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Jonathan found out.
It took him a damn long time, all things considered, but he found out.
Jonathan, eight states over, shoulders deep in final papers, and with a neglected answering machine that Joyce never seemed to bother to erase messages from, found out.
It wasn’t common for someone to get the shit kicked out of them so hard that they were rounding up on their eight or ninth concussion, but here they were. Still, the last thing Steve had been expecting was an apologetic Robin to tell him that an unimpressed Jonathan was catching a flight back to Indiana as quickly as possible. Steve also wasn’t impressed.
As a child, the most terrifying thing Steve could possibly fathom was falling from a great height. Airplanes, buildings, space—most kids were afraid of spiders or the dark—but Steve feared seeing the end coming, hurtling towards the ground at machspeed, because unlike the character's in the Saturday morning cartoons he watched, he knew he wasn't going to squish down like an accordion and spring back up all creased and folded. No—he knew what would happen, and for the longest of time he refused to even climb up onto a ladder.
Now, as a young adult, the most terrifying thing he could think of was Jonathan Byers when he was angry.
“Oh hey, Jonathan,” is what he said when he walked into his room.
Steve was still stuck in the standard breezy hospital garb, but he was sitting cross legged on the bed, acting as if none of this was remotely abnormal, or that the reason why he was here wasn’t because his face looked as though it had been through a meat grinder.
Jonathan, however, looked as much as Robin had described: unimpressed.
“Nancy paid for my ticket home,” Jonathan told him before Steve could even ask. “I’m going to pay her back when I can. I just talked to Dustin, too, but—,”
“—you didn’t listen to him, did you?” Steve cut in, sounding short. “You know he exaggerates things.”
“Well I don’t think he did this time,” Jonathan snapped. “You were out for almost three days.” He paused, shooting Steve a pointed, meaningful look, but when Steve just stared back at him blankly, the other rolled his eyes and moved on. “We just talked downstairs; he wanted to know what room you'd been moved into. I told him I didn’t know, but to ask me again in twenty minutes. Robin also said that you—,”
“—so I have twenty minutes to convince you not to tell him where I am?” Steve interjected, sounding thoughtful. “I like this challenge. Sounds sexy.”
“It’s not a challenge,” Jonathan told him stiffly. He pulled a clipboard out from behind his back, sending a pile of paperwork flapping. “You’re getting discharged tomorrow,” he informed him flatly. “And you’re going to explain to me what you did, and I’m going to listen and decide whether or not to kill you myself.”
“Oh, so this isn’t a conjugal visit.” Steve’s shoulders drooped and he hung his head, posture picture perfect in mirroring abject disappointment.
In response, Jonathan took a slow breath in, eyes raised to the ceiling.
“No. This is incredibly impersonal. I’m here to help you fill out a referral form: they want you to see a neurologist to make sure you’re brain isn’t totally fucked from your most recent concussion.”
Steve’s head snapped up at that.
“Oh?”
Jonathan just sighed again and walked over to sit on the edge of the bed. He raised a pencil, scribbling something on the top of the sheet and began to read off the first question.
“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your current emotional state? One is depressed, five is baseline, and ten is highly emotional. You can specify elated, enraged, nervous, et cetera on that last one.”
“This is such a shitty rating system,” Steve complained, throwing his head back. “These questions are exactly the same as last time: you know that I know how to answer them so that I don’t have to see the stupid psych again.”
Jonathan’s lips tightened. He flipped through the rest of the pages, skimming the questions.
“They all seem to be self-assessment based, so I’m going to leave it with you.” He then laid the clipboard down on the thin sheets near Steve’s arm and placed the pencil on top of it as he stood up.
Steve’s jaw stiffened, only belatedly realizing his mistake.
“What? Wait—where are you going?”
Jonathan blinked, but didn’t really answer him.
“I’ll be back in half an hour to pick up these forms. With Dustin. Be sure to sign and date it at the end of the packet. Don’t lie.”
Then, he left the room.
Steve watched him, and caught the sound of Jonathan inhaling sharply, then breathing out just as quickly. He listened to the other man's footsteps fade. He glanced down at the packet of papers on his bed. He looked back to where Jonathan had left.
Steve blinked.
So Jonathan was actually angry.
—
When Jonathan came back half an hour later, Steve was still sitting there where Jonathan had left him.
“Jonathan—," he tried immediately.
Jonathan aimed a flat look at the clipboard. “You didn’t fill it out.”
Steve ignored his comment.
“Could you please tell me what’s wrong?”
There was a pause, and then, in the most conversational, anticlimactic way possible, he announced: “You almost died.”
