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Steve only ever lets himself think of Jonathan while spectacularly drunk. What he’s experiencing now definitely qualifies as that, the whole world swimming in front of his eyes as he sways slightly. His eyes lock on what he thinks is probably a glass of water that someone’s left out on his kitchen side and, with all of the finesse of someone who’s more tequila than person at this point, stumbles over to it. He has enough awareness to dump out the contents of the cup into the sink before filling it again with fresh, blessedly cool tap water. He downs one glass before refilling it and making for his front porch, brushing through the crush of bodies in his living room and out of the front door into the night air. Outside, the sounds are all muted, and the sudden quiet makes his ears ring. He shakes his head, disorientated, feeling like he’s just fallen from a great height and landed clumsily in his body. He winces and tries valiantly not to throw up, squeezing his eyes shut tight.
He saw Nancy and Jonathan a little while ago, dancing and laughing and kissing between the throngs of bodies crammed into his living room. They looked happy, carefree — pleasantly drunk and like teenagers, and Steve’s happy for them, really, he is, it’s just — why couldn’t Nancy have been that happy with him? He knows, distantly, why. It’s hard to love someone who doesn’t even like themselves. Jonathan had told him once — if you keep shoving all this shit down it’s gonna eat you alive one day, Steve.
He leans over and vomits onto the grass surrounding his porch, only just moving his shoes out of the way in time.
And, shit, that’s Shakespearean, right? His ex-boyfriend stole his now ex-girlfriend right from under his nose. He wonders if it was some sort of revenge for how Steve treated him, but Jonathan’s not like that. He’s quiet, and kind, and wickedly funny, and he’s a thousand miles better than Steve. Steve would choose him too — wishes he had, years ago.
He huffs, wiping his chin, and rests his cheek on his arms petulantly. “So stupid.”
When he met Jonathan Steve was fifteen and Jonathan fourteen, knobbly-kneed and not quite growing into either of their tall frames yet. Steve had had a height boost between ninth and tenth grade that had improved his basketball skills exponentially and therefore stuck him firmly in with the popular crowd — not quite King Steve, yet, but certainly not a skinny little dweeb anymore either. Jonathan was quiet, and unnoticeable, and everyone called him a queer because he’d gotten a camera for his fourteenth birthday and started taking pictures round town. Looking back on it, he hadn’t even taken any of people, yet, but photography was the kind of thing that freaks did, so. Jonathan Byers was a queer, and so was his little brother, and that was why their Dad left them. Or, that was what everyone in high school thought. It didn’t matter that Lonnie Byers was an abusive asshole that rivalled even Steve’s own father — didn’t matter that Steve had watched helplessly while Jonathan sobbed into his pillow after killing that rabbit. Once the high school rumour mill decides something is true, there’s little that anyone can do to change things.
Steve mostly ignored him for the first half of Sophomore year, hung out with Tommy H and Carol and enjoyed the way that they latched onto his every word like he was important. He saw Jonathan in his periphery, sometimes, like a shadow, clinging to the hallway walls and pushing, head down, through the crowds of people.
He remembers sneaking off to the patch of grass behind the science block in fifth period one day to smoke, and catching sight of a shaking form hunched over, leaning heavily against the brick wall.
He frowned and stepped closer, calling out to them. “Hello?”
And Jonathan Byers had sprung upright, scrambling back against the wall like he was afraid he was going to get shot. Steve faltered, unsure of what to do. Byers’ face was bloody, his lip split. Probably by Steve’s friends, if the fear in Byers’ eyes was anything to go by. After a second to deliberate, Steve stepped forward and leaned against the wall next to him, before holding out a cigarette between two long fingers. “Byers. Rough day?”
Jonathan stared at him like he was insane, which, fair enough. After a moment his shaking hand tugged the cigarette out of Steve’s fingers and he held it between his lips, letting Steve light it. He visibly relaxed as the smoke entered his lungs and he let it fall from his busted-up lip with a sigh. Then, he turned to Steve and said, “if this is some weird foreplay to you beating me up, too, then I’d really rather you just get it over with, Harrington.”
Steve huffed a surprised laugh and shook his head. “Nah, Byers. My friends do that?”
“Some of them.”
“Hm.”
Then he kicked off of the wall and left Jonathan standing there, cigarette hanging forgotten between his lips.
