving look, Steve picks the mug up, placing it back on the coaster.  “I told you: He’s punishing me with these fucking glasses.”

“Well if that’s true, God has way too much time on his hands.  Child murderers walk among us.”  She leans forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “Jonathan Byers walks among us.”

“Jesus, Rob.”

“I just can’t help myself!” she exclaims, throwing her hands up in a defensive gesture.  “I’m trying to cut back―one hateful remark about Jonathan per conversation.  Two on weekends and holidays.”  

“How sweet of you.”

Marty slinks in from the kitchen, a temporary distraction, and jumps up to stand between the two of them.  He blinks at Steve and Robin in turn, slow and lazy, evaluating the real estate of their individual laps before trotting over to settle on Steve’s.  A small victory, though Robin is immediately trying to here, kitty kitty him away.  

“Lucky for you,” Steve continues, tugging Marty closer, “he’s moving this weekend.  So you can have a real extravaganza.”  

“Not lucky for me,” Robin protests.  She scoots closer, scratches Marty between the ears―he pushes right up into it, the traitor.  Dropping her voice again, she asks, “Have you guys talked about it?” 

In the most technical sense, they talk about it almost every day: Can we stop by the liquor store?  Mom says Marv’s holding a stack of boxes for her.  And remind me to get bubble wrap, for when I pack my cassettes.  Just last night, they’d acknowledged it outright, with Steve asking for a picture and Jonathan neither agreeing nor denying him.  He had just smiled, small and tight-lipped and sad, and asked if they could call it a night.

So when Steve replies with, “Yep,” he isn’t lying.

After Jonathan kissed him, Steve had assured Robin that he understood reality.  And he does―is confronted by it, violently, every time he glances at the wall opposite Jonathan’s bed and sees nothing but tack-marks where an Evil Dead poster used to be.          

But there’s a lot they aren’t talking about: They don’t talk about what happens next, once they go from sifting through Jonathan’s stuff as an idle weeknight activity to packing it into the back of a moving van.  They don’t talk about whether Steve will visit on Thanksgiving or Christmas like Mike plans to, if he somehow manages to get another job and save every cent he makes between now and then.  They don’t even say the word dating ; and they especially don’t say words like you’re moving in six days.

“And you’re still good?” Robin asks, a skeptical edge to her voice that Steve doesn’t entirely appreciate.

It’s his answering, “Yeah, great,” that pushes her over the edge.

“ Steve .” 

“ Robin .” 

She’s somehow leaned even further into his personal space, the tips of their noses nearly touching, her eyes narrowed to slits.  “What is the plan here?” 

“There’s a going away party next Friday,” Steve says, because it somehow feels better than you know there is no plan.  

Still, it provokes a screech of frustration from Robin; she squeezes her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose.  Enunciating every word carefully, as if Steve isn’t really hearing her, she asks, “What is the plan after the going away?  Once the going away has happened ?” 

“Um…Cerebro?  Henderson showed us how to; but he said we can’t use it for phone sex.” 

He shoots her a grin, hoping that might at least get a laugh out of her.  

“You won’t be using Cerebro if he falls off the face of the earth―which he is, I would say, famous for doing,” Robin says, completely unamused.  “And do you really want to- I mean, for someone who’s going to live all the way in California- for someone who…for…”

Steve cuts in: “Let me guess: Do I want to do this for Jonathan Byers, of all people, because he’s a sniveling, evil, pathetic worm.  Right?”   

“I was going to find a nicer way to say it,” Robin snaps.  “But yes .  I just don’t understand doing this for Jonathan, of all people, because he- he has a bad track record, doesn’t he?  Regardless of my valid personal feelings towards him.”

“ I have a bad track record.  You hated my guts four months ago.”  

“That’s different!” Robin insists.  “For one, I’m not considering a long distance phone relationship with you; and second, you are different.  You’re capable of change.  I just didn’t know that yet.” 

“Jonathan’s capable of change too, Rob.  You act like he’s Satan.  He apologized already!  I mean, I know you didn’t know him, but trust me―he would’ve never done that two years ago, even if he really thought he was wrong.”  

“He apologized because he was putting the moves on you!  And it worked. ”  Robin groans, raking a hand through her hair.  “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this again.  But I’m just-” 

“You’re just worried about me,” Steve finishes for her. 

He isn’t exactly proud of it; but in the past few weeks, he’s perfected the art of redirecting this exact conversation.  He can hear in Robin’s answer that it’s working again.  

With a sigh, she says, “Yes, dingus.  I’m worried about you.” 

“And because you love me,” Steve sing-songs, reaching over to giver her a light poke in the side.

“And you’re my bestest pal,” she says, rolling her eyes.  Huffing, she retreats to her end of the couch again―deflated, for now, if not truly satisfied.  With only a fraction of her earlier venom, she adds, “I know it’s against your religion to plan ahead, but you’re gonna need money for all your long distance phone calls.  Family Video’s hiring.”

