Archive of Our Own

July 11th 1974

Grasshoppers spring away from Jonathan as he runs through the field, the stick in his hand slashing through the air.

He is seven, which he’s told is old enough to take care of himself. He still goes to his Great Aunt Darlene’s when his parents are at work, though. He thinks it is because he isn’t tall enough to reach the phone if there is an emergency and his family can’t afford to put him in daycare with his little brother. Jonathan doesn’t mind. Aunt Darlene is nice, in a detached way, and mostly expects him to entertain himself, so it isn’t that different from being at home. She takes him out foraging sometimes, as well. They gather plants with toothy leaves that sting when touched, sprays of light purple flowers, parts of trees that smell like root beer, fruits he never sees in the grocery store, and other little bits of nature. While they are out, she occasionally laments to herself that he is a raven instead of a fox. He doesn't understand what she means, but he is too used to adults who don’t like questions to ask.

Fluffy seeds burst from the head of a dandelion as Jonathan hits it with his imaginary sword. He dodges and parries the Sheriff of Nottingham's invisible men and is about to make off with Prince John's treasure of rocks when his sword is yanked from his hand. He opens his mouth to protest, but Aunt Darlene has already snapped the stick in half.

"You should not forge weapons," she reprimands, her eyes soft despite her stern tone. The sunlight turns her auburn hair into a bronze veil. "Even just with your mind."

"Why?" He wants to argue that it is just a stick, but he knows better than to talk back to adults. He is already risking aggravating her by asking for a reason.

"Our ancestors are from the Between," she explains. "Throughout history they have been known as wizards, sorcerers, druids, witches—people able to harness the power of forces few can access and even fewer can understand."

"Magic," Jonathan murmurs in awe at the idea. 

"To some," Aunt Darlene agrees with amusement that yields back to gentle severity as she continues. "Not everyone can access those forces the same. You, for instance, are what our minds interpret as a raven. A weapon you forge, even with your imagination, has the potential to create a deep, unbreakable bond between you and the person who wields it. They become a wolf through that bond, giving them access to those forces. Without the guidance of their raven, however, those forces may cause them to lose their grip on reality."

Jonathan considers this. He will have to look up what comprehension means. He also isn't quite sure what it means for someone to lose their grip on reality. Having a deep, unbreakable bond with someone sounds nice, though. He has his brother, but it would be nice to have a friend. A best friend. Someone who would still be his friend when other kids were mean or their parents said to play with him anymore because they didn’t like his family.

"I promise I won't forge weapons," he tells her when he notices she is waiting for a response. He has learned it is best to agree with adults.

"Good. Now come have lunch. I made pierogi."

Nine years later, Jonathan breaks his promise.

Getting driven from his pack means a lean year for the wolf. His now sinewy muscles ripple under his tawny coat as he skulks through the forest in search of food; his luxurious fur turned brittle and dull by hunger. A rabbit darts out of the brush. The wolf gives chase only for the nimble prey to prove itself quick enough to evade his jaws. His strength and size are more suited to harrying moose or dragging down deer for his pack to tear into than the bursts of speed and quick turns needed to catch small game. Without a pack, he will probably starve.

The call of a raven catches his attention. For a moment, the dream turns lucid and the wolf is Steve again.

He’d been fumbling for his keys after learning monsters were real when the raspy call of a raven broke through his panic. It repeated, drawing his attention to the house as the lights started to flicker erratically. The house went dark. The next call was a shrill cry followed by the staccato burst of gunfire. Steve pushed through his fear and ran back inside. 

Luck or fate put a weapon in his path. His senses sharpened the moment he grabbed the nail bat and his body remembered battles he never fought as he drove the monster into the trap Jonathan set.

A melodic croak brings the wolf back from his human memories. He raises his head, ears perked toward the sound, to look up at the raven. The large, black bird looks back at him from the low branch of a white ash tree. He repeats the greeting, the long feathers on his throat lifting as he does, then swoops ahead to the trunk of a fallen birch. He calls again only to take flight as the wolf approaches, leading him to the untouched carcass of a stag at the bottom of a short drop into a dry river bed. Its neck is bent at an odd angle with flies already infesting its eyes and nostrils. When the wolf opens the gut, however, there are still traces of warmth in its bowels.

He eats, allowing the raven to tear off strips of flesh to swallow whole or take to cache in the trees. He has almost eaten his fill when a scratchy warning alerts him to the arrival of a hulking brown bear. The call shifts into the blaring screech of Steve’s alarm clock.

October 31st, 1984

The moment Jonathan arrives at the party, he is ready to leave. He seriously considers it when a guy in a bed sheet toga throws up in front of his car. He goes inside, anyway, and his desire to bail is slightly eased by talking to Samatha. She chuckles at his joke, amused rather than put off by his dry humor, and doesn't get offended by his awkward attempt at guessing her costume. When she tells him she is dressed as Siouxsie Sioux from Siouxsie and the Banshees, he decides to stick around a little longer and admits to only knowing one of their songs. He listens, a bit spellbound, as she laments about how they haven’t really broken into the North American music scene then goes into the band’s artistry and influence. She realizes she is rambling and begins to apologize, but Jonathan encourages her to go on.

He is working up the courage to suggest they listen to an album together sometime when a whine pulls his attention toward the hall. Steve enters the room, pinching his nose to stave off the tears Jonathan somehow knows are stinging the corners of his eyes as he navigates through the crowd. Then, despite avoiding everyone else in the room, his shoulder hits Jonathan’s. It doesn’t even seem intentional, just fate putting Jonathan in the way of his escape. After watching him leave, Jonathan turns back to the hall. Nancy has to be somewhere down it.

