not my main ! :>

“You kinda look like her.” he says. Your brows raise. “What about you? Word is you've seen six showings of Ferris Bueller.” Jonathan bumps your shoulder.

You tip your head, conspiratorial. He's not wrong, you're sure you'd give that chick Sloane a run for her money — but you wonder how red he'd turn if you replied Jonathan Byers. He gets so flustered around you he can't even look at you lately. 

Your LA Gear high top teases its way up his jean leg. He shivers, nonplussed. 

“Hmm…” You poke him. “You.” you grin, like you're 9 and terrified of catching cooties. Like nothing's changed since. …Like he doesn't already know.

He almost combusts. Laughs shyly, disbelieving, looking down and blushing terribly. 

Following Jonathan’s essential month's absence from school, after the horrors that happened to his family in November — he'd been forced to do extra credit. That being, yearbook pictures. Or front covers for the school paper you're on — in which you sign said extra credit off as above and beyond, even if he misses it. 

It's mostly the odd picture around school, which he would've done anyways, just now he doesn't get ridiculed for being a creep. Or more frequently, after his double shift he'll swing by to snap the game. And really exercise his right to freely photograph you. It's sorta.. the only time you get to be fully together, alone, after… everything. That and the fleeting exchange, where he gifts you a mixtape of his. He's made you one every week without fail since Will was found.

“I still can't believe Steve got you that camera. Like, Steve Harrington?” you mess with his camera strap, breaking the flustered silence.

“I know, Steve! Guess he's sorry for breaking my other one. And the fight. And that I got arrested. I.. should say sorry too.” he mutters. 

“You don't need to be sorry.” you say. It's a habit of his, always being too sorry.

“...I do. The.. monsters, and, y’know… those pictures…”

Oh, those pictures. 

Hm. Maybe you're into his slightly stalkerish observance. Maybe you wouldn't mind him creeping on you a little more sometime. 

“...I liked them.” you toy softly. 

You expect him to get all cute and blushy again. His face scrunches though, thinking something troubling.

“I-I'm sorry.” he blurts. 

“Jon, no—” you almost laugh. 

“I haven't been good to you.” he interrupts. 

“...What?”

“I asked you out. I… kissed you. Then I—” He stops, sighs shakily. “It's been a month. I haven't done anything I should've. Hell, not even the date I asked you on. Haven't even asked you to be my—”

…Girlfriend.

“I'm sorry. Mom works doubles, she's still shaken up. I look after Will every night, I can't leave him. And he's been so unwell since…” he trails. 

“I don't want you thinking I don't mean it. Like it was heat of the moment or anything. I've never… anything with a girl before. Let alone you. I don't know what I'm doing.” 

None of that even crossed your mind.

Jonathan’s your friend, before anything. Your only call for complaint is that you wish you'd been something more than merely pecked on the lips… more than once.

“Well — maybe, do you…” he starts, “wanna go to… Winter Wonderland with.. me?”

“Winter Wonderland? You wanna go to a cheesy school dance? You, who hates everybody at school?” you laugh, endeared and shocked. 

“Not… everyone. I like you.” he mutters. You beam.

“But so what? You love cheesy school dances. I'd like to take you. If.. you'd want that.” 

“Yeah! Yeah I do. With you, I mean. Not just the dance.” you answer awkwardly. 