Steve wasn’t moving, but if he had, he definitely would have froze.
“Well, actually—,”
“Steve,” Jonathan gritted out.
“Yes,” Steve said slowly, changing his answer. “I did.”
“And how’d that happen?” Jonathan asked. He asked it in the way of someone who already knew the answer, the tone of his voice changing to hard edged and biting, like rough sandpaper. He was still staring at the clipboard rather than Steve.
“...got into a fight,” Steve answered honestly, if not a little sheepishly after a couple of silent seconds.
“And how often have you been told about your tendency to rush into things without thinking them through?” Jonathan immediately fired back with.
“Uh…”
Jonathan cut him off, not giving him the time to think of an answer, not even a half-assed one.
“Even though I’ve been away, I know Dustin is always telling you to keep your cool. Robin, too. She warns you every single time to stop and fucking think when you somehow get that same hair-brained notion that you always do that you can fight your way to a solution. I talked to her in the waiting room, too; she sounds tired of the routine, Steve, which suggests to me that you haven’t ever really been listening.”
Steve's hand twitched on his knee at the mention of Robin.
“I guess she—,” he tried.
Jonathan cut him off again.
“The first time you got the shit kicked out of you was when you were seventeen because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Remember that?" he said coolly. "You’ve been hearing us tell you to think before you act for almost half a decade. Am I right?”
Steve bit his lip.
“Yes."
“And yet it’s what you almost died from.”
Steve turned his head, so he was fully looking at the other now, but still refusing to make eye contact with him.
“Yes.”
There was a long silence. Jonathan was probably waiting for him to acknowledge what he had done was wrong, but Steve stubbornly refused to do so.
"You don't know the full story, Jonathan," Steve finally snapped back, rounding on him with an angry tone. "There were these creeps messing with Max, and—,"
“I’m really pissed off right now, Steve,” Jonathan said abruptly, cutting him off again. "And I don't give a shit about your story."
There was another beat of silence and Steve exhaled heavily through his nostrils, eyes blinking shut. He doesn’t know why he says what he says next, and knows instinctively before the words even leave his mouth that they're a bad fucking idea, but they slip out anyways.
“Well, then that’s your problem.”
Refusing to stop and think before he acts again, he thinks. Unable to keep his mouth shut, because he just can’t help himself.
The seconds ticked by.
“I suppose it is,” Jonathan finally said after a long, long moment. “And it doesn’t have to be my problem anymore.”
Steve’s hands moved from his knee to dangle in the space between his legs. He didn't turn his face. He didn't answer.
“Dustin?” Jonathan suddenly called. “You can come in.”
Immediately, Dustin’s face appeared through the space in the door.
“Steve?”
Steve rubbed the side of his face with his hand. Shit.
“…hey, Dustin,” he sighed.
“I’ll be in the lobby downstairs,” Jonathan told the younger boy, ignoring Steve completely and not even bothering with a goodbye. His voice carried no inflection. He was gone before Dustin could even move out of his way and the door swung on its hinges, but fell still quickly again.
“Uh, Steve?” Dustin asked.
Steve didn’t respond at first, and it was only after the weight of Jonathan’s words fully hit him that he managed a response.
“...what’s up?” Steve sighed.
“Well…your face is still looking really messed up today,” the other answered honestly, cringing a little. “More than usual.”
“Well no shit, Henderson. You know it wasn’t exactly a fair fight.”
“Is it ever?” the other muttered.
“What was that?” Steve irately ground out.
Dustin rolled his eyes, flopping down into the chair next to the bed.
“Nothing. Look: I just wanted to see and make sure you were okay; hadn't seen you since Friday. And you’re not, but that’s nothing new. But Jonathan is—,”
"I don't want to talk about it,” Steve interjected with moodily.
Dustin shifted uneasily, turning back to the now still door. “Um. Okay. But he got in last night on a redeye to Indianapolis from Lenora, and Nancy picked him up and drove him here. She said he was really upset by what happened. Are you guys…okay?”
There was a beat of silence.
“Well…I think he just dumped me,” Steve eventually told him, voice hollow.
There was another beat of silence.
“Oh.” Then: “Just like that?” Dustin asked, sounding unsure. “I mean…you guys fight all the time…"
“Yeah: about stupid shit like what toppings to put on pizza, or who forgot to call each other last.”
“Okay, but you guys have been together, for like—,”
“–-three years,” Steve finished for him, gaze shifting and staring down at the clipboard near his leg and the unchecked responses.
“Can’t you just say you’re sorry?”