"I've got to go," he tells Samantha with an apologetic smile. "It was nice talking to you."

He goes after Steve without hearing her response, telling himself it is only so he can get both sides of things before finding Nancy. The aching tug of his heartstrings suggests otherwise. It pulls him through the darkness to where Steve is leaning against the trunk of his BMW, backlit by the lamp illuminating the driveway across the street. Steve’s silhouette shifts as he raises his head, though he doesn’t say anything. As Jonathan gets closer, he can make out the unlit cigarette dangling between Steve’s lips.

“I thought you quit,” he says once he is close enough he doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard.

“Yeah, well,” Steve mutters more to himself than Jonathan, “I guess that’s just more bullshit.”

He pats his pockets in search of a lighter. Jonathan eventually offers his. At Steve's questioning brow raise, he shrugs.

"I started carrying it around," he explains as he holds out the silver Zippo he used to light the trap they caught the demogorgon in last year. He can’t stand cigarettes, the smell forever associated with the storm of his parents’ arguments and the unnerving calm before them, but the lighter is the easiest weapon to keep on him. "Just in case."

Steve takes the lighter. Their fingers touch as he does and all of Jonathan’s senses fixate on the moment. The sounds of the party fade from notice, replaced by a nocturnal chorus of chirps and creaks. The earthiness of decomposing leaves and damp soil cuts through the scent of alcohol and perspiration clinging to their clothes. A howl, hollow and longing, calls to Jonathan across the distance between them. His dark eyes drop to Steve’s lips before quickly flitting away to the darkness. He pulls his hand away and shoves it into the pocket of his jacket. Steve watches him for a moment before heaving a sigh and discarding his cigarette.

"Nancy is completely hammered in the bathroom.” His gaze falls like a child admitting to their misbehavior. He focuses on the lighter in his hands as he absently flips it end over end. "Down the hall to the right. Can you make sure she gets home okay?"

"Yeah."

Steve nods, more to himself than Jonathan, then offers the lighter back without looking up.

"Keep it," Jonathan tells him, pushing his hand back. He is reluctant to break the contact again for both reasons he isn't ready to acknowledge and ones he doesn't understand.

Steve’s eyes meet Jonathan’s, something tenderly hopeful beneath his surprise.

"Just in case."

"Just in case," Steve responds. 

Jonathan steps away from the unknown offered in the shine of Steve’s eyes and heads back to the party to find Nancy, ignoring the tug in his chest telling him to turn around the entire way.

Following the raven leads the wolf to a young pack attempting to take down an injured boar. Their lack of cooperation keeps leading to little spats that give the boar an opportunity to escape. Whenever it does, the adolescent wolves get themselves organized enough to surround it again only for the process to start over. It makes for a good distraction, which the wolf uses to stalk into position. The next time the boar attempts to escape, he intercepts it. His jaws close around its throat and the juveniles cooperate for long enough to help him bring it down.

As they eat–a brief challenge from an arrogant, lanky adolescent quickly resolved by a snap of teeth–the raven comes in to grab their scraps. He flies off to presumably cache what he does not eat, meaning he is not there to alert the wolf to the brown bear’s approach. The wolf backs the pack away to wait for the bear to satisfy his hunger. A confrontation would be dangerous with such an inexperienced pack and the meat is not worth the potential injuries.

Except the darker of the adolescents seems to earn the bear's ire by simply existing in his line of sight. The bear barrels toward him, a massive paw slamming him into the dirt. The other young wolves lose any of the coordination needed to counter the attack to their panic. They uselessly yap and snarl from a distance as their pack member makes a valiant attempt to get his teeth on the leg pinning him down, leaving the wolf to attack the bear alone.

His fangs catch a back leg, effectively drawing the bear’s attention, and he darts away to avoid the swipe of a massive paw. He proceeds to harry his opponent with feinted snaps of his teeth and quick dodges. The wolf is no match for the bear on his own, however, and a powerful strike knocks him to the ground. Thick, sharp claws slice into his skin as he twists away from another swing. He flips onto his feet only to be thrown when another swipe connects. He tumbles across the forest floor, limp and bloody and too dazed to stand as the bear advances on him with full intent to kill.

The female of the young pack startles the bear by springing onto his back. He lets out an enraged bellow as her teeth sink into his ear, ripping through flesh and cartilage when she is thrown. The bear spins toward her with a roar. She snarls in response, his blood on her fangs and ruddy hackles bristling down her back.

Her ferocity emboldens the rest of the pack. The darker adolescent stands with her as the other two circle to flank their opponent. The red wolf darts forward with her teeth bared and the bear backs away before finally turning to lope back into the trees.

With the threat gone, the wolf stops fighting unconsciousness and the dream slips to memory as he once again becomes Steve.

He hadn't been surprised that Nancy hooked up with Jonathan the day after Steve told her he was done with her bullshit. He had known who she preferred when they started going steady. Honestly, he was more surprised Jonathan actually made a move. Steve had started to think he actually wasn't into girls.

Hoped, really. As practiced hands cleaned his wounds, Steve thought that hope might not have been because it would remove Jonathan as competition. The idea was buried as soon as he had it.

A tug of his tail brings the wolf back. He turns to warn off whatever is bothering him only to abruptly stop when he sees the culprit. The raven clacks his beak then makes a sound mimicking a concerned whine before flying off. The wolf huffs and lies his head back down.