Even if the change of subject is welcome, Steve can’t help but wrinkle his nose.  “Doesn’t that weird guy work there?”

Robin cocks her head to the side in response.

“Which one?”

“I don’t know―Kenneth-something?  He graduated the year before me.  Henderson says he spends way too much time at the arcade.  Kind of looks like he has that Abraham Lincoln disease?”

Steve draws himself up, doing his best imitation of someone very tall and very hunchbacked and very, very weird.  

Incredulous, Robin asks, “Do you mean Marfan syndrome?  Steve, he does not have Marfan syndrome.”

“Something like that!” he exclaims, offended to be shot down so quickly when Robin may not even know who he’s talking about.  “The point is, he’s weird.  Dustin told me so.”

“I thought you liked weird guys,” Robin snarks.  “Plus, unless Family Video’s a money laundering front for the mafia, he’s a step up.”  With an air of finality, she adds, “And I already got my mom to grab two applications.” 

 ― 

The next day, after hastily filling out his application at the Buckley’s kitchen table, Steve drives himself and Robin to Family Video.  

The application itself was easy enough.  His brain isn’t scrambled to the point of forgetting what month he started working at Scoops or his social security number; but he did have to dig deep for three references before eventually jotting down Ms. Byers, Ms. Henderson, and Ms. Click.  

“A trio of middle-aged women,” Robin commented, reading over his shoulder.  “What an upstanding young citizen.”   

Regardless, once she realizes the likelihood of their boss from Scoops either being killed in the mall explosion or fleeing the country in the immediate aftermath, Robin poaches Ms. Click and Ms. Byers’ names from his list.  Not that it matters, in the end―Marfan-syndrome Kenneth, whose name is apparently Keith, barely looks at the applications.  He tosses them aside almost immediately in favor of leveling a glare at Steve and Robin in turn.  “Three favorite movies.  Both of you.  Go.” 

Robin sputters, “Um, that wasn’t on the-”

“Three.  Favorite.  Movies,” Keith grinds out.  

At first, all Steve can see is that he has gigantic, baseball-mitt-adjacent hands, which are currently maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the countertop.  Yeah , Steve thinks, he definitely has something going on with him.  If not Marfan’s, maybe neanderthal DNA.  From what Steve remembers of his tenth grade science textbook, he fits the profile.

But when Robin only stares, dumbstruck, Steve blurts, “ Bladerunner.  That Alex P. Keaton movie that came out this summer.  And, um- uh, the new Star Wars. ”   

With a snarl of disgust, Keith says, “There is no new Star Wars .” 

“The new est one,” Steve clarifies.  When Keith only stares, he adds, “Where Princess Leia wears the bikini?”  

At that, Keith turns to Robin, clearly unimpressed with Steve’s cinematic knowledge.  If he’d have known there was going to be a pop quiz, Steve would’ve asked Jonathan for the name of one of those black-and-white suicide-inducers he’s so crazy about.  

Luckily, after a moment to think, Robin is quick on her feet: “ Dr. Zhivago.  The Wizard of Oz.  Suspiria― Keith, can I talk to you?  One-on-one?”   

She shoos Steve away with a light shove and a meaningful glance, hissing at him under her breath to go look at the new releases.  For whatever reason, he does as he’s told; he doesn’t even question it until he’s already out of earshot.  Eventually, he dares a glance back at Robin, trying to be discreet and nearly smacking into a cardboard cutout of the red bikini girl from Fast Times in the process .  

The whole thing would be demoralizing if whatever Robin said to Keith next didn’t end in Steve being asked his vest size and ordered, however begrudgingly, to be there at eleven on Monday.  

 ― 

Back in the parking lot, Robin swivels toward him, grinning.  “Don’t you wanna know how I did it?”  Steve shakes his head yes; Robin’s grin turns downright maniacal.  “I told Keith the ladies will flock to Family Video for a chance to behold your famous hair.  He changed his tune pretty quick.” 

“Ladies haven’t flocked to me in two years,” Steve points out, propping the car door open for her.   

“Our new friend Keith doesn’t have to know that, does he?”  She beams at him, flopping into the passenger seat.  “And three fifty an hour to rewind tapes all day’s not bad.  We’ve officially graduated from minimum wage.” 

Steve snorts.  “Three fifty?  We’ll be millionaires.”

“We’ll live like the richest of kings,” Robin chirps.  She kicks her feet up and reclines with her head on her hands, victorious; Steve, who guesses he owes this job to her―though, in a roundabout way, they both owe it to the fabled powers of his hair―can’t even bring himself to scold her for the muddy footprints she’ll surely leave on the dash.  “I will be, anyways.  Plane tickets aren’t cheap.”    

Like the muddy footprints, Steve chooses to willfully ignore the pointed look Robin sends his way.

 ―

Later, as they’re idling in the dimly-lit parking lot of China Dragon, Jonathan says, “Three fifty really isn’t bad.  I’ve worked for less.”

“You sound like Robin,” Steve accuses.  When Jonathan purses his lips at that, Steve tacks on, “You always sound like Robin.”