Now it's your turn to blush. You swear it's just an acute case of hypothermia. 

~~~

~ Hawkins High. A falsely-frosted gymnasium ~

Paper mache snowflakes, fake cloudy snow dusting the floor, cotton wool icicles, half-jolted out twinkle lights and silky banners. Stone-aged teachers eye down their noses, catching out any hanky-panky or dancing without room for Jesus. 

When you've been friends with someone since you were an inquisitive second grader in a smock dress — and later a bubbly, teasing cheerleader friends with Tommy H. and Carol P., who that someone in question resented because of his fat crush — and even later, a monster-slasher drenched in blood… things get a little backwards. 

With that, your date's mom had insisted you be dropped off at the house beforehand, simply to see you.

Pictures of You by The Cure had played, as he very awkwardly practiced “So, you wanna dance?” over and over in his mirror, asking little Will if he's absolutely sure he doesn't look like a loser?

Oh, you looked so beautiful, grinning in front of his fireplace. Your dress is dreamy, pale and pearly, your hair piled up all high. Dusted with a few snowflakes from outside. Even your makeup is frosty. Something straight out of a snowglobe.

His camera shuttered. 

“Sorry, is that — that okay?” he'd blurted.

You'd tipped your head, just so. “Take another.” you whispered.

…Click. Click. Click.

He must've filled an entire roll of film. You're just enchanted, you feel like some fancy moviestar, musing her 

artsy-fartsy director into inspiration. 

“Can I see..?” you'd asked, near inaudible. He passed his camera, hesitant. You lifted, aimed.

“No, wait!” he huffed, already flustered, again, “I look—”

It shuttered, again.

“Gorgeous.” you grin, coy. “You're gorgeous.”

No one's ever done that to him. He doesn't even think his mom has any recent pictures of him. 

Now — something sweet and sixties sweeps the gym. Sure, some jocks had called him a pityfuck, but other than that it's not as bad as Jonathan thought. Even got a high-five, on account of the ass-kicking he gave King Steve.

Everyone's either paired off and swaying, chugging suspiciously inebriating punch or moping on the bleachers. It's all so cliché, like an old, grainy movie still. 

Jonathan's absolutely ecstatic to be your arm candy, and you're not shy to show him off. Would you just look at my date, Nicole? Yes, that Byers. He takes yearbook photos. Isn't he handsome? Nobody asked you? Sucks…

And Jonathan — he's actually talking to people. Just for them to make the correlation he's going out with you. He's currently stuck, inescapably, talking to… Eddie Munson? Probably trying to sell him dope or something. 

You gab on to Steve about how gorgeous Nancy is, practically threatening him to treat her right, all while she's standing right beside him. Steve keeps comparing the four of you to Scooby Doo after November. It's jarring.

Then they jingle those twinkly little chimes, the Snow Angels are going to be picked.

It's a sickly sweet, ancient tradition. They're a couple of absolute sweethearts voted in, four or so girls that get given a silky, overembellished sash and a tiara. And it's not like prom royalty, only the real gems get picked, the truly lovely ones. 

Some say it's patronizing, old-fashioned, nauseating. But everyone knows a Hawkins Snow Angel, is essential to a first water diamond. 

Jonathan already knows. Everybody knows. The heart-of-gold cheer flyer? Who better for an angel than you? 

Sweetheart is as sweetheart does. 

You wave, laughing brightly from the stage — at him. The freak, who's now left loserishly alone. You bashfully adjust your tipping tiara, drowning in your sash, like everyone's dreamgirl.

He’ll take another ten thousand pictures of you, until you break into fits of giggles and stop knowing what to do with your hands. 

Then, oh god.

Something real slow and stomach-churning starts playing, and people start pairing up. 

Shit.

See, unfortunately, Jonathan Byers was born with two-left-feet disease. Terminal, actually. And even more unfortunately — you've recently re-succumbed to crazy-about-your-best-friend fever. Sick as a dog. 

“So, you wanna dance?” he says robotically, just how he'd practiced. Facepalms.

You grin. Like the devil. 

You link his arm, leading to the dancefloor. “Just so you know, I'm pretty bad at this..” he says.

“That's okay.” you laugh sweetly, pulling him far enough away from the chaperones. “Here, hands” you put his hands on your waist.

The sensation of touching you shoots from his fingertips, to all up his arms. You put your hands round his neck, messing with his hair at the nape of his neck mindlessly. “Jonathan,” you say softly, swaying, aiming to loosen him up.

“Jonathan?” you repeat. 

The boy is tranced, absolutely staring at your lips. 

You click your fingers in front of his face, exhilarated. 

He shakes his head, turning his blushing face away. You tilt it back. His brows raise a hair. His heart jumps.

Kiss him. Kiss him. Kiss him — your heart orders. And yet, your brain won't will you to just move. Nerves? You usually aren't nervous with boys. Whatever this is, it's paralyzing. 

“...I-I like this song.” he whispers, cracking the nervous silence. 

“No, you don't.” You inhale a laugh, as something awful and sappy plays. He nods, awkwardly grimacing.

Your brows pinch in. You even bob your head forward a little, like running up to leaning in. 

He stares longingly, pondering the same matters as you. Suddenly, your lips knock his. Awkwardly, just a peck.

He open-mouth beams at that. You screw your eyes closed, blushing. It practically gives him hearts for eyes, washing over his catastrophic nerves. He squeezes your waist tighter.

“You… wanna get out of here?” you ask.