A warm weight against his back shifts closer. The wolf realizes one of the adolescents has fallen asleep against him. He scents the air to identify the rest, surprised they stayed.

He closes his eyes to go back to sleep only to be startled by the thud of something hitting the ground beside him. It is one of the boar's ribs with bits of meat still stuck to it. The wolf takes it to gnaw on as he watches the raven return to the carcass. A magpie has joined him to pick at the remains of a haunch. Faintly, the wolf catches the scent of a fox.

Then, in the golden light of the setting sun, the raven turns to the wolf and says, "You need me, so why haven't you come to me?"

Steve wakes up with Jonathan's name as a question on his lips.

November 11th, 1984

The fragrant aroma of onions and celery browning in schmaltz barely makes it past the congestion currently responsible for Jonathan's misery. He lethargically pushes the diced produce around the pot, using a trick his Aunt Darlene taught him to improve the can of chicken noodle soup he’s heating for lunch.

After breaking Jonathan's stick, Aunt Darlene started having him help her in the kitchen. She taught him how to use all the things they foraged, making things like tea and jam from stinging nettles or turning nuts into milk, along with all the ways she managed to eat well despite her small fixed income. Chicken fat was rendered into schmaltz while the bones became stock or were thrown in with vegetable scraps to make broth. Fresh produce browned in quality fats were added to canned or processed meals to enhance their flavor. Edible plants and herbs replaced ornamental ones in her flower beds. 

She had him write it all down along with her recipes. He still uses them, though they never come out quite right. Once, when his seasonal allergies started to get bad, she made him lemonade from sumac berries sweetened with raw honey. He hasn't had to deal with seasonal allergies since, but it somehow didn't have the same effect when he made it for Will. The milk he made from nuts to refill the gallon jug they couldn't afford to replace after Lonnie left wasn't as satisfying as he remembered, either. He still forages and uses all the techniques Aunt Darlene passed on to him, though, grateful for the ability to keep his family fed.

Warmth flushes Jonathan's skin despite the cold November air seeping through the house’s inadequate insulation even as chills shiver through him. His entire body aches. There is no denying he is sick and should be resting. His mom has to work, however, and is still grieving Bob while Will only just started to recover enough from being possessed to go back to school.

So, as usual, Jonathan is left to care for himself, meaning that rest isn’t an option.

He sips the tea he made from the nettle leaves he gathered and dried that spring. It is sweetened with raw honey he got from an old friend of Aunt Darlene's. She always insisted it was better than cough syrup. He turns the stovetop’s burner down, adds in some diced carrots, and leaves the vegetables to cook while he drinks his tea.

There is a knock at the door. Jonathan perks up at the thought it might be Nancy coming to check on him, possibly with some 7-Up and rainbow sherbet. When they talked on the phone, she said her mom made her sherbet floats that always made her feel better. The idea she might do the same for him prompts a swoop of affection.

"I've got it!" Will shouts as he runs to the door.

Jonathan doesn’t try to object. It is probably for Will, anyway. Nancy wouldn't risk getting sick with her first issue as managing editor of the school paper due while Will’s friends have been coming over constantly to check on him. This is also the first weekend Will is allowed to go out with them, and Jonathan is pretty certain the only reason he isn't already at Mike's is because their mom told him to not go anywhere unsupervised. Jonathan hates that his illness is keeping his brother isolated. He tries not to think about letting Will down again as he rummages through the utensil drawer for the can opener.

"Hey, Jonathan, we need to…" Steve abruptly stops just inside the kitchen. "You look like shit."

Confusion breaks through the fog of congestion and fatigue. Jonathan stops his search for the can opener to try and puzzle out why Steve is here.

"I feel like shit," he finally mutters, deciding he doesn't have the energy to figure out why Steve is here. It ultimately doesn’t matter. He’ll see Jonathan is sick and leave. When he finally finds the can opener, it uselessly rotates the can without cutting into the top.

"Get in bed," Steve orders. “I’ll finish heating up the soup.”

Jonathan ignores him until Steve steps into his space. He grabs Jonathan's wrist with gentle insistence. Any objection Jonathan is about to voice is cut off when their eyes meet. Steve’s eyes are hazel, the light bringing out flecks of amber and gold. Jonathan always thought they were brown.

"Get," Steve repeats, voice low and firm, "in bed."

He takes the can opener and crowds Jonathan away from the stove. As Jonathan tries to gather the energy to protest, Steve easily opens the can. He pours the contents into the pot then goes to the sink to fill it with water. The sight of Jonathan still in the kitchen earns an almost annoyed look that silently asks what argument he could possibly have that is worth hearing. If there is one, Jonathan is too tired to think of it. He has been conditioned to avoid conflict too much to say it, anyway.

He slinks away, but goes to the couch instead of his bed as a small act of defiance.

The Echo & the Bunnymen album Will borrowed from Jonathan last week plays from his room, the haunting strings of “The Killing Moon” drifting down the hall to score Steve’s hunt for a bowl and spoon. The clatter of cabinets and drawers being open then shut is oddly soothing. Jonathan’s eyelids get heavy, each blink becoming longer as he starts to fall asleep.

“Fate – up against your will – Through the thick and thin – He will wait until - you give yourself to him.”

The vanishing of the fledgling led to days of searching. The raven finally finds him on the edge of the river. He is stiff and cold. Dead. The raven cries in mourning, a guttural rattle that tears through that still of the forest.