Weeks went by and Steve mostly forgot about his encounter with Jonathan. Then, he and his Dad got in a huge fight, and the asshole almost broke his nose. He stumbled out of his house into the rapidly darkening street, blood streaming down his face, and piled into his Dad’s car, turning on the ignition and pulling out of the driveway while his Dad ran out into the street after him. He wasn’t allowed to drive, but he knew how, and he wanted to have somewhere else to sleep for the night. He drove around aimlessly, trying to quell the shaking in his hands, and ended up at the junkyard.
There was someone else already there, hitting empty cans with a golf club. Steve watched one soar into the air in an impressive arc, landing somewhere in the trees beyond, and then realised who it was and stepped out of the car.
“Byers?”
Jonathan spun around, and, shit, he looked as bad as Steve felt. His lip was busted open again, and a cut stretched over his eyebrow, blood drying on his face. There were fresh tear tracks staining his cheeks, which he scrubbed at with the heel of his hand as he looked at Steve, clearly embarrassed.
“Hey, no way.” Steve said. “We match.”
Jonathan snorted. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Your Dad?” Steve asked quietly. Jonathan nodded.
“Same.” He held his hand out for the club, and Jonathan handed it over. The metal was warm from where Jonathan had been holding it in his sweaty grip. Steve spun it a few times to test its weight, then stepped forward and lashed it out against a car windshield. He watched with satisfaction as spidery cracks appeared in the glass. He turned and grinned at Jonathan, probably a little feral.
They didn’t speak after that, just took turns using the golf club to smash up car windshields and throw bricks at sheets of metal just to watch them dent. After a while they sat in Steve’s Dad’s car and shared a cigarette, passing it back and forth like they did the golf club and staring out of the windows in silence.
“He have a reason for —“ Steve gestured at Jonathan’s injuries.
Jonathan sighed. “He was picking on Will. Saying he’s too weak and not manly enough, whatever the fuck that means. Kid’s like, nine. Anyways, I defended him, so…”
Steve nodded and took a final drag of his cigarette before flicking it out of the window.
“What about you?” Jonathan tilted his head to look at him. His hair was a little shorter, back then, and he had these unbelievably sharp cheekbones that probably spoke more of the Byers’ financial problems than anything else, but which made him look so… ephemeral, like at any second Steve was going to blink and miss him.
“Uh, got in the way. He beats on my Mom, usually. I mean, me too, but my Mom gets the worst of it, so.”
Jonathan hummed. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Steve blinked, the thought having not even occurred to him. He looked over at Jonathan who smiled at him weakly. “Thanks, Byers.”
His gaze drifted, taking in the sharp angles and soft parts that made up Jonathan Byers. There was a faded mark of a long-closed earring hole in his left ear. Steve couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. Had he done it himself? He thought about himself with an ear piercing like that, then immediately threw the thought out of the window because his Dad would probably actually murder him for it.
It was probably weird of him to stare this long, right? Any of his other friends would have punched him by now, but Jonathan just watched him, his deep brown eyes cataloging Steve’s face with surety. The car had gone silent apart from their shaky breaths, and Steve felt himself sway forward as if pulled by an invisible string.
And then they were kissing. Clumsy and hurried, like they knew it was wrong, but it felt amazing. Like nothing Steve had ever experienced, and he’d already fooled around with a couple of girls in his grade by then. Jonathan’s mouth was warm, and he felt nothing like a girl. He was cautious, sure, but his hands were bigger and he touched Steve with a quiet confidence that Steve would grow to become obsessed with. Their mouths tasted like blood, and Steve could feel his lip trying to split open again, but then Jonathan made a small, wounded noise and he found he didn’t care all that much. Jonathan’s fingers threaded in Steve’s hair, tugging slightly, and he licked into his mouth and Steve swore he saw stars. But then Jonathan was scrambling back, pushing him off of him, and then he was fumbling for the door handle and tumbling out of the car and taking off into the night.
Steve remembers sitting there for a long time, staring unseeingly into the junkyard, memories replaying in his head like a loop. Jonathan, head tilted back, talking about standing up to his Dad like it wasn’t the scariest thing in the world. Jonathan, his lips wrapped around Steve’s cigarette, breathing smoke into the night. Jonathan, kissing him like he needed him to breathe. Jonathan, sprinting across the junkyard in an effort to get away from whatever it was they just did.