~~~

Sub-zero, Hawkins reaches that night. Jonathan aimlessly drives down an icy backroad, heating his car. His tape deck won't start unless the car's in drive. One of the many mixtape's he's made you blares. 

“Deja-vu?” you nudge his thigh with your knee, as Atmosphere blasts. Same as that night in November, in your bed, your face just inches from his…

“Yeah. Yeah, deja-vu.” he sighs, eyes lit like a live wire. 

You laugh, leaning all the way back, your elbows on the windowledge. The “sparkly bit”, as you call the instrumentals, of Atmosphere chime. You throw your head back and squeal, letting snowflakes sprinkle your windswept hair. 

“Its snowing, Jonathan!” 

“It's been snowing the past month!” he laughs, shouting over the music. 

You make him feel alive. You make him feel everything.

“No — look!” you squeal, his car speeding through the snowstorm. The blizzard sparkles like a snowglobe, you scream and laugh, lulled backwards out his window. Flying, it feels like.

His hands are on you.

Pulling you, impulsively. Grabbing you, urgently, into a kiss. 

Oh, it feels so good to have your pretty lips, your tongue back on his, he almost moans at the sensation. A muffled gasp of surprise escapes you. He didn't think this through, it barely registers what he's done until—

SCREECH.

His car skids on the ice, to the side of the road, its driver distracted so, so badly. 

“Oh, shit!” he gasps, his impulsive stupidity coloring his face. “I'm sorry! Are you hurt? God, what are we gonna do—!”  

“Just — just c’mere.” You quiet him by kissing him, finally. You cup his cheeks, your free hand skimming the flushed back of his neck, his soft hair. 

He only ever seems to kiss you, like that, in times of crisis. Hurried, desperate, rushed, so that you hopefully wouldn't notice his struggle to kiss with tongue. And wouldn't be able to laugh in his face. Noticing, you slow down. Take your time. Kiss him lengthily, not like you're just trying to get your spin the bottle turn done, or fill up your 7 minutes in heaven. 

And not like you're luring in an interdimensional monster, and don't know if you'll live to kiss him again… like last time.

It's awkward positioning, and he's already horribly nervous — you can feel his clammy palms, to his embarrassment. So, impetuously, you slowly climb over onto his lap, straddling his thighs, lips never leaving his. “..Oh,” He sighs, jittery, into the kiss. 

“Mm.. missed you,” he whispers. “Lately. We were.. constantly together, when everything happened. I really liked it. I like you, I…” he rambles, raspy. 

You smile softly. “...keep talking,” you laugh, lashes fluttering.

Just like you do in those shameful dreams he has, the type they teach about in sex ed…

His brows crease in, his head shaking. “What’re you doing with me?”

Your head tilts. He tips his to follow. 

He breathes out, flustered and confused. “You.. you don't have to be with me. Like, you're my — my… girl.” 

That's the only term he can stupidly think to describe you, what you've always been to him. And now, 'girlfriend’ isn't official and he doesn't deem himself exactly boyfriend material, but ‘my best friend!’ seems flippant… now that you're making out in his car. And I mean, ‘my girl’ clicks right into place for someone who was essentially a pigtailed version of himself for a long time. Who's rode bikes and roamed fields and got in trouble with him. That feels a whole lot more ecstatic, even better than a Hawkins Snow Angel... you're his girl.

“And you always are. But.. but like…” his dazed eyes narrow, his self-deprecating thought train escaping him. Maybe you'll help him out.

“Jonathan?” you ask. He looks up, snapped from his trance. You tilt his chin up. “Where'd you learn how to kiss like that?” 

He hums something intelligible. Your smile widens. You tug him closer sweetly, putting his hands on your waist. You guide them to touch you… more. Your neck, back, hips, all over. 

He never thought he could be so grateful for a snow-in. For a snow-angel. Jesus, you could ask him what 2 + 2 was right now and he'd just shake his head….

He's too old for that, anyways. Old enough to know better. Be better. He had to be. His mom wasn't… fragile, no. Just… rocky. Like a sailboat. One wrong push and she'd go under. Sink.

She'd stay in bed, staring at nothing. Like the sweet lady behind her eyes was a million miles away. Not even his dads screaming could reach her. And especially not her quiet little boy. 

Quiet always slips past her.