A magpie arrives with a dark clump of wolf fur in his beak. As the raven watches, he places it on the fledgling's body then preens one of the long flight feathers before flying away. From the trees, he calls to the raven. His chatter becomes Will talking in the kitchen as Jonathan wakes up. 

He doesn't know how long he slept, but an afghan has been draped over him and there is Gatorade-branded water bottle on the coffee table. He starts to sit up only for a wave of vertigo to lay hom back down. He stares at the ceiling. His soup is probably cold.

"They're still calling me Zombie Boy," Jonathan hears Will tell someone. "Jonathan told me it's cool to be a freak, but..."

"It isn't easy," Steve finishes when Will can't find the words. His voice is steady, sympathetic in a way Jonathan didn’t think it was capable of being. "Especially because of people like me who think that the only way to make ourselves feel bigger is by making others feel small.”

“You aren’t like that anymore, though. Right?”

“I’m trying not to be.” Jonathan can almost picture the lopsided smile pushing the corner of Steve's mouth into his cheek. His chest aches. "Draw four."

A raspy cough prompts Jonathan to reach for the water bottle. The taste of nettle tea–sweeter and weaker than he would have made it–instead of water surprises him. Will must have made it.

His stomach grumbles a reminder he had been making himself lunch before his unintended nap and he wanders into the kitchen, water bottle in hand. The savory smell of pizza greets him. He spots the source half eaten in an open box on the counter. At the table, Will picks at the remains of a slice as he and Steve play Uno, the crusts gathered on his plate like the bones of a carcass.

"Thanks for the tea, Will," Jonathan croaks.

"Steve made it," Will answers without looking up from his hand. He places a skip card down then a red reverse that he follows with a blue reverse and a five.

"Brutal," Steve groans. He draws, then draws a second time. A third, fourth, and fifth time follows until he is finally able to play a blue seven. He sets his cards down. "Alright, you win. I'm going to heat up the soup for your brother."

"You don't have to—" Jonathan starts, only for Steve to interrupt him.

"I didn’t ask.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. People don’t do things for him, partially because he doesn't let them. This isn’t a fight worth having, however, so he lets Steve get the soup from the fridge as he goes to the bathroom. Once he’s finished washing his hands, he takes his temperature since it feels like his fever broke. The aches have eased, as well, and the color looks like it has started to return to his cheeks.

He smelled the pizza.

The realization pulls up the memory of Aunt Darlene telling him how to use nettle.

"When you get sick, boil some water–or microwave it for two or three minutes–then steep the leaves," she had instructed as they gathered the plants. He was now adept at avoiding stinging hairs. "Five to ten minutes if dry, half that if fresh. You can sweeten it however you like, but raw honey is best. Your mother is a fox like I am, even if she doesn’t believe in any of that, so it will have a little magic to boost the health benefits if she makes it.”

Jonathan’s teeth worried his lip. He was nine, and his brother had made a friend. A best friend.

Will and Mike seemed to share an unbreakable bond, one free of the expectations and responsibilities attached to brotherhood. Jonathan was envious of that bond, even if he was happy for Will, and that envy led him to wonder if the bond between a wolf and a raven was similar. Not that he believed in any of that, either, he was just curious and lonely and not great at making or keeping friends.

“What if a wolf makes it?” He asked timidly. Even with his disbelief, Jonathan had never brought up wolves in case he might upset his aunt. She only ever spoke of them in warning.

“Then it will have a lot of magic,” Aunt Darlene responded before the implication of his question hit her. She stilled, taking a tense moment to consider him before going back to picking nettles. “A wolf lives and dies by their raven, though, as their raven lives and dies by them, so best to just make the tea yourself."

Steve had made the tea.

Jonathan checks the thermometer. His fever is gone.

Correlation does not equal causation, of course, but without the camouflage of disbelief, the wolf is easy to spot. He moves through the vegetation of Jonathan’s mind, thriving in a forest of forces beyond his comprehension with the guidance of his raven. Jonathan braces himself against the sink. He can feel the gossamer thread of the bond now that he is aware of it. It is a faint tug, persistent and easily lost in the background with his breath and heartbeat, that draws him toward Steve.

Jonathan suddenly understands why he was so quick to give Murray Steve’s name. He was answering for himself, not Nancy. Steve was his safety, his wolf, and he was afraid of what would happen if he accepted himself for the raven he really was. Rejection, probably, or eventual resentment. Steve doesn’t want to live and die by Jonathan, especially not in the way Jonathan wants to live and die by him. His reluctance to acknowledge that part of himself is possibly an entirely different issue, though.

He returns to the kitchen. Will is gone, probably back in his room or out to Castle Byers. Steam rises from a bowl of soup on the table across from Steve. Jonathan sits down in front of it. He takes a bite. Nothing tastes particularly different. Heartier, maybe, with more depth of flavor, though that could just be the schmaltz.

“Thanks,” he tells Steve. 

“Of course, man.” 

The easy smile quirking Steve’s lips makes Jonathan’s heart flutter. It’s the same smile that was the root of his first crush back in middle school. He always glared back and buried it under contempt that Steve eventually earned by being an entitled asshole. It was safer that way, especially with Lonnie still in the house and Tommy H cackling at Steve’s side. Jonathan never really felt that rush of nervous excitement again until Nancy was bandaging his hand.

“I heard what you told Will,” Jonathan starts softly. He immediately rethinks his words and eats another spoonful of soup before looking up at Steve. The patient attention looking back at him convinces him to continue. “The thing about trying to be a better person,” he clarifies. He hesitates until the tug in his chest finally coaxes him to say, “For what it’s worth, you’re doing a pretty good job.”