“I’m sure she’d love to hear it,” Jonathan says flatly.

Steve reaches over, grabbing Jonathan’s knee and jostling his leg― lighten up, Byers .  

It isn’t like anyone could possibly see it: Steve’s is the only car besides the owner’s, parked well off to the side as they wait the requisite half-hour for their order.  Still, Jonathan tenses immediately, glancing over his shoulder out the window; Steve releases him.     

But he can still say what he’d like, in the privacy of the car―even Jonathan isn’t so paranoid as to think someone will overhear them.  And if he leans forward slightly, one elbow propped on the console―well, no one but Jonathan could be close enough to notice.  “There’s a reason I like both of you so much.  It’s the same reason you hate each other: You’re exactly alike.”

“Um, she hates me. ”

Really, it’s that Robin openly hates Jonathan; Jonathan, meanwhile, is too confrontation-averse to do much more than let his eyebrows twitch slightly when she tags along for a movie night or a trip to Dan’s.  Even now, alone in the car―with Robin back at the house, being forced by Dustin to learn Risk in the face of losing Will as a weekly player―he won’t admit it.

Rather than force the subject, Steve says, “You know, the more you’re nice to me, the less reason she’ll have.”

“I’m nice,” Jonathan objects.

Steve bites back the urge to say something that’ll take the night in a different direction, something along the lines of not always or now you are; besides―even if Robin is steadfastly convinced of his innocence in all things―he knows that Jonathan could flip it right back on him. 

He readjusts himself, twisting in his seat until he’s as close as he can be to facing Jonathan head-on.  He balances his chin on his hand and arranges himself to be the picture of wide-eyed innocence, like one of those Precious Moments figurines that Grandma Dot collects, before he asks, “Speaking of being nice to me.  When are you gonna let me take your picture?” 

It almost seems like Jonathan is choosing the avoidance-as-response route, or pretending he didn’t hear him.  His eyes move past Steve before the question has fully left his mouth―scanning the to-go counter, most likely, hoping he’ll see that their order is ready and be able to cut the conversation short.  

Then, quietly, he says, “Steve,” as if it’s a complete sentence. 

“Jonathan,” Steve shoots back―a challenge, though he’s not sure of what, not just yet.      

Jonathan has curled in on himself, his legs nearly tucked underneath him, arms crossed over his chest.  

It isn’t what Steve would call a good sign, historically.  

“Do you really…I mean, do you really want that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Steve asks.

“I mean- I just- what would you do with it?  Hang it in your locker?”

Steve almost wants to laugh, if that’s really all he’s worried about.  

“I don’t have a locker anymore, weirdo.  I’d just look at it, I don’t know, if I’m thinking about you―like we talked about.  That’s sort of the whole point of a picture.” 

“And you think you’ll be doing that a lot?” Jonathan asks, eyebrows pinched together.  

“Is that hard to believe?” 

Without hesitation, Jonathan says, “Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“I’ll be really far away.” 

“And?”

Jonathan sighs, blowing his bangs out of his eyes.  “And we’re gonna- what?  Talk on the phone?  Write letters?” 

“I like talking on the phone," Steve protests, trying to keep his voice light.  "We’ve done it before.  I could visit―I always wanted to go to California.” 

No use jumping to conclusions.  No use reading into things Jonathan hasn’t said out loud, that he may not even be contemplating saying out loud.

“Once or twice a year, maybe.” 

Exasperated―exhausted, suddenly―Steve sinks back into his seat, scrubbing his hands over his face.  “Why are you saying all this like it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard?”

“Because it is .” 

And there it is.  There it always fucking is, no matter what Steve does.  What he says, what he tries.

“Jesus, Jonathan-”

“Don’t do that,” Jonathan snaps.  

“Do what? ”

“ Jesus, Jonathan ―like I’m being unreasonable.  Because I know, for once, that I’m not.”  Finally, he looks at Steve straight-on.  “I’m leaving.  I’m moving really goddamn far away and I’m probably not coming back.  And I don’t think it’s fair to expect you to-”

“You don’t get to decide what’s fair to me," Steve cuts in.  "I know what I want; I’ve known what I want.  So don’t make it about doing what’s best for me, this whole martyr thing you do.  If you don’t want to, then say that.”

“Of course I want to.  It just seems…selfish.  To expect that of you; to think you could be happy with that.” 

“I’m not happy about you moving.  It’s not like I’m looking forward to it.  I don’t wanna go from being able to do this,” Steve gestures between them―he almost grabs Jonathan’s hand just to illustrate his point further, then thinks better of it―“to just talking on the phone.  But I think the alternative’s a hell of a lot sadder.” 