And Lonnie, he didn't help. He'd taunt her. Mock her. Sometimes it’d work, make her flinch so hard it broke the spell. 

Lonnie never bothered with Will that much, except for the name calling. Too soft. But Jonathan, he was strong — if he just listened, for crying out loud! 

Be a man, he'd yell. Point the gun. Shoot the rabbit, c’mon!

When Lonnie and Joyce would get physical, Jonathan would step in front of his mom. Shove back. Lonnie would look almost… approving. Smug. He'd been man enough to fight back, so Lonnie was proud. 

Jonathan was never his moms favorite. But if he wanted to… he could be Lonnie's. That made his skin crawl. Physically sick.

It was all okay, then. He learned to cook. Clean. Stand on a chair to reach the washer. Push Lonnie off his mom. He could take care of it — he can. 

But now, he doesn't have a clue. His baby brother is somewhere, alone and scared. Missing. And his mom, she might’ve fully sunk under. Shipwrecked. 

Mental illness ran in the family. His grandma had been… unstable. That's the word people used. He doesn't care what it's called. Just how it feels.

Like he's lost his mama, mentally. And it's his fault. 

“...Hey, mom.” He kneels in front of her, gentle. “Shh, it's okay. They're just lights, remember? Why don't you go lie down for a bit?” 

He's interrupted by a medley of shouted “He's here!” and “Will! He's talking to me!” and then “T-The walls, I heard—”

“Mom. Please. It's alright, I'm here.” he begs. “ I know I should be here more, I—”

“You should.” she deadpans.

“That shift you took… I just keep thinking..” she trails. “I mean, if it was you, missing out there, I wouldn't be so worried—”

“...Oh.” Jonathan whispers.

“She's right.” snarks his fathers slurred voice from the doorway.

“You should've listened to your mother, Jon. She did warn you. So when you think about it, this’s all your fault.” Lonnie shrugs. 

All your fault. 

Lonnie yanks him aside. Hand on his collar, like a stray dog. “You're makin’ her worse. Y’know that?”

“You like to feed into her.. sickness. Don't start — we both know she's been sick for years. And come to think, it actually only started after she had you…”

“Shut up.” Jonathan grits his teeth, face flushing up. 

Lonnie's face twists. “The fuck you say to me?!” he spits. He claws him closer by the collar, face to face. “You think you're something cause you hit that growth spurt? I'm still your dad — so don't fucking—”

“Yeah, some dad you are.” Jonathan huffs.

SLAM. Lonnie knocks him against the wall.

He shoves his boy. “Don't play that card. Why'd you think we're like this, huh?” He smacks Jonathan, repeatedly. 

“You were an accident, y’know that? You're the reason we got married. That's why your moms all smiles with your brother. That's why she goes nuts when he fucks off, not you.”

Jonathan feels his face heating up. His eyes sting, salty tears smearing his vision

He's always been an angry cryer. It's a personal, involuntary betrayal. How can he fly under the radar when he can't stop sniffling? 

“So when you can't even look after Will for one night — it's on you. You wanna help your mom? Get lost for a couple hours. Go on, get.” He pushes him to the door.

Lonnie scoffs. “And quit crying. I can't have two fairy boys—”

SMACK. 