The cacophonous melody of birdsongs accompanied by the drone of insects becomes audible in the silence that follows. The stale air grows richly green and woody. Their eyes meet and Jonathan’s heart lodges in his throat at the offer he reads in Steve’s gaze as clearly as if it were a written contract in front of him. It has already been unintentionally signed, he just needs to tell Steve the details. He will never be alone again, living and dying by his wolf just as his wolf will live and die by him.

Jonathan can't do that to Steve. 

He can’t do that to Nancy, either. He loves her. Whether that love is the type that lasts beyond high school remains to be seen, but he wants to find out.

“Why did you come over, anyway?” he asks to break the moment. He focuses on his soup instead of the flecks of amber and gold in Steve’s eyes or the shape of his lips.

“Oh, yeah.” Steve almost sounds like he was caught daydreaming. “This is going to sound crazy, but we fought a monster together, so whatever–have you been dreaming about being a raven?”

Jonathan doesn’t dare to look up.

“No,” he lies.

There is something wrong with the rats. The raven watches as a few poke around a rocky slope, their bodies deformed into masses of bulging flesh covered in clumps of fur. Bald patches reveal waxy skin strung through by black veins. Their behavior is similarly wrong. They move with a staggered gait as they search the rocks with none of the alertness or caution inherent to prey. 

One of the rats suddenly dives between some rocks. There is a series of shrieking squeals before a stoat bolts from the crevice with the rat close behind. It runs after the nimble predator with frightening speed. They disappear into the undergrowth, the foliage quaking as the stoat is chased down. When the raven catches sight of them again, the stoat has locked her jaws on the scruff of the rat’s neck. The relationship between predator and prey is restored when the rat goes limp.

The raven swoops down. He has no intention of stealing the kill, but the stoat eating the diseased rat is a bad idea. She backs away and chitters at him angrily. The sounds become words as the dream shifts to memory.

Jonathan wanted to laugh when Nancy told him fetching coffee and making copies was humiliating. Being berated and demeaned by customers had been humiliating. Cleaning up popcorn riddled vomit had been humiliating. Catching Laurie Gillespie giving a handjob to Reed Burness in the back row of a late showing of Staying Alive had been humiliating. Developing photos that weren’t his and lugging around someone else’s equipment was a dream job by comparison. Tom even mentioned the possibility of hiring him full time after graduation so he could work his way up. 

Because Jonathan had given up on going to college. His family couldn’t afford to send two kids, so the tuition he was saving up was to send Will. Now his opportunity to become a photographer was gone along with any chance of a reference and Nancy was too focused on her own hurt ego to care.

The raven jumps forward and snaps his beak at the stoat. She scurries further back, giving him a few more admonishing chirps before darting into the brush. He waits until the rustle of foliage detritus is no longer audible before turning back to the rat.

There is only enough time to see the rat’s body is gone before it lunges at the raven. He jumps out of the way, wings flaring to maintain his balance. The rat latches onto his flight feathers. He fights it off with sharp pecks and the beat of strong wings as he tries to fly away.

The phone ringing wakes Jonathan up. He lifts himself up to check the time, shoving his head under the pillows when he sees how early it is. His arm hurts.

July 4th, 1986

The pain throbbing behind Steve’s eye is making it hard to think. He still talks. The Russian commander's method of interrogation is similar to his dad’s–a single question repeated to reach a predetermined confession–so Steve is used to keeping his story straight through it. A delivery didn’t come, so he and his friends went to the loading dock to find it. There was marijuana at the party, but he doesn't do drugs. Neither lie requires thought to maintain, especially since all he needs to do is repeat it.

The commander actually reminds Steve a lot of his father, though his father has never hit him. He might if he had a bear of a soldier to do it for him.

“That one stung,” Steve notes after yet another hit to his jaw. He sucks in a painful gasp of air.

The interrogation continues and something in Steve starts to snap. He lashes out at the idea they think he is a spy in a sailor’s uniform. A jab to his sternum puts him back in his place. He changes tactics to yapping pleas and useless offers of ice cream. He just needs to buy time, anyway. Dustin is getting help. The military, hopefully, or Chief Hopper or at least Nancy and Jonathan.

Jonathan. 

Steve should have contacted him as soon as Dustin brought him the message. He would probably have had a better plan that actually considered consequences. They haven’t seen each other much since spring, though, and he was happy with Nancy. Steve didn’t want to get in the way of that. He also had other friends, Billy had just sent him to the outskirts of the popular crowd to finish out high school with the second-string jocks and cheerleaders. Half-assed college applications followed by hiding the rejection letters also kept him busy. He still misses Jonathan–wants Jonathan, though that want is an entirely different issue that Steve has been avoiding for far too long.

He thinks about Jonathan’s tender touch as he cleaned his wounds after the fight with Billy and the affection in his voice laid under the strain of fatigue and fading distress. Steve had resisted leaning into the comfort of that touch for reasons that all seem like bullshit now. This time, he would take whatever Jonathan gives him, he just needs to get out of here first.

The question is repeated and Steve looks to see the soldier advancing toward him. He knows what is coming.

“Oh, come on. No. No! No, seriously…”

The fist that connects with his jaw has enough force to knock him out. It releases the wolf instead. Steve snarls, eyes glinting amber and gold as his piercing glare raises to his attacker. The soldier staggers back as a sudden terror sets in. He claws at his chest, his wide, frightened gaze fixed on Steve’s bloody teeth. Quiet prayers tumble from his lips with a word like ‘folk’ repeated enough times to stand out.