“He’s really pissed off,” Steve told him, sighing deeply again and he let his shoulders drop before he laid down, head hitting the pillow of the bed.
He wasn’t expecting to hear Dustin scoff.
“Well no shit, Steve. He nearly lost his boyfriend.”
Steve winced.
“Yeah…why’d Nancy have to go and tell him? He has finals next week and I’m fine now,” Steve groaned.
There’s another beat of silence before Dustin shifted in his chair, sitting up.
“Nancy didn’t tell him; she knew he had finals, too,” Dustin said, his expression fading into a frown. “I did.”
Steve blinked.
“Oh you asshole,” Steve said, sighing deeply. "Why’d you have to tell him?”
Dustin doesn't hesitate when he says: "Because it's Jonathan?"
Steve looked up and over, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, and? I’m supposed to be your best-friend-idol-older-brother-mentor-whatever,” Steve huffed.
“Okay?” was all Dustin responded with, brow raised. His tone alone told Steve that Dustin thought he was stupid. “And Jonathan is your boyfriend.”
Steve frowned.
“So you’re siding with him.”
Dustin immediately shot him an incredulous look.
“I’m not siding with anyone, you moron! I’m just saying Jonathan deserved to know. And yeah, I was going to tell him because duh—when your boyfriend is in a coma, you should know!”
“You are,” Steve fired back petulantly. “You’re siding with Jonathan just because you’ve known him longer.”
“Oh my god, Steve, will you just shut up?” Dustin suddenly groaned. “This! This is what Jonathan was talking about.”
Again, Steve blinked.
“You guys talk about me?”
Dustin sighed, not expecting Steve’s response.
“No—well, yes: sometimes,” Dustin told him, sounding slightly flustered. Without missing more than a second however, he managed to regain his nerves and he frowned. “But specifically, earlier today he said that you’re basically like a child. And you know what? I tried to defend you; I really did. But I agree with him now—I listen to you a lot and take a lot of advice from you, but my god, when it comes to relationships? You’re horrible. How are you not eternally single? I’m surprised Jonathan actually puts up with you—,”
“–okay, that’s totally out of line and—,”
“–no, it’s true, Steve,” Dustin snapped. “You fucking suck at dating. How you managed to convince Jonathan to even look at you after all the shit you put him through? The shit you continue to put him through? If this was anyone normal, they would have dumped your ass long ago. But Jonathan puts up with it because he’s Jonathan. And that’s why I told him, because he deserves so much better than you! He deserves someone who isn’t going to wind up in the hospital every other time some punk ass teenagers look at him wrong. And yeah Steve, that’s what happened; you got your ass handed to you by some dumb football jocks that Max totally could have handled on her own. And it’s really not fair to him! You know how much crap he has to put up with from his family? With his mom? And Will? Hopper? El? Like a lot, Steve. A lot. But he worries about you more than anything, and it's because you still haven’t figured out that you need to grow up!”
Steve winced.
“Did you even apologize for it?” Dustin finally asked, sounding exhausted.
“For what?”
“For stealing his favorite album,” Dustin deadpanned.
“I mean, I didn’t steal his favorite album, but one time I—,”
“—Holy shit, you might actually have brain damage!” Dustin practically shouted, flicking at Steve’s shoulder. “For winding up here again! God! What did you think I was talking about?!”
Silence.
“Oh my fucking god,” Dustin groaned. “He’s taking a bus back to Lenora Hills tomorrow. You need to apologize by tomorrow. You need to tell him that you’re an idiot and child and that you suck at communicating and that he deserves better, and even then, you should be telling him he was right to dump your ass.”
Steve stuck his tongue into his cheek.
When he didn’t respond, Dustin punched him in the arm, hard.
—
When Jonathan refused to talk to him on the phone at the Wheeler’s house and Steve’s nurse refused to discharge him early (because apparently apologizing to his boyfriend who had just dumped his ass was not a valid excuse to leave early), Steve did the only logical thing possible: he got dressed and walked out of the hospital in the middle of the night and called a cab from two blocks over at the Admiral gas station.
He knew Jonathan was going to give him shit about this too (because he still hadn’t filled out that damn paperwork) but if he had to make a choice between missing Jonathan’s bus in the morning because Nurse Ratchet refused to discharge him 12 hours early, then, well…
Luck however, seemed to be on his side because even though it was nearing 5 am and no reasonable, sane person would be knocking on someone's door at this hour, Jonathan answered, looking confused and definitely half asleep.