Jonathan hits back. That's never really happened before.

~~~

Lovers Lake is usually somewhere you take a pretty girl out to, to… you know. Kiss.

Not Jonathan. That's something he thinks won't ever really happen to him. It's a pretty night, it's just about dusk and everything's blue and hazy. Rain smashes off his car’s windscreen. 

He'd take a picture — if he had a non-broken camera.

Even if he did, he feels too… dirty, creepy, to take photographs anymore. After what happened with Steve and his gang.

He squirms around in his front seat, irritably uncomfortable. You know how some parents wash their kids' mouths out with soap? Lonnie has his own methods of punishment. Instead of soap to mouth, it was gas stove to hand. 

Just to be petty, he'd taken a pack of Lonnie's smokes. To inconvenience him. 

He likes the smell of cigarettes, they remind him of his mama.

 What he wouldn't give to be little again, sick, being taken care of by his mom on the couch.

He only inhales three or four times. He doesn't like the buzz in his head. Or maybe he likes it too much, and it scares him. So he just lets it fog up his car.

He starts to wonder, if he just stayed here, would anyone notice? How long would it take?

A day? Hm, no. They'd probably think he was just working. 

A week? They'd probably think he ran off. Like father, like son, huh?

He's thought of this before. How long he could go without anyone speaking to him, if he stayed quiet. 

Three days. No one talked to him for three days.

Suddenly, he can't be alone another hour. It's almost desperate. Desperate for human contact.

He doesn't have.. really any guy friends. He'd tell you that he just despises the general teenage population, they're just shallow and superficial — if you asked. Not that simply no one likes him.

He could take a shift at work, just for the passing talks with Eric. Eric’s only really Jonathan's buddy when he needs something, though. 

Or, he could go to you.

Your mom is another one of Melvald’s struggling single mother employees. You've known Jonathan since you were little, both too small to be left alone and too old to be babysat. You'd play out back together. You were one of the only people who didn't mind sitting in silence with him. 

Or, talking your head off while he sat in silence. You're very eclectic.

You'd call him one of your good friends — you know the type you see maybe once a month, and you just adore it? Someone that just gets you, easy-breezy to be around. 

But he wouldn't call himself a close friend of yours. He’s way too… him for that. Too standoffish, loserish, freakish to be your friend. 

You've never seemed to see him like that, though.

You wait tables at a shitty diner, one of the only three in Hawkins. The sputtering lit sign outside reads "Pat & Deasy's", though both A's, the D, and the Y are missing. You don't know who Pat or Deasy is, but you guess they blew in during the Dust Bowl. The place hasn't been redecorated since.

It's a rainy twilight. You're exhaustedly running around, wracking in tips when he gets there. Putting on a fake southern accent, charming a table of hicks. Pretending to support a hockey players team. Handing the check to the baby — the lot. 

You always have the same perpetually tired look he has.

You're incredibly pretty, he's always thought. Not just girl-you-know pretty. The kind that should be in front of a camera. In New York, or Paris, or anywhere but here. 

Or, late at night, in his most embarrassing dreams, in front of his camera.

“Jonathan? Hi!” you call, absolutely beaming. You seem literally delighted to see him. Expecting him, almost.

You pull him in, fleetingly. By the time his heavy head hits your powdery yellow waitress dress, you're rushing away. 

It's then when he realizes, pathetically… he'd like a hug.

“You're all wet!” you ruffle his dripping hair, giggling. “Sit, sit anywhere! Just a minute!”

He sits where he always does, far off, close to the kitchen. He comes here often enough, just for ‘coffee’. And… to talk to you. He doesn't even really like coffee.

You return to ‘take his order’, slightly breathless. He catches your eye, properly this time. His shoulders are drawn up and stiff, his face blotchy like he was slapped around, babying a hand he hasn't taken his gloves off from. And he's definitely not sniffling a little bit. 

“...You okay?” you ask, quiet.

He shrugs, shamefully looking away.

He mumbles, almost angrily, “It's just… weird at my house. Bad day.”

You see right through him. “Aw, Jon.”

“Don't worry,” you sigh, dropping down beside him, finally off your feet. “Me too.”

Will’s missing poster suddenly comes into focus. 

You squeeze your friend's shoulder. “Hey.. we don't have to talk about it, okay? Just wait here, I'll be right back.”

You return a couple minutes later, even more shadowingly sleepy, with some sort of comped three course meal. Something overcooked from the kitchen, and chocolate ice cream.

“Um, the line cook burnt this.” Liar. You specifically told him to cook it longer. “And, well. You look tired…” Tired, meaning sad. He looks so, so sad. 

“...Ice cream makes everything better.” you smile. That's a rule you live by.

You sit with him. Quiet, as usual.

“They, uh. Still giving you the Cinderella treatment?” he tries, thinking maybe now's time to speak. His voice cracks.

“Yes, they are.” you sigh. “I'm the only girl here under forty. And the only one without jowls.” you grin. 

“So they kinda just shove me out front for tip-collecting like a pretty doll — on top of my actual work. I get perks though, I pick the music!” you nod to the radio playing Your Love by The Outfield.

“Very… progressive of them.” he almost laughs, quiet, alluding to the ancient interior. “I mean, they haven't exactly caught up to your Bon Jovi shrine of a room—”

“Hey!” you gasp at his mustered up joke. “Jon Bon Jovi deserves a shrine!”

Jonathan scoffs, laughing all shaky. He mouths a playful seriously?, delighted at his new grounds to joke and tease you, pulled out of his sorrows. 

“He has pretty hair!” you insist. 

“Is that all it takes to win you over?” a very relieved Jonathan asks.

“No… Shh, eat your ice cream.” you nudge him jokingly. “I'm cooped up in here all day, any guy who actually has hair is enough, mkay?”

He grins.

It's quiet a minute, then—

“M-My dad came back…” he mutters, abrupt.

“Oh?” you whisper, like looking at an open wound.

“Mm. He… He said he's ‘helping’. Which is just funny. And he keeps calling me son, like he didn't forget about me for four years.” Jonathan mumbles, almost ashamed to be talking. He's quiet and flushed and, nearly angry, and still so sad. 

A 'how's your mama?’ goes unsaid. It's just like telepathic communication at this point. 

“Mom’s… not well.” his voice shakes. He runs a hand down his face, then just about spills. “I think she's lost her mind, I don't know. I-It's scaring me. She's… talking to things. I don't wanna lose her, I..”

You make keep going eyes, just listening.

“I-It's my fault. She told me not to be out. It's all my fault — I didn't look after either of them, my mom or Will.” he mumbles. “She said if it was me missing — Lonnie said — I-It's my fault.”

“Will, he's little. He gets scared of the dark. He can't even sleep without the hall light on. I was supposed to be there. If I'd done my job, he'd be—”

He clamps his sore hand over his mouth, looking down, shaking his head. 

You take his other hand. Somewhere in his mumbling, you've sat beside him in the booth. You brush his bangs out of his eyes, letting your hand fall to rub his shoulders. 

“It's not your fault.” you state. “Look at me, Jonathan — it's not your fault.”

He doesn't say anything.

Not for the next ten minutes or so. He leans into your hands though, the only non-harmful touch he's received in a while. Maybe two months, three.

He glances out the fogged up, rained on window, to the pitch black night. 

“...When's your shift over?” he asks quietly, gently.

You smile softly. “My shift ended at 7:30.”

He blinks. “I.. got here at 7:15?”

You nod.

“It's…” he looks down at his watch “10:23 PM.”

You shrug, still smiling. “I like talking to you.” you tell him, sweetly. 

He shakes his head, like that's just a foreign concept. “Well.. do you — you want a ride home?”

“Do you want to go home? You don't have to.” you whisper.

“No, yeah. I.. do. I want to see my mom.”

You nod. 

“Um, here. It's cold, and.. rainy.” he drapes his worn jacket over you. Smells like Newports and laundry soap. It feels unfamiliar, in his hands, that they aren't shaking anymore.