A sharp order from his commander gets the soldier to push past his fear, though he trembles as he raises his fists. Steve rushes him, ducking under a clumsy punch to drive his shoulder into the man’s gut. He slams the soldier into the wall then slips out of a fumbling attempt to grab him. A growl rolls from his throat. When the soldier rushes him, Steve braces himself and bashes his head into the man’s nose with a sickening crunch. 

The soldier crumbles. More are already filing in to replace him. They circle around to flank Steve. He swipes his tongue over an incisor. The pain dissipates as instinct unknowingly draws on forces beyond his comprehension to heal his wounds.

A surge of strength breaks the straps binding him. The soldiers move in, and the wolf steps into an ancestral dance of block and strike and dodge. He is eventually grabbed from behind and fends off any attempts to restrain him further with vicious kicks until he can twist around enough to get his teeth into the man holding him. He bites through cloth to tear into the flesh beneath, dropping into a low, feral crouch with his bloody teeth bared once he is released. Space is abruptly made for a hulking man with a cattle prod. The wolf snarls and backs away from the popping snap of electricity. This soldier is not as easily frightened as the first, however, and the prod strikes Steve’s side. His body seizes before going limp.

The commander steps out from behind the soldier, followed by a man in a white coat holding a black case. He looks down at Steve with clinical curiosity before extracting a gas mask from the case. Steve is unable to move away as it is pressed over his nose and mouth. He holds his breath.

“Perhaps you will be more cooperative with your pretty little accomplice as collateral damage,” the commander sneers. 

He kicks Steve in the ribs to force an inhale. Distantly, Steve hears the distressed cries of a raven and the acrid smell of the gas turns organic, the soil and trees and wildlife of a forest, as the darkness overtakes him.

Enough feathers were damaged by the rat that the raven cannot fly properly. He can make it into the trees with enough effort and flutter between the branches, but he is unable to stay in the air for any significant amount of time. It severely limits how far he can travel to find food, which means a lean wait for the molt that will replace the bent and broken feathers. If he is lucky, won’t starve to death first.

The raven uselessly preens his damaged wing. He hears his wolf’s howl in the distance, clear and searching. He cannot believe it is for him, however. They have not seen much of each other since the snow melted, and wolves do not call for ravens.

Another howl becomes a siren. The raven remembers being Jonathan and watching Will run to their mom. He hadn’t followed, not needing to be on the outside of another hug listening to how grateful their mom was that Will was alright while hoping to be included as an afterthought. Instead, he sat with the lonely ache in his chest. Nancy was beside him, but he was starting to wonder if she loved him in that same, convenient way his mother seemed to.

Then Steve was there, asking Jonathan if he was okay and taking Nancy’s spot when she left to check on Mike. His hand slipped behind Jonathan to rest against his back. As Steve’s thumb lightly stroked over his spine, the pain Jonathan had been pushing through began to ease. He let himself lean on his wolf and the ache in his chest subsided.

A bent feather is yanked out. The pain is cathartic, as is watching it spin to the ground. The raven resists the urge to pull out another and resumes preening. Removing the damaged feathers will not help new ones come in any sooner. He just has to accept his long, lonely recovery.

With his feathers as straightened as they are going to get, the raven awkwardly flutters down from his perch to forage in the detritus on the forest floor. He is keenly aware of his vulnerability on the ground. Every rustle or crunch is enough to have him ready to return to the trees and the insects and grubs he manages to find seem hardly worth the risk. He will have to make his way to a more diverse area. This one is almost all alder, the tree’s aggressive growth letting it dominate the area.

The chatter of a magpie alerts the raven to something large coming through the brush. He catches the scent of blood just before hearing the snap of a twig behind him. He quickly turns with his wings and feathers lifted in an attempt to appear threatening since he is unable to quickly get into the air. 

The sight of the wolf calms him. There is a grouse hanging limp in his jaws. He drops it in front of the raven before stepping back down, relaxed yet attentive as he waits. The raven considers him warily. Finally, he accepts the offering and tears into the grouse.

The wolf lies down. As he watches the raven eat, he says, “I’ve been calling for you, so why haven’t you answered?”

Jonathan wakes up and knows he needs to stop acting like he’s alone.

August 6th, 1985

The trailer Hopper left El is nowhere near as nice as the house Steve grew up in, but Mrs Byers gave him a deal on rent and it came furnished. He has also found it settling to be surrounded by forest without any landscaping or fences trying to push back the trees. The lake is nice, as well. He drinks his coffee on the back deck overlooking the water and contemplates things in what has become a morning ritual. Jonathan frequently occupies his thoughts, along with dreams that feel more like forgotten memories. The future has become a common tangent, as well, now that the fallout from Starcourt has mostly settled.

Money isn’t an immediate issue. His family has been building his savings since he was born and he has access to most of it now that he is, technically, an adult. Some of it is tied up in stocks and CDs and bonds or limited to qualifying expenses like college, but he has enough to live off of while he figures things out. The pool also hired him and Robin as lifeguards for the rest of the season. They were actually happy to have him back since this was the first summer he hadn’t applied due to Billy, but that wasn’t an issue now that the bear had succumbed to the same disease as the rats.