“I’m not trying to be a martyr.  I’m really not,” Jonathan mumbles, deflated.  He’s staring into his lap, twisting his hands; but when he peers up at Steve through his overgrown bangs, he just looks embarrassed.  Shy, maybe.  “I always liked talking on the phone.  I just- don't want to-” 

“I like it too, weirdo.  So don't think you'd be doing me some big favor.”  He glances at the clock―8:17.  He’s sure the brown paper bag on the counter is theirs, getting cold.  But he doesn’t want to get out of the car on this note; so, with a quick tap on Jonathan’s knee, he says, “I always liked you.” 

Jonathan's response is an unimpressed, “Uh-huh." 

“I'm serious.  Even when I didn’t know it.”  Teasing, he adds, “Even when you hated my guts.” 

When Jonathan reaches out to swat Steve in response, with a disbelieving hiss of shut up , he lets his hand linger―just for a second―on Steve’s forearm.  

 ― 

Jonathan falls asleep that night with his eyebrows creased together―dreaming of counter-arguments, probably.  Something to make Steve see that they should never speak again, for the greater good.  Still, he sighs happily when Steve kisses his forehead and reaches for him when he slips out of bed for a glass of water; so for now, Steve will count it as a battle won, if not the war.

He pads down the hall, one hand on the wall as he feels his way towards the stairs (because he knows his own house, goddammit, and his glasses are already tucked into their case for the night).  He successfully navigates past the guest room―where Robin, who would come unglued if she knew that he was stumbling around blind, is sleeping―without needing to flip a light on.  The stairs are more challenging, curving in an L shape and split in two by the landing; but he makes it without incident, with one near-miss at the very bottom.  

The living room is an obstacle course of its own, scattered with Will and Dustin’s bookbags and the paraphernalia of various board games.  At least, Steve thinks that’s what it is―it could just as easily be VHS tapes or empty takeout containers.  Whatever it is, he picks his way through it with practiced efficiency until, just as he starts to think that he’s in the clear, something small and made of hard plastic imbeds itself in his bare foot. 

“Shit,” he hisses.  

He hops on one foot long enough to pluck it out, squinting to examine it: A plastic infantryman, probably dropped at some point during tonight’s game.  

It should be more annoying than it is; but he can’t bring himself to be annoyed, not now, when it strikes him that soon the clutter will be reduced by half.  He brings the infantryman close enough to look at it again and sees that it’s yellow―one of Will’s pieces.

If he didn’t think Dustin would notice it missing and consider it game-ruining, the sentimental part of Steve would like to keep it.  Resigned, he tucks it into the pocket of his pajama pants.  He’ll either return it to the box before he goes back to bed or forget it’s there until he accidentally washes and dries it a few days from now.  

Someone’s already in the kitchen, silhouetted in the light from the refrigerator.  The sound of snoring floating in from the living room lets him know that it isn’t Dustin; a second later, his eyes have adjusted enough that he can make out Will’s side profile.     

“Can’t sleep?” Steve asks, mostly to keep from startling him.  The Byers are a jumpy bunch; but Will, having at least marginally more functional eyes, must have spotted him already.  

“Nope.”  He turns to him, waving something in the air―an eggroll, Steve thinks.  “Want one?” 

Steve shakes his head.  “I think I’ve had all the MSG I can take.”  

Will hums in acknowledgement, shutting the refrigerator; save for the flickering streetlight filtering in from the backyard, the kitchen goes dark.

Steve brushes past Will, trying not to make it obvious that he’s feeling his way along the counter and island as he retrieves a glass and switches the sink on.  Not feeling brave enough to navigate the stairs glass in hand, he pulls out a stool.  Will is still in front of the fridge, nibbling his cold eggroll with his free hand cupped underneath it, like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if it drops a little cabbage on the floor.

With a nod toward the living room, Steve says, “He’s really sawing logs in there.  That what’s keeping you up?”

 “I’m used to that.  I had a nightmare,” Will says.  Before Steve can say anything― sorry, bud or what about― Will clarifies, “Nothing too intense.  I forgot to pack any of my clothes and had to do my first day of high school in dirty underwear; not like that’d be the scariest thing that’s happened to me.  Then I woke up and thought glad that wasn’t real.  Might as well have an eggroll. ”     

“Might as well have an eggroll,” Steve echoes, nodding.  

Will finishes eating in silence, swiping his greasy hands on his pajama pants as Steve drains the last of his glass of water; but neither of them move to leave the kitchen.  

Steve has spent so much of the last month bending himself out of shape over Jonathan leaving―it hasn’t left him with much time to reckon with the fact that Will is, too.  

In spite of their package-deal status, in the past two years of knowing them, they’ve remained largely separate in Steve’s mind.  It probably helps that, until recently, Steve mostly saw Will to swim and play board games and Jonathan to kill monsters and scream at each other; but it’s true even now, with Jonathan hanging around more often than not.  Both of them have always seemed to like it, being acknowledged as something beyond the Byers brothers or Joyce’s boys.

Steve’s been struck, more than once, by a paranoid fear that Will will think their whole friendship was a means to an end for getting Jonathan’s attention.  But then he remembers Will agreeing that they’re the Three Musketeers in the China Dragon parking lot; trusting Steve with his goddamn life at Starcourt; saving Steve’s goddamn life at Starcourt.  There are a lot of things in Steve’s life that come back to Jonathan, these days―not that he minds― but Will is bigger than that.  Transcends that.  