“What the hell, Steve?” he mumbled before Steve could even say ‘hello’. “Why are you—,”
“Discharged myself,” Steve lied, not letting him finish. “Why are you the one answering the door?" he asked, flipping the conversation. "I was expecting Karen, or Nancy. Maybe even Ted.”
“I’m sleeping on their couch,” Jonathan replied a little shortly, voice gruff with sleep. “It’s right—,”
“—through the hall to the left,” Steve finished for him. “Yeah, I know.”
Jonathan sighed, running a hand through his messy hair and rubbed at his eyes. Then, nothing else. Just silence.
“So…Dustin gave me some relationship advice,” Steve said when it became clear Jonathan wouldn’t be initiating this chat.
“Did he.”
“He told me I kind of fucked up.”
“Did you.”
“Could we try this whole conversation again? No paperwork?”
Jonathan sighed but stepped out onto the front steps and quietly shut the front door to the Wheeler’s behind him.
Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other and went to touch his hair—a nervous habit—but stopped when his knuckle grazed his brow and he winced. Right. Everything was still kind of looking like ground beef at the moment.
“I’m sorry I almost died,” he said, giving in with a sigh as he dropped his hand.
Jonathan’s shoulders shifted slightly beneath the loose cotton of his sleep shirt in a slow roll of discomfort.
“Okay.”
“In my defense, I—,”
“You should stop right there,” Jonathan cut him off. “It’s just going to go downhill if you start giving me justifications. I get that you wanted to help Max, and it was probably the right thing to do, but…” He trailed off, sighing deeply. “You’re not a superhero,” he finished quietly.
Steve looked to the stiff set of Jonathan’s shoulders. He followed the loose, empty line of his arms hanging dead by his sides, his knuckles clenched white.
Steve sighed.
“Hey. Jonathan. C’mere.”
Jonathan turned to look back at him. The gray, pre-dawn light flashed across the browns of his eyes, and then his features were cast again in shadows. Steve frowned: it was hard to parse his expression. Jonathan was incredibly difficult to read on a good day, and now it was almost impossible to see anything his expression may have revealed.
Steve pushed forward anyways and held a hand out, waggling his fingers. “C’mere.”
Jonathan moved until he was standing next to him. Steve nodded and sat down on the step and patted the cold concrete next to him, motioning for Jonathan to follow.
“Sit down,” he instructed.
Jonathan rolled his eyes.
“I don’t get what you think this is going to do.”
It was Steve’s turn to be annoyed.
“What do you think I’m going to do? Trip you? Christ, just sit down. So we can talk.”
Jonathan huffed again, but sat. He stretched his legs out straight in front of him and crossed his ankles, then crossed his arms over his chest. Steve draped his arm over Jonathan’s shoulder, feeling the way he radiated stillness and warmth.
Steve was experiencing a pins-and-needles like numbness in his wrist by the time he spoke up again.
“I know I’m not a superhero,” he told him plainly albeit quietly. “And I know I make stupid mistakes, and this one was especially stupid, but I keep thinking about what I could have done differently and…I can’t see what it’d be. I got my ass kicked. I lost.” He felt Jonathan tense up, breathing unevenly, and he moved from a passive draping of his arm to sliding a comforting hand up and down Jonathan’s bicep. “But I didn’t die, right?”
Jonathan shifted, drooping slightly, so he could rest his head in the space underneath Steve’s chin.
“Yeah, you didn’t…but your head, Steve. It’s…” He trailed off, unable to finish.
“I try not to think about it,” Steve admitted, voice just as soft. “I’d never get anything done if I remembered all the depressing shit the doctor’s keep telling me to expect.”
“Stop,” Jonathan said sharply.
“Oh, were we having a moment?” Steve teased, twisting to try and get a look at Jonathan’s face.
“No,” Jonathan said quietly. “You’re depressing me. And making me more concerned about your mental health.”
Steve moved his hand up to ruffle Jonathan’s hair.
“Sorry, Jon.”
Jonathan sighed.
“I did sign up for this,” he admitted quietly.
“Well, no,” Steve said, huffing with a small laugh. “You definitely didn’t sign up for this specifically. Because me knocking on the Wheeler’s door at 5 am looking for you is definitely a new one.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes and nudged Steve gently.
“I meant you,” he grumbled. “I signed up for you and I should expect dumb shit from time to time.”
“True,” Steve said, unable to hold back a grin.
Jonathan did not smile back.
“You’re lucky,” is all he said.
“Yeah, I know, you put up with a lot from me,” Steve fawned, trying to be charming.
Jonathan nudged him again and tried to shake Steve off. His charm had failed: Jonathan was annoyed again.