Steve catches that last thought. He follows it to the bits and pieces of dream that seem to loosely parallel reality. The abnormally aggressive rats started to hunt in a horde large enough to threaten his pack. They fled to a river and stepped onto the surface into a void when they tried to cross. Steve had been wrenched awake and laid in the dark grappling with things beyond his comprehension until sunrise.

A car driving down the long, dirt driveway prevents him from going back to those incomprehensible things. His heart is tugged into his throat when he sees Jonathan’s old Ford through the trees and he hurries inside. They haven’t talked much in the last few weeks, but that moment in the ambulance had felt like the type that needed time and space to process. The aftermath of stopping an apocalyptic event was also pretty time consuming, especially when combined with uncovering a secret Soviet plot. Steve has spent most of the last few weeks either working at the pool or in rooms with one-way mirrors being interviewed by government officials.

He puts his mug in the sink then ducks into the bathroom to quickly rinse the coffee from his breath with a swig of Listerine and finger comb his bangs into place. He straightens the trailer as he waits for Jonathan to knock. It takes a bit longer than he expected, but Steve still answers the door with an easy smile as if he wasn’t waiting. It falls when he sees the tension drawn across Jonathan’s shoulders.

“Hey, man,” he greets cautiously, stepping aside to silently invite Jonathan in. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yeah,” Jonathan responds. He ducks past Steve like prey scurrying into the cover of a briar patch. “I just… I broke up with Nancy.”

Steve does his best to hide the thrill that goes through him at that information. He didn’t lie when he told Robin he had been in love with Nancy, but he might not have told the whole truth, either. His feelings for Jonathan seem deeper than love, anyway, he had just been too caught up in primitive constructs to admit it.

He closes the door and turns to Jonathan.

“It was mostly just, I don’t know, resolving things,” Jonathan clarifies when Steve doesn’t say anything. “And I do love her, but–”

Jonathan hesitates. He wraps his arms around himself, gaze fixed on a spot on the floor, and nervously shifts his weight from the balls of his feet then back onto his heels. Steve patiently waits for him to continue.

“I’m not her raven,” Jonathan finally admits. His eyes flick up to catch Steve’s. “I’m yours.”

The admission stirs the muggy unease that has clung to Steve since the night monsters became real. He takes a breath. The air is sharp and clean, charged with the potential of something he no longer feels the need to seek shelter from. Jonathan’s confession repeats in his mind. It gradually shifts into a melodic croak that draws Steve’s attention to the raven perched among his thoughts. The large, black bird explains the meaning of Jonathan’s words. Steve doesn’t quite understand most of it, but ‘yours’ is all he really needs.

He covers the distance between them with slow, even strides and presses his lips to Jonathan’s. The stifling longing breaks when Jonathan kisses back, a content bliss rushing into its place. The earthy scent of rain falling onto dry soil permeates the air. By the time they finally part, breathless and flushed, the flecks of amber and gold in Steve's eyes are contrasted by the near black iridescence in Jonathan’s.

“What does it mean?” Steve asks. 

Jonathan tenses and starts to look away, but Steve catches his jaw. He places a quick, reassuring kiss on his lips. 

“I’m all for it,” he says, “I just want to know what ‘it’ is.”

Jonathan gives a reluctant sigh.

“I don’t really know myself,” he starts. His focus settles on one of the moles that marks Steve’s cheek to avoid meeting his eyes. “My great aunt used to talk about our ancestors being from somewhere she called the Between. I think it’s an alternate dimension. I never actually believed her, but…”

“We’ve fought monsters together,” Steve offers when Jonathan falls silent.

“We’ve fought monsters together," Jonathan echoes with a shrug. “Being descended from the Between gives my family access to powerful forces beyond our comprehension. Magic,” the word prompts the ghost of a smile, “to some.”

Jonathan lingers in the nostalgia of whatever memory was summoned by his words. Steve waits for him to come back.

“Not everyone accesses those forces the same way, though,” His eyes flick to Steve’s to ensure he isn’t looking at him like he’s lost his mind then back to the mole. “And, according to my great aunt, I’m a raven–I guess the Between is incomprehensible so our minds interpret it as nature–so wielding a weapon I forged created a deep, unbreakable bond between us that made you a wolf, which gives you access to those forces or magic or whatever you want to call it.”

Steve thinks back to fighting the Russian soldiers with competence and ferocity that he didn’t feel were his. It wasn’t what he would consider magic, but there had definitely been something supernatural about it. There was also how the soldier with Steve’s blood on his knuckles had suddenly cowered and how Steve recovered from the beating a lot quicker than he probably should have. The ringing in his ears and the pain that accompanied every breath had stopped soon after whatever gas they gave him wore off, while his eye was fully healed within a few days. He had caught the scents and sounds of the forest a lot during that time. The raspy call of a raven always brought him back, usually to the concerned looks of Dustin or Robin or his parents.

He doesn’t remember wielding a weapon Jonathan would have forged, however, or at all other than–

“You made the nail bat,” he realizes. He never considered where it came from.

“Yeah.” Jonathan’s gaze drops again. “I’m sorry I lied about dreaming I was a raven. I thought–”

“– that I wouldn’t want you,” Steve interrupts, “because I was an asshole in high school who was overly concerned about being popular or accepted or normal?”

Jonathan huffs the start of a laugh. “Among other things.”

“You’re mine,” Steve leans in, his voice dropping and taking on a husky tone, “and I’m yours. None of that other bullshit matters.”