And there are a lot of other things he’d like to say to Will, things that have nothing to do with Jonathan and everything to do with the ragtag group of friends he and Steve and Dustin built when Steve felt like the world was ending.  He’d like to say I’ve never had a brother.  I used to want one.  Then I met you guys.

What comes out is less eloquent.

“This sucks, huh?” 

“Big time,” Will says, sighing.  “It really, really sucks.”  

Steve sighs, too, leaning back against the island.  He doesn’t want things to turn into a wallow-fest―he’s had enough weeping and gnashing of teeth for one night.  

Forcing a level of pep into his voice that he doesn’t quite feel, he says, “Well, we'll still be the Three Musketeers, right?"  Will nods in agreeement.  "I’ll tag along whenever Henderson Cerebros you; and I want you to call me after your first day of school, let me know if high school’s as much better in California as they make it seem like in the movies.  I’ll visit, too, once I save up enough.”  

Steve’s heard Will and Henderson talk enough about their dads to know they’ve heard their share of empty promises, of camping and baseball games and holiday visits; it’s made him more careful about staying true to his word, renting the movies he says he will and going where he says they’ll go.  

So saying all this out loud to Will―stating his intentions, as clear as he can make them―feels like setting it in stone.  

I will call .  I will visit.  I will not disappear. 

Will shoots him a tight smile.  “That’ll be nice.” 

“It’ll be great,” Steve insists.  “You’re gonna be so tan, I won’t even recognize you.  You guys’ll have to hold a sign with my name on it at the airport.  We’ll be wearing shorts and flip flops on Christmas.  ” 

That seems to do the trick.  Smirking, Will says, “And you can see the leaves for yourself.” 

“Yeah, shithead.  And I’ll bring one from home―to compare.” 

 ― 

The Byers’ going away party will later be described, in polite terms, as subdued.

Will spends the night perched on the couch, one of the few things in the house not nailed down or packed away, trading miserable looks with Dustin and Lucas; El sits sandwiched between Mike and Max with her big, shiny, wet eyes staring off into the middle distance; Jonathan offers to take pictures of the kids, but gives up when no one is willing to smile.  Defeated, he sinks into the floor to sit cross-legged beside Steve.  

Even Robin, Barb, and Nancy make an appearance―Robin steadfast on the other side of Steve, occasionally reaching out to squeeze his arm, while Barb and Nancy hover on the edge of the room.

Only Joyce makes a real effort, coming home with a bottle of sparkling juice and an armload of pizzas from Gino’s.  

“To new beginnings,” she trills, raising a cup of juice―plastic, because they packed all of the breakables two days ago―with a toothy smile plastered on her face.  

Will waits until she’s back in the kitchen to grumble, “Now all we’re missing is party hats.”

Jonathan reaches up to give him a halfhearted shove; Dustin nods mutely in agreement.  Mike and Max bicker over who’ll hand El a slice of pizza until she pushes away from them both to grab it herself.  

Steve, for his part, manages to call out, “Thanks, Ms. Byers.”  

But he can’t bring himself to do more than pick at his pizza, tearing the crust to shreds.  Beside him, Jonathan is still fiddling nervously with the lens of his camera, like he might try again.  

Leaning over, Steve whispers, “You could call this one Miserable Children. ”

“Part of the My Godawful Party series,” Jonathan whispers back.  “And I’ll do a follow up of those two,” he pauses, gesturing to Will and El in turn, “looking dejected at every national park and tourist trap.  Eat your heart out, Roger Minick.”  

“Who?” Steve asks, not expecting an answer.  Jonathan has spent most of the night in one of his contemplative silences; for once, Steve doesn’t have the energy to coax him out of it.  

Despite everything, Jonathan explains Roger Minick in earnest, rambling breathlessly about some photo series called Sightseer.  

Robin―apparently unable to take it anymore once Jonathan starts in on capturing the everyday American ―scoots away to talk to Dustin and Will.  Steve has seen this before, he realizes: Jonathan falling back on his encyclopedic knowledge of the obscure for the sake of having something, anything besides the obvious to talk about. 

Eventually, Steve interjects, “Tell me the rest while I smoke?” 

There must not be much else to tell.  By the time the kitchen door swings shut behind them, Jonathan is trailing off with a shrug and a wave of his hands: “It’s interesting, really.” 

After a few minutes of quiet, Jonathan surprises Steve by leaning against him, so that they’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder.  Slowly―cautiously, almost, like he thinks he’ll be shaken off―he tips his head until his face is buried in the crook of Steve’s neck.  

Steve is careful to blow smoke away from him, though Jonathan doesn’t give any indication that he minds or even notices.  Once the cigarette is finished, stubbed out on the side of the house, Jonathan stays where he is.  Steve can feel him breathing, steady and shallow.  