~~~

How cliché could you get? 

You forgot to give Jonathan his jacket back, a couple nights ago. Sure.

And oh, you totally just had this mixtape containing every band he's mentioned in the last six months lying around. He's not a big talker, but you're an avid listener.

You definitely haven't just had unceasing nausea, and a constant verge-of-tears feeling since you heard the news about little Will at the quarry. You definitely don't just want to see Jonathan, make sure he's okay.

So now you're hesitating, in the heaviest rain Hawkins has seen in months, outside his window. Like some shitty John Hughes movie. 

You tap, very gently. You do it again.

“Jonathan? It's just me.” another tap—

He yanks his window open. 

His brows are furrowed tensely, his stature stiff and shaking, like he's bracing for a punch. His eyes are red, watering. There goes his frustrated, involuntary tears again. He curses himself silently.

“What are you doing?! You.. You scared me. I thought I was losing it!” He hisses, harsher than he means, his voice breaking as he snaps.

“...I'm sorry.” you whisper.

A beautiful girl outside his window, out of her coffee stained waitress dress for once — now fresh-faced, hair wet and curling into its natural state, in just jeans and t-shirt see through from rain, like a Calvin Klein model. It makes him wince, he's already full to the brim with emotion. He turns away, overwhelmed.

“I-I didn't mean to snap.” he says.

“That's okay, sorry for frightening you. I never gave you your jacket back the other day. And, well, I.. had this mixtape. It has some stuff you'll like. I dunno, I just…” you trail off.

He stares at you, not able to move. He'll break if he does. He runs a hand over his face, holding his mouth shut.

God, the day he's had. The funeral home for his baby brother, in which he'd thrown his guts up when Will’s tiny body was revealed. And then his mom, refusing to believe it actually was Will. And a screaming match with her, right in the middle of town. About how while she's talking to the lights, the rest of us are having a funeral for Will! 