“No, jackass—I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m telling you the fact that you woke up, not as a vegetable, is a matter of bizarre luck.” He turned to look at Steve, his tongue pushed tightly into his cheek. “They thought you had irreversible brain damage. The doctors were trying to get a hold of your parents—whom by the way, still aren't reachable, so what the hell—,"
"—they're in Myrtle Beach," Steve chimed in with, but Jonathan shot him a cold look that said I don't actually give a fuck and Steve went silent again.
"Well they were trying to see who your legal power of attorney was for your medical shit in case there was a DNR," Jonathan gritted out. "So I flew back from California because I thought you were going to die.”
Well, shit. There it all was.
Steve was simply silent for a long while before he cocked his head, nodding.
“I know,” he finally said. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I made you worry. But I had to help Max.”
“I know,” Jonathan repeated, burying his face in his hands. He had started to cry.
“Hey,” Steve said softly, wrapping an arm gingerly around him again. “Hey, what’s—,” The word ‘wrong’ didn’t ever get the chance to leave his lips.
“Goddammit,” Jonathan breathed, so quietly that there was no way Steve was meant to hear him sound that sad. “Don’t you dare ask me that. You should know. You should know that I’m scared,” he exhaled. “For you. Because you’re so fucking devoted to helping others.”
Steve frowned, but squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder tighter.
“You know that’s not fair,” he told him, hand petting his arm again. “And I know I’m saying the wrong things, but they’re true," he implored earnestly, trying to get Jonathan to understand. "And you know they’re true; you’d have done the same. You do the same. With Will. And with your family.”
Jonathan flinched at this, a cried out, "That's not the same!", and his body lurched in rebellion, like what Steve had said didn’t sit well with him, like maybe it was a lie. But Steve held onto him tightly, fiercely, his fingers digging into the curve of his shoulder and rooting him there in place.
"How is it not?” Steve asked him in return, voice barely a whisper. “Remember when you told me how in 10th grade you started skipping classes to help pay your mom's bills again?"
Jonathan sucked in a breath.
"Working to buy groceries is different than getting the shit kicked out of me!"
Steve shook his head, sighing deeply.
"But skipping classes to do it is still something stupid," he reasoned, "Epecially when you didn't have to."
Jonathan scoffed.
"Didn't have to?" he parroted, sounding incredulous. "You don't get it, Steve: what choice did I have?"
"To step back and stop thinking the entire world is going to fall apart if you don't put your family first!" Steve finally snapped. "Because raising Will and making sure there was food in the fridge was never really your responsibility. You were a kid, Jonathan, but you did it anyways because you care about your brother in the same way I care about all the dumb little shit heads here in Hawkins. So don't tell me it's not the same; that you're not just as stupidly devoted and wouldn't think twice about putting yourself between your brother and whatever danger he faced."
"I…it…" Jonathan seemed to falter at this, his voice giving way to tears again.
“Don’t fight me on this, Jonathan,” Steve told him quietly.
“I’m not fighting you—,” the other managed to get out, even though he was. His breathing was uneven again and he sounded like he was in pain, but his body had stilled as he reached up, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palms. “I know it’s the truth. I know I’m the same way, but…”
“But?”
“I can’t be with you if you’re just going to keep doing this,” Jonathan choked out. "If in ten years you're just going to…to…"
Steve's mouth opened, and then it closed. Then go, he wanted to say. But for once in his life, he stopped to think.
“I know,” is all Steve could tell him at long last, squeezing Jonathan even tighter. He leaned in, kissing his brow gingerly. Emotionally, he knew Jonathan wanted to stay. Intellectually, he wanted to leave. As always, he seemed to enjoy punishing himself. “We’re gonna figure this out, okay?”
Jonathan just nodded with a shaky exhale, his hand snaking into Steve’s as he tangled their fingers together.
"Okay," is all he said, sounding weary and defeated. "I believe you…I have to."
Steve blinked, his gaze drawn towards the sunrise. It was beautiful, and shadows of the gray dawn had been cast in warm hues of yellow and white. He squeezed Jonathan's hand. Then, he looked back at him. For once in his life, Jonathan's expression was bare-faced and honest. He looked terrified. It was as though he was hurtling through the sky and rocketing down quickly towards Earth, stuck in an endless free fall and waiting for the end.
Steve exhaled and slowly closed his eyes.
"I know," he murmured back. His thumb grazed gently over the curve of Jonathan's hand, sweeping across the knuckles and he held on tight. If they were falling, they were going to fall together. "I have to believe it, too."