He didn’t go home that night. He stayed in the junkyard, shivering against the autumn air that seeped in through the windows, and thought about anything other than Jonathan’s mouth. At school the next day he didn’t see Jonathan, and decided that the disappointment that unfurled in his gut was actually just boredom from having to sit through Mrs Carol’s English class. They avoided each other like the plague for two whole weeks, and Steve was fine, really. He just needed time — it was just a little blip in his otherwise perfect, straight, record, and it wouldn’t happen again. Eventually he would stop thinking about Jonathan Byers’ stupid pretty mouth.
Except, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About the kiss, but also about him. He tried shaking it off, went to a couple parties and made out with a pretty blonde girl and still, still, his mind kept coming back to Jonathan Byers. So, one day, he cornered him when none of his friends could see, took him out behind the bleachers and kissed him square on the mouth. And Jonathan had kissed him back, after a heart-stopping second where he thought he was about to get punched. And that was that. They weren’t boyfriends, or anything, because they couldn’t be, but they were… something.
His Dad said it was wrong, but his Dad also beat him for forgetting to take the garbage out, so Steve told himself he didn’t care much for his opinion. (This, of course, wasn’t true. Steve continued to care entirely too much about what his old man thought, right up until literal monsters started turning up in Hawkins and he realised he had more things to worry about than getting his Dad’s approval). He liked Jonathan, thought he was weirdly funny, loved kissing him. As long as they kept everything a secret, it would be fine.
They lasted just short of a year, in total, which when he looks back on it was a blessing. He doesn’t know how they managed to never get caught, but it seems something was looking out for them because no matter how many times they risked getting handsy in Steve’s backseat they never got found out by Hopper. Steve came to learn every mole that graced Jonathan’s back, the dip in his spine that fit against Steve’s hand perfectly, the way he hummed off-key when he made breakfast — usually some song by the Cure or Bowie, music that Steve had never listened to before he met him. He still has a mixtape Jonathan made him for his sixteenth birthday nestled away beneath old clothes shoved in a box at the back of his closet.
They fell in love slowly, like slipping on a well-worn glove, and for a while it was perfect. Though, neither of them ever admitted that love was what it was. But Steve knows, deep down, that the only other person he’s felt like that with has been Nancy. And, God, isn’t that a headfuck?
Then, Steve held a party at his parent’s house for the first time. He had just turned sixteen, Jonathan still stuck being fifteen for seven more months, and his parents were away for a whole week this time so he had more than enough time to clean up after himself. He was excited, giddy when he told Jonathan about it, and Jonathan had laughed and agreed begrudgingly to come along for an hour. If Steve could go back in time, he’d tell Jonathan not to come. Better yet, he’d never throw the stupid party in the first place.
Because Tommy H saw Jonathan walk through Steve’s front door, his camera looped around his neck and held protectively against his chest. And Steve, already drunk, grinned sloppily and waved. Jonathan waved back, hesitant, clearly worried, and Tommy H saw the whole thing.
“Don’t tell me you actually invited that freak, Harrington.” He sneered, distaste dripping from his tone. He shouldered his way through the crowd towards Jonathan, who looked at Steve with alarm, and oh, no, this wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He never should have told Jonathan to come.
He hurried after Tommy, cowardice clamming up his tongue and making him say, “n-nah, man, I didn’t. Just leave it, I’m sure he’ll leave again.” Because Jonathan was already heading towards the exit. Steve could tell he was pissed by the curve of his shoulders. He could also remember what the skin of his shoulder tasted like, because he’d left bruises all over his neck and collar just that morning.
But Tommy H was undeterred, and reached Jonathan in a few long strides, shoving at his shoulder until he turned to face him. “Who said you could be here, freak?”
Jonathan’s eyes darted to Steve, but he was good, unwaveringly good, and so he just said, “no one, man. I thought I could take some pictures and get out of your hair but it was stupid. I’m leaving.”
Tommy H’s gaze zeroed in on the camera clutched in Jonathan’s hands, and he ripped it from Jonathan’s grip and sent it clattering to the floor. Jonathan cried out, and Steve knew he’d put a new roll of film in there just last week, and he had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t going to be able to come back from what happened next. Because Tommy H brought his foot down on the camera, hard, and shattered it completely. Steve didn’t know it at the time, but it would not be the last time that one of Jonathan Byers’ cameras was destroyed because of him.