He thinks of the first time they stood here, of a time when he had wanted this without knowing what this was; of laughing, flirting, blowing smoke rings; of Jonathan, perpetually shivering and stewing in that other, indignant kind of quiet that Steve used to expect from him.  

He doesn’t really know when he learned all of Jonathan’s silences, when he started to categorize them.  He just knows that―between the unspoken hostility of Jonathan hunched over behind the funeral home and what he’s doing now, almost burrowing into Steve―are a hundred other, smaller quiets.  

Waiting for the Demogorgon, their breath hitching in their throats; listening to Japanese Whispers , Jonathan’s eyes shut tight and Steve’s wide open, watching; even that first phone call from Ohio, Steve drifting off to sleep to the sound of Jonathan’s own breathing slowing down .  

Peeling their shirts off by the pool, tangling their legs in the abandoned bus; sitting without touching and desperately wanting to on the church stairs, at the graveyard, on the bedroom floor.  

Months on months of silence, of waiting for calls that didn’t come and the panic when they did.

Steve wants to say something, to ask if Jonathan feels it too, the yawning gap of two years culminating in this; he wants to ask if he’s thinking of it now. 

He wants to know if Jonathan is sorry they didn’t do this sooner.  If he would change it, trade half a dozen silences for a few more months of this.  

For the first time, Steve isn’t sure that he would. 

He isn't sure he'd trade this exact moment, huddling together behind the house, for anything.

The words won’t come; so instead, he turns and presses a kiss to the top of Jonathan’s head.  He kisses him again, his forehead and the ends of his hair and the top of his ear, and every kiss is Hi.  I know you.  I like you.  

The message seems to land.  Into the fabric of Steve’s t-shirt, Jonathan whispers, “Hi.”  

“Hey, Byers.”  

Jonathan tips his face up.  “Byers?”

“Horowitz,” Steve corrects himself.  “I gotta start snapping myself with a rubber band or something.” 

The call came two days ago―the Powers That Be telling-not-asking Joyce to consider an alias for all of them, even El, to use in Lenora.  Horowitz doesn’t offer much in the way of anonymity, being Joyce’s maiden name; but it’s been deemed satisfactory, for now.  Soon enough, it’ll be immortalized on all their school papers and in the Lenora phone book and Jonathan and Joyce’s California driver’s licenses, when they get them.

Steve’s only reservation is that it doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily as Byers .

He tries again: “Hey, Horowitz.  Wanna go back inside?” 

“In a minute.” 

For that minute, Jonathan’s head falls back onto Steve’s shoulder.  Steve wraps an arm around him, feels him breathe and shiver beneath his sweatshirt; Jonathan grabs his hand and Steve rubs circles into his palm, and every circle is Hi.  I know you.  I like you.  

I always liked you.

 ―

Steve gets two pictures of Jonathan that night, both taken on Joyce’s Polaroid camera.

The first is posed: Jonathan sitting on the couch, closed-mouth smiling and giving a thumbs up to the camera―uncomfortable, maybe, but not unhappy.  Steve is sure to tell him that it’s the greatest photo ever taken, that he’s going to blow it up to poster size.

Steve doesn’t realize the second picture’s been taken until Robin shoves it his way, still just half-developed.  He and Jonathan are back in their spot on the floor, engaging in animated conversation with Lucas and Dustin.  Lucas just said that he wants to try out for basketball in the spring, an idea Dustin vehemently objects to; Steve is for it, while Jonathan tells them they should both think about joining photography club instead, arguing that “there’ll always be basketball players, but once I move, photography’s down to three members.”

In the picture, they’re both cross-legged, having pivoted to face one another.  Steve is doing something with his hands in Jonathan’s face (making a good point, most likely); Jonathan’s eyes are rolled to the ceiling, his arms crossed obstinately over his chest.  

But even in the midst of an argument―and it’s barely an argument, as arguments between them go―they’re smirking at each other, like there’s some joke between the two of them no one else gets.  

 ―  

For a godawful party, no one seems to want to leave.  The kids drag blankets and pillows into the living room floor, falling asleep in a pile that Nancy compares to a nest of baby squirrels.  Even Robin stays until two, nodding off and jerking awake when she realizes her head has drifted onto Jonathan’s shoulder rather than Steve’s.  Barb and Nancy offer her a ride home, though not before promising Jonathan they’ll come back to help tomorrow.  

When she’s almost out the door, Nancy turns and shakes her keys at Steve.  “Need a ride?” 

As everyone else started drifting off or trickling out, Jonathan started consolidating the pizza into one box and picking up trash; Steve, feeling equal parts generous and afraid he’ll fall asleep on the living room floor if he sits still for much longer, joined him.  He stops gathering cups and grease-stained paper plates long enough to shrug Nancy off.  “I drove over here.”

Nancy purses her lips.  Matter-of-factly, she says, “Robin told me about your night blindness.”  

“That’s why I got the damn glasses―what more do you guys want?”  When Nancy just stands there with one hand on her hip, unconvinced, he adds, “I’ll probably end up staying the night.”