And by rest of us, he meant him. Solely him.

He starts off on his frustrated, pent up mumbling again. You can't even really tell what he's saying, just that he looks 10 seconds from a full breakdown. 

He shakes his head, and can't look at you. He hiccups, muttering like he's choking. He whispers something about the assholes at school who never leave him alone, even now. And how he deals with that at school, and comes home to this. 

“It's.. fucked!” he chokes. And he doesn't usually swear, not at all.

“Jon.” you whisper, gentle. “In or out?”

“...What?” He wipes his eyes. You pretend you don't see.

“Do you want me to come in, or do you want to leave and come out?”

He looks at you like you're some type of alien.

“Um… well, you're — you're gonna get sick. You can come stay here.. if you want.” he hesitates, barely audible. 

So you do. You swing your leg over his window and stumble in. 

He's at tipping point. He can't even breathe funny, or he'll just crack.

You hold your arms out. “...C’mere.” you whisper.

His face crumples before he can stop it. You step forward, close the distance, and wrap your arms around his shaking frame. For a second, he freezes. Every muscle in him locks, like he’s waiting to be pushed away.

Like you'd ever. You hold him tight, rubbing up and down his back. He cries quietly at first, so quiet you wouldn't even know he was there. Then eventually, not quiet at all. Full on sobbing. 

He clutches at you, wrinkling your shirt's damp fabric.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your shoulder, over and over. “I’m sorry, this’s so pathetic. I’m sorry, I'm just tired. I’m sorry—”

“Shh, don't apologize. That's okay.” you tell him, rocking side to side slightly. “I know you're tired, you can tell. Sit down, Jon. You're exhausted.”

You guide him to his bed. You kneel in front of him on the mattress, almost between his crisscrossed legs, and hold him still. 

And you stay like that for a while. A long, long time. Until he falls slack on your shoulder. You ease his head down to his pillow, tug his comforter over his arms. You lie on top of the covers, beside him.

~ Hawkins Police Station. Whatever ‘just friends’ can still count as. ~

 What now? What happens after… that? 

 Do you put your arm around her? That's not really possible in handcuffs. …Ask her out? That's what a regular guy’d do. Can you ask out a girl you've directed 20 backyard superhero movies of? One you shut out for 3 years because you couldn't handle having a crush? In those shitty romance movies she likes, some banal love song plays and the scene just fizzes. No awkward silences. 

 Jonathan Byers’ head is spinning. It's no secret you've been asked out before, by a normal boy. Who says normal things, acts normal. Not a creep, weirdo, or freak. 

 “Jonathan! What… what happened? Why is he wearing handcuffs?! Take them off!” Joyce rushes in, continuously frantic. 

 “No can do, ma’am! Your boy assaulted an officer!” Policeman Callahan states. 

 “She said take ‘em off!” Chief Hopper demands. 

 “Listen, Chief. There's something you should see. From their car. And we think.. there might be an accomplice here.” Both officers cock their heads around at you. Then, to the box of stolen arsenal and downright cynical weapons.

 “You went through my car?!” Jonathan deflects. 

 “Is that really what you kids wanna be asking right now?! I'll see you in my office!” Hopper yells, intimidating. 

 “You won’t believe us!” you hiss, defensive. He glares daggers. A try me look. 

 Some parents have that 'I'm not mad, just disappointed’ look perfected. With a hint of 'Jesus, thank god you're okay’ laced under. Joyce is one of them — even while being presented with a grainy photograph of a flower-faced meat grinder, and, a tape filled with its heaves. 

 All she does is stare, I told you so, at Hopper. 

 Hawkins Police takes monster-hunting very seriously, apparently. You're split up, pacing hallways, when—

 “What is happening?! What have you done?! My little girl, oh!” Your mother wails, bawling, down the corridor. 

 “Mom!” you call, beelining to calm her.

 She shrieks. “What is going on with you?! You're an associate to a crime?! And you've got… guns? — guns! Then, on my way, I saw that billboard!” she falls against the wall like a damsel in distress.

 “Please don't cry! It's not—!” you stutter, deep frustration burning your skin.

 “First the drinking, then this! You're supposed to be the responsible one! I need you to be! What am I supposed to do if you're not?” she weeps erratically. “You're scaring me!”

 “I'm sorry! I-It's not what you think!”