He remains close, the playful smirk on his lips nearly challenging Jonathan to take the next kiss. Despite Steve’s assurances and knowing how he tastes, however, Jonathan hesitates. His eyes warily search Steve’s for any sign of doubt or reservation. None exist. Steve is ready to give himself to Jonathan–his raven–regardless of primitive constructs or the judgement of others.

Then, with the abrupt certainty of accepting a dare, Jonathan kisses him. It strikes a spark that spreads warm and wild between them. Their fingers grasp at fabric and push into hair as they explore the contours of each other’s mouths. The initial burn of desire becomes a bright, playful back and forth. Steve laughs against Jonathan’s smile. Everything feels easy, like there is no need to prove his worth as a partner or earn any of the pleasure he receives.

Steve tugs at Jonathan’s shirt until his hands are able to get beneath the worn cotton. His fingers trail over the warm skin stretched over the crest of Jonathan’s hips then dip into the back of his jeans. He pulls Jonathan against him. The hitch of Jonathan’s breath that resolves into a gravely moan curls tight in Steve’s gut, turning the playful energy between them into heated excitement. An adjustment presses Steve’s thigh between Jonathan’s legs and they start to rock against each other.

“Bedroom,” Jonathan murmurs against Steve’s lips.

“Yeah.”

An impish nip surprises Steve enough to give Jonathan a head start down the hall. Steve yanks his shirt off as he pursues, catching Jonathan just outside the door to the bedroom to wrestle him out of his. The newly exposed skin is mouthed and licked, thoroughly hindering Jonathan’s effort to remove his beat up sneakers. He finally toes them off and Steve hauls him effortlessly up into his arms. They make out against the wall for a moment before Steve carries Jonathan the short distance to the bed.

Once the rest of their clothes are shed, Steve realizes he has no idea what he is doing. All of his experience with women doesn’t really translate now that they are naked. His eyes meet Jonathan’s. They are dark, his pupils dilated and irises flecked with an iridescent black. The desire in them hums through the bond, resonating with trust and adoration that soothes Steve’s sudden nerves. He kisses Jonathan, taking his time to acclimate to the feel of another man aroused and wanting against him, and the empathic vibration deepens into a heavy thrum.

“Steve–” Jonathan rasps.

His fingers clutch at Steve’s shoulder as they move together, an experimental grind becoming steady thrusts. Eventually, Jonathan nudges a hand between them. Steve pants into the crook of his neck as he strokes and squeezes until their joint releases are mixing between them.

They lie together afterwards, curled up with the melody of birdsong outside accompanied by the drone of insects. Steve feels oriented, like he finally recognizes his surroundings after being lost in the wilderness. He lets himself openly admire Jonathan as he rubs the span of his shoulders.

“Do you want to go grab a burger?” Jonathan asks. “The Hammonds new place just opened.”

Steve chuckles softly, remembering the call of the raven leading to the carcass of a stag. A burger sounds more appealing. “I could eat.”

October 12th, 1985

A howl, clear and joyful, calls to the raven across the forest. He flies toward it, swooping down when he sees the wolf waiting for him in a field of wildflowers. As he glides past, he playfully grabs at tawny fur. Grasshoppers spring away from the wolf as he runs after the raven, his once again luxurious coat shining in the golden light of the rising sun.

They head into the trees and the sunlight filtering through the branches dims until Jonathan opens his eyes. Steve’s sleepy smile greets him. He smiles back and reaches over to preen Steve’s hair into some semblance of order. Everything feels right, the seclusion of the trailer offering them a final morning together before Jonathan leaves for California in the afternoon.

“You know,” Steve muses after a content sigh, “it’s not too late to hide me in the back seat.”

Jonathan chuckles as he starts to scratch behind Steve’s ear, amused by the way his boyfriend’s head tilts to direct his fingers. “You start your new job on Monday.”

There are more important reasons for Steve to stay, of course, but they have already had that conversation.

“Yeah… How many long distance phone calls do you think I can make before they fire me?”

“I prefer letters,” Jonathan replies.

The fond laughter in Steve’s eyes softens his scoff. “Of course you do.”

“I can collect letters.” He can touch them, as well, and reread them and find the traces of himself Steve left on the page.

“I thought you were a raven, not a magpie,” Steve teases. His expression suddenly falls, taking on a wistful contemplation that Jonathan patiently waits for him to put into words. “Are you going to be okay without me?”

Jonathan’s hand stills.

Over the past few weeks, Jonathan has come to understand why Aunt Darlene always spoke warily of wolves. Being bonded to one is more than making a commitment. All the parts of himself that he tried to conceal or ignore–the anxiety crawling through his thoughts and the despair burrowed in his mind and the anger that bit at his composure—were exposed to Steve, making it impossible for him to be fooled by Jonathan’s mimicry of normalcy. It has forced him to be vulnerable in a way he never would have willingly chosen. This is the most Steve has ever acknowledged that vulnerability beyond a supportive look or a comforting touch, though, and the bond goes both ways. Jonathan can see the shadow of Steve’s concern along with the care that cast it.

“Yeah," he assures, pulling Steve to him until their foreheads touch. The contact grounds them both. The tip of his nose brushes against Steve’s. “It’s going to be alright. You’re my wolf. We have a deep, unbreakable bond created by forces beyond our comprehension. No matter what happens, I’ll come back to you.”

“I know.” Steve kisses Jonathan, taking his time to memorize the different ways their lips fit together. He stays close when they finally part. “The moment anything is off in our dream, I’m coming after you.”

Jonathan chuckles, the sound an affectionate caress through the bond. “Maybe call first.”