Even after all this time, Steve would like to think he knows Nancy well enough to tell the difference between her being genuinely surprised by something and when she’s just putting on.  

Her responding “Oh?” and raised eyebrows seem like the latter.

Steve looks down at his shoes, suddenly sheepish.  “Yeah.  So I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow?”  

“See you tomorrow,” she concedes, nodding.   

Steve checks over his shoulder―the kids are all asleep; Jonathan is out of sight, though Steve can just make out the sounds of him puttering around the kitchen, the sink turning on and the fridge opening and closing.  Nancy’s back is to him, having paused in the doorway just long enough to button her coat.  

Steve isn’t really sure what’s come over him.  A wave of nostalgia, maybe; sleep deprivation, more likely than not.  But if he doesn’t say this now, he might never be able to.  He’s left it to rattle around his brain for too long as it is.

He clears his throat.  “Hey, Nance?”  

There’s a hm? of acknowledgement, though she doesn’t turn around.  It’s not like she could possibly know what he’s about to say.  In her shoes, Steve would guess it'd be something about grabbing some extra packing tape tomorrow, or more boxes from Marv’s.    

He steps around to her right side, as close to facing her as he can get if she doesn’t turn around.  

“I know this is out of nowhere but I- uh, I wanted to tell you.  I never stepped out on you, okay?  And it always really killed me, that I made you cry like that.”  He stops for a breath, rocking back and forth on his heels.  Nancy’s still facing the door; but he can see by the way her spine goes stiff that she’s listening.  Expecting something more, something better, maybe―not that he can give that.  He barely knows what the hell he’s saying.  He clears his throat again.  “But there was…something.  Something that I wasn’t smart enough to figure out yet.  And I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”

They’ve been cordial for a while now, able to trade smiles and nods in between fighting monsters.  He always extended the five finger friendship discount to her and Barb at Scoops.  He doesn’t know what he expected her response to be: So you weren’t cheating on me, you were just gay?  In that case, I’m honored to have been a casualty in your journey of self-discovery.   

Finally, after a few more excruciating seconds, she turns toward him.  He braces himself.

“You remember Murray Bauman?”  He isn’t sure where this is going―his brain can only flash to 1983, to Tommy, to Nancy propping him up through the nightmare of those first few months―but nods in the affirmative.  “When me and Barb went to see him, he told me I was the most repressed person he’d ever met.”  Her mouth presses into a thin, flat line.  “So what I’m saying is, I guess, you weren’t the only one.” 

Until now, Steve has always chalked up Gilligan with Nancy feeling a whole lot like Dr. Zhivago with Robin to being a him thing. 

Unlike Nancy, Steve doesn’t have to pretend to be shocked.  He has about a million questions: Do you know about Robin?  Does Robin know about you?  Wait―Barb.  Is it Barb?  (Now that he thinks about it, Nancy  had always seemed to really like Barb, and Barb seemed to hate Steve more than he thought was entirely fair.)   

Birds of a feather, people always say―maybe there’s some truth to it.  

He’ll definitely have to ask about that later.  For now, he raises one of the empty plastic cups in his hand in a sort of toast: “To not being repressed anymore.”

Nancy smiles, wider this time, and clinks her keys against the cup.  “To not being repressed,” she echoes.  “Goodnight, Steve.”

She stretches onto her tiptoes, leaning in to give him a quick peck on the cheek; it’s a weird feeling, being so close to her after so long, even for a split-second.  

Her lips are dry and a little cold; he can feel her eyelashes flutter against his cheekbone; and even though he’s forgotten the specifics, her shampoo and her perfume and the toothpaste she uses, she still smells unmistakably like Nancy.   

In a lot of ways, it feels like those first kisses on the forehead from Robin: He doesn’t object to it, but he isn’t used to it.  

One day, he could be.

 ― 

Only once every paper plate and plastic cup and stray pizza crust  has been taken care of do Steve and Jonathan go to bed.  

Going to bed may not be the most accurate way to put it; they don’t fall asleep.  

They don’t get underneath the blankets.

They don’t even turn off the light.  

Steve and Jonathan collapse into bed and just lie there, facing each other, forehead-to-forehead and nose-to-nose, not talking.  

It's Jonathan who breaks the silence, sitting up and saying, “There’s something I wanna show you.” 

Steve follows him up, placing a hand on his shoulder.  “Gonna give me something to remember you by?”

“Don’t be gross,” Jonathan says, complete with a mock-gag as he shrugs out from under Steve's hand. 

He picks his way through the maze of luggage and boxes, over to his newly-organized picture box; squinting, Steve can see that he’s plucked out the envelope for 1983.  

1983: The year Will went missing; the year Tommy died; the year of the demogorgon.  Whatever the picture's going to be, Steve braces himself.    

But when the photo floats into his lap, it’s not Will; it's not a monster; it’s him. 

It's Steve fucking Harrington, on the last night of his life that that still meant anything.  