Tommy H shoved Jonathan to the floor and kicked him, hissing filthy slurs at him through hateful teeth. And Steve stood there and let it happen. Tommy H stood back after a moment and looked at Steve for approval. Steve realised they were all looking at him, waiting for him to join in. The thought made him sick, but he leaned down anyways and said “get the fuck out of my house, queer.”
Because Steve was nothing if not a coward, and he’d ruin the best thing he’d ever have if it meant he could avoid his father’s wrath. He didn’t look at Jonathan as the other boy scrambled to his feet and ran from the house.
He managed to excuse himself ten minutes later and spent the rest of the party sitting in his bathtub, getting as drunk as he possibly could and forcing down tears. He woke up with the worst hangover of his life, but he still remembered what happened, still heard Jonathan’s pained cry as his camera shattered, still heard himself spitting out the word queer like it was dirty. He bought him a new one that time as well, but Steve doesn’t think he ever saw him use it. Probably figured out that it was Steve who dropped the brown package off on the Byers’ doorstep, too cowardly to face the consequences of his actions, to see the anger on Jonathan’s face.
He saw him around school, always trying to keep his longing gazes to a minimum, allowing himself ten seconds to stare at the dirty blond hair on the back of Jonathan’s head before he dragged his eyes back to his friends and tried to shove the wanting away, deep down inside of him where he could ignore it.
And Steve knows that in ten years, when Nancy is walking down the aisle, that Steve will look at Jonathan and Jonathan will look at him, for however brief of a moment, and Steve will still want him. He wanted him when they were fifteen and fumbling around behind the bleachers and in his Dad’s car, he wanted him while he was calling him a queer to his face, he wants him now. But he fucked it up, as he tends to do, and now he’s all alone.
Steve stares out into the night, blinking blearily, and sighs.
“What’s stupid?” He feels more than sees Jonathan sit next to him, on the opposite side to his vomit patch, thankfully.
“Me.” Steve replies, swilling his mouth with water and spitting. He’s more sober, now, less spinny and now just achingly sad. Lonely, he realises. He hasn’t had real friends for a year. Longer, his brain supplies. Tommy H and Carol were never your friends. But Jonathan was, and so was Nancy, and Steve fucked all of that up, and now he has to live with the consequences, even if that means hanging out with thirteen-year-olds because people his own age don’t like him anymore.
“Smoke?” Jonathan asks. Steve turns to see his hand, split knuckles still healing from fighting demodogs, an unlit cigarette held between his steady fingers. An offering. He still smokes roll-ups, Steve thinks, and takes it. Tugs his own lighter from his pocket and lights up, before tossing it to Jonathan.
“I never should have let you go, Byers.” Steve admits on an exhale, eyes tracking over the tree line.
Jonathan stiffens next to him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
He doesn’t want to talk about it. Steve should stop.
“I loved you, I think.” Steve blows the smoke towards the sky, trying to quell the pounding of his heart. They’re silent for a while, and Steve gets halfway through his cigarette before Jonathan speaks again.
“You didn’t.”
Steve glances at him. He looks angry, angrier than he’s seen him in a while. He wonders vaguely if he could get him to punch him again. He’d deserve it.
“You don’t treat people you love like that, no matter how scared you are, Steve.” Jonathan murmurs. He’s playing with a thread on his jeans, and it’s achingly familiar.
“I know, Jon. There was something, though. Right? We were something?” Did I make it all up?
Jonathan says nothing.
“You say it wasn’t love, but if it wasn’t, then why did it never go away?” He sounds like a child — small, broken.
Jonathan tenses up like a dog about to attack and shakes his head. “Steve. Don’t.”
“Jonathan, please, I just-“ Steve pleads, desperately trying to look Jonathan in the eye. He won’t look at him, just stares resolutely at the floor, his jaw clenched.
“Steve, I’m happy. For the first time in a long time I’m finally getting over you, so you really need to stop talking now.” Jonathan hisses, and just like that Steve knows he’s lost him. Maybe forever. Steve falls silent, swallowing. He feels Jonathan stand up next to him.
“You fucked it up, not me, remember?” And then he’s gone, stomping back into Steve’s house and leaving him sitting like a statue on the porch, eyes welling with unshed tears. He swallows them down.