Chapter Text
It started as simple artistic obsession. There was just something so oddly striking about his stupid, messy mane of hair. Jonathan didn’t think of it much - this has happened to him before, finding muses in men who did not care for him and were just so strikingly better than him that he could not help but think of them constantly. He’d snap a few pictures of them during basketball or over the fence of some party he was never invited to, developed the pictures in his red room, careful not to show them to Nicole as she was the only other person visiting what to him was his kingdom, his safe place and then he’d either hide them in his drawer and jerk off to them whenever he needed to feel something or he’d burn them and think of beating the depicted boys up until their pretty lips bled. It always ended either with lust or violence, even if both were pretty much only in his twisted mind.
Steve Harrington was supposed to be the same. A week or two of mild obsessive thoughts, a few dozen pictures, maybe from the pool if he were to be really lucky and then that’s it. Nothing more. No crying, no dedicating himself to appearing as nonchalant as he could while getting so close to Steve he could almost feel his scent, no fantasising about whatever it was two pubescent boys could do together. Usually, despite what Jonathan had felt like about him (did he feel something?), those fantasies would include only Steve begging Jonathan to stop hitting him or him touching himself to pictures of faceless women in nameless magazines while Jonathan watched.
This all began because Jonathan fucking despised him. He was everything Jonathan was not. He was the perfect subject - popular, funny, gorgeous, surrounded with girls and overall so fucking picturesquely flawless that it made Jonathan slightly sick. He was pretty sure they have never spoken directly despite being in the same class, because why in the world would Steve talk to someone so below him? The concept of Steve being arrogant, above him, perfect and snobby, drove Jonathan crazy. He could not help it, he was infatuated with hate. He felt so deeply disgusted by the son of a bitch that his mind kept circling around him like a predator around its prey. All he could think about was his side profile and how he’d like to break his pretty nose. Steve Harrington was preying on his mind and oh, he hated it.
It began with the usual - a few glances stolen at him during science class, an imaginary brush of the knee or a bump of the elbow whenever Steve walked past. He liked playing pretend, enjoyed acting out the fantasy of having a stupid teenage crush on a man, something he could never actually afford. It was oddly satisfying to know he had something to focus on, a way to channel whatever was suppressed inside of him. It’s not like he was a queer or anything. This was just artistry, he kept telling himself. Old Greek masters too used men primarily as their subjects, right? There was nothing romantic about this, nothing that was not purely happening for reasons he could only explain as expressive. Sure, he did touch himself to the idea of the stupid boydolls from his camera, but not out of lust. It was just an aesthetic appeal, an admiration of the elegance of them. He did not feel anything whatsoever. He was not a fag.
Despite his elaborate thesis on creation of men’s beauty for reasons platonic and masculine, in class, he could not help but notice the vibrancy of Steve’s eyes, the way his neck curved just right to show off his dirty fucking collarbones, the folding of his clothes at his hips and thighs. He wished to portray him in some more sophisticated way, sculpt him into stone or make him into a renaissance painting. He felt like this one was different, like he had to do more than just snap a few quick pictures of him, like taking portraits of Harrington was just not doing him justice. He felt like a master of fine arts being slowly driven insane by his own artwork which he dreaded to the point of romance.
Burrowed in his thoughts circling the young man sitting a few rows from him, he almost missed the bell ringing. The day was ending and the only thing he was planning to do was go home, listen to his shitty music and stare at the ceiling overthinking whether he wanted Steve Harrington begging for his cock or for him to stop hitting him. That is, until he overheard something that piqued his interest. A party at Harrington’s place tonight? What a lovely opportunity. He never gave out invites to anyone but his closest friends, but the whole high school always ended up showing up, so technically, he was almost invited as well. Besides, Tommy was talking as loudly as he usually did, so it was not eavesdropping, was it now? With a slight smile, he packed up his stuff, grabbed his bag, he got up and slipped out of class.
On the way home, he could not help but think about if this was a good idea. Sure, he has done this before, but mostly with people who weren’t even half as popular and important as Steve fucking Harrington. Nobody would care if they found out he took pictures of some no-name during a game, but could you imagine what hell would break loose if the fact he was taking and masturbating to pictures of the king of Hawkins High? He would be dead. Like actually, he would probably end up dead in some ditch on the edge of town. But he would not back out even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. It was too intense, too consuming. He needed to have something intimate, something that gave him power over Steve. He wanted to, for once, to end up on top.
All afternoon, he felt like there were needles stabbing his chest. Oh, how could he not feel this way when tonight; if all the gods were on his side, he would see Steve Harrington in a swimsuit. He prepared his lens carefully, hours in advance. His camera had a special setting he only used for portraits of his little fixations. He liked making them special in his mind, his little trophies. Carefully he tested out the lighting and composition on himself in the mirror, just to be sure he was ready to depict his current god in his full glory. He felt as set as ever.
The house was locked up and empty by eight. He went by foot so as not to drag unnecessary attention to himself. It was about a two mile walk to the house of the Harringtons. The woods were warm and humid, the summer was almost here. He took his jacket off as he got nearer to the mansion of the Harrington family - he had to convince himself it was because of the hot night and not because he was so fucking excited he could barely keep himself from shaking. Soon he heard loud music and voices and he realised it was here. He has arrived. He made his way through the bushes, begging fate to keep him from being too loud. Trying his best to keep quiet, he had found a spot in the trees near the pool and sat down. He could see them all partying, having fun and drinking, but he was not jealous at all. He was right where he wanted to be. There was nothing to do but sit and wait.
It was well after nine when Jonathan began to slowly snap. Where was he? How dare he spend time somewhere where he couldn't see him? Was he fucking some stupid slut? What if, what if, what if… And then he saw him. His muscles worked out, his thighs slim and strong, his shoulders wide and beautiful. He was laughing, leaning back and his stupid swimsuit barely covered anything, so Jonathan could see the whole of him, the majestic figure of his subject, his one and only current need. His friends were surrounding him and Jonathan hissed in anger, all he wanted to see was him, Steve in all his glory. But he was a patient man. For hours he watched as Steve laughed, drank and flirted with his peers. The spectacle of the man he adored and despised was all he could ask for. Finally, around one in the morning most of the people either left or were too drunk to annoy Steve. His subject then headed to the pool and leaned forward to make a jump. With a smirk, Jonathan lifted his camera up and with a slight sigh pressed the shutter.