He’s hunched over in a deck chair, soaked to the bone from jumping in the water.  He doesn’t see anyone else in the pool or on the periphery; they must have already gone inside.  It’s just him, alone, staring out into the pool―staring vacantly, he thinks, though it’s not really close enough to tell.  He’s got a Budweiser can in one hand, a cigarette in the other.  

Jonathan sinks down beside him.  The first thing he says is, “I know it looks like a creep shot.”

It doesn’t, not really―but Steve still doesn’t want to look at it for too long.  He sets it on the bed, face-down.  “It’s from when you were looking for Will, right?” 

Jonathan shakes his head.  “Yeah.  I got so far into the woods that I ended up behind your house.” 

“You think I was the kidnapper or something?” Steve asks, going for levity and landing squarely on monotone.  

“No,” Jonathan says, rolling his eyes.  He picks the picture up off the bed, turning it over to study it.  “I just saw you sitting there, you know, doing your whole lonely child king thing while I was out looking for my missing brother.  And I just…hated you, right then―I hated you all the time―but I thought at least I have someone to look for.  At least that’s not all my life is.  So I took it to, like, prove to myself that life had meaning or something; and because I was a pretentious dickhead.” 

All Steve takes from that is lonely child king.  He says as much: “My lonely child king thing?” 

“C’mon― King Steve?” Jonathan asks, disbelieving.   “Don’t tell me you forgot about that.”

“I didn’t forget that.  I just- it’s not the king part.  The lonely part.”  Steve takes the picture back.  Glancing between it and Jonathan, he asks, “Did you think I seemed lonely?” 

Jonathan reaches up to rub the back of his neck with one hand, looking embarassed.  “Just then, yeah.  I thought you looked pretty damn pathetic.”

Steve looks at himself again.  He has only the vaguest recollection of doing it at all, sitting down for a breather and one last swig of beer before following Nancy inside.  The night had gone off without a hitch, all things considered, and he’d known by then that he was almost guaranteed to get laid.  But this kid in the picture―small, hunched, dead-eyed―isn’t the type of guy you’d call the king of anything. 

It isn’t how Steve remembers looking.

Just as he brings the picture up to his face to scrutinize it again, Jonathan interrupts him.  “When you wouldn’t leave me alone, I thought at first it was because you must’ve found out about it.  I kept waiting for you to kick my ass.”  He reaches out, resting a tentative hand on Steve’s knee.  “I kept meaning to throw it away, after; then I kept it so long that I sort of forgot it existed until we were going through everything last week.  Thought I’d feel like less of a creep if I at least showed you before I shred it.”  

“Don’t shred it,” Steve blurts.  “You were right.  I was lonely.  I just…didn’t know it yet.”

Jonathan narrows his eyes at him, clearly unconvinced.  “I wasn’t right.  I was an asshole who made a lucky guess.”  He drums his fingers against Steve’s knee.  Quieter, he says, “I was lonely, too, before I met you―properly met you.”

This time, it’s Steve who rests his head on Jonathan’s shoulder.  Jonathan is rigid, at first; then, he surprises Steve by bringing his free hand up to run through his hair, tucking stray pieces behind his ear and twisting it around his fingers.  

“Gonna be lonely when you move,” Steve mumbles.

Jonathan hums in agreement. 

“But that’s why you’re gonna visit me.”  Jonathan pushes Steve’s bangs back from his forehead, uncovers his eyes and tilts his face up.  “Right?”

Steve manages to smile at that―the acknowledgement of visits, of a future.  He'll take a path forward, even into the uknown, over the alternative, over going back to whatever his life was the night that picture was taken. 

“Right.”

 ―        

Steve Harrington is still getting used to a lot of things.

He’s getting used to a world where his best friend died two years ago and he’s one of the only people who actually knows why; where his other best friend will never speak to him again because of it; where there are monsters, and secret labs, and horrors beyond all comprehension.    

He’s also getting used to not being an ant-killer anymore, to not being lonely anymore.  He’s learning to embrace the company of dumpster cats and punk girls with hippie parents and thirteen year olds with missing teeth; of Ms. Click and Dan from the record shop; of little boys who’ve visited alternate dimensions and super-powered little girls who like Madonna.  

He’s getting used to Jonathan Byers, sleeping soundly beside him with one arm slung across his chest.  

Steve traces his face, watches him breathe.  He does his best to commit him to memory―something to hold him over until Christmas.  

He doesn’t like it; but he knows that he can get used to this, too.  He’ll find joy in phone calls and postcards, Cerebro with Dustin on the weekend, and jam-packed holiday flights from the Fort Wayne airport.  

He always wanted to see California; once upon a time, he’d even entertained the thought of moving there for college.  He knows it would be crazy to say out loud―so he doesn’t, not yet―but he thinks that there are other things he’d move there for, now.  If it came down to it.

It’d be a big change, from landlocked Indiana to the west coast: No more snow or winter coats, the ocean a few hours drive away.  

Steve could get used to it.