 She cries out, seizing her pink pearls. “Is this because of.. your father? Is that why you're drinking, giving… favors to boys?”

 “No! I've never even — God, its's just assholes from school! Okay?!” 

 “...And, I can't find your brother! He's not at the Wheeler’s, then, you—!” she blubbers.

 “I'm sorry, Mama! I'll fix everything.” you finally say. You've always had to be more of a parent to mom, than she was to you. The bridge, between franticness and passiveness. You're sure it's terrifying for your hysterical mother to actively watch the bridge burning. 

 You've always been.. jealous of girls who were 'daddy's girls’ — a given — or, 'mommy's girls’. You've always been a little too much, too scary to mom for that. You've never really been anyone's girl. 

 You lock eyes with Jonathan, over Joyce's shoulder. Perfect understanding. An oldest child can be spotted ten miles away by one of their kind.

 Mom’s ushered out by Flo, and you're yanked back inside. Hopper’s landline rings until voicemail. 

 “Chief, we need all eyes! We're looking for Michael Wheeler, Lucas Sinclair, and Dustin Henderson! They're on the run from something serious! We've got backup on the Wheeler’s. This is not a drill!”

 You almost fall backwards at your brother's name. He's connected to this. 

 You go to call out — only to be interrupted by Hopper. “We have to—!” you gasp.

 “I know. We are. Get in the damn car.”

 ~~~

 Helicopters. Police helicopters for your baby brother. 

 “Neither of you have any idea where they might be?! Seriously?!” Hopper groans. “No idea? Absolutely no goddamn idea?!”

 “Give me my bag.” you say. 

 He sighs, exasperated. “That flower.. embellished.. thing?”

 “Yes. Give me my bag.”

 You grab it and tear through it. Hopper huffs something indignant — can you believe this girl? You spill out everything from lipgloss to your theory notes on the monster, until finding your walkie-talkie. 

 05.04 MHz, is always Dustin's frequency. Mews’ birthday and Star Wars day? C’mon. 

 “Dustin, you there?” you force your terrified voice to sound overly sweet. “It's your big sister, you're not in trouble, I swear. I just need to know where you are.”

 Nothing. 

 “Anyone? I know you're all together. Mike? I won't tell Nancy, honest! Lucas? You guys there?”

 Nothing. Not-available-nothing or government-captured-nothing?

 Hopper snatches your walkie mid-coaxing. “Listen kid, it’s the Chief. If you're there, pick up!” he sighs. “We know you're in trouble and we know about the girl.”

 …Nothing.

 Until— 

 “Yeah. I copy. We're here.” from little Mike Wheeler. 

 Back at the Byers’, you don't know whether to smack the three little boys you've done your share babysitting for, or hug them so tight they turn purple.  

 It's that kind of deadly, unsettling quiet.

 They boys whisper about fleas and acrobats, and that place — the Upside Down. And gates. But not the kind in trees that you crawl through to save your friend — ultramagnetic ones, underneath Hawkins Lab. 

 The fascinating buzzcut girl, very quietly proposes to contact Will. 

 Very sheepishly, you pull a torn scrap of Jonathan's picture of Barb. 

 “And.. if it's alright, El. My friend Barbara too?” you talk sweetly, she's still a scared little kid, after all.

 She does… something, contact through a walkie talkie — only feeding your signal attraction theory more. The monster, signal, sound, enticement.

 Lights flicker. You could hear a pin drop.

 It doesn't work.

 A sensory deprivation tank, is what your little brother comes up with. Then—

 BANG. BANG. BANG. 

 Someone pounds angrily on the door.

 “Hello?! Anybody home?! It's Nancy Wheeler, I'm looking for Y/N, apparently she's here!” Nancy shouts furiously. “It's urgent—!”

 You essentially sprint to the door, peeking out barely. 

 “Nancy! You cannot be here.” Your eyes widen in terror. “There's shit going on, and—”

 “And there's downright wrong things happening around Hawkins? And kids are going missing left and right? And, you're getting to the bottom of it. Right!?” She slightly mocks. 

 “Start talking. Our Barb is gone, you've been off the goddamn rails, and I want answers!” she demands. “What are you doing?! You know something!”

 “Nance, I'm sorry! This is bigger than both of us—!”

 “I know.” she hisses, exhausted eyes flashing determination.

 “I’ve been calling hospitals,” she snaps. “Morgues. I went back to Steve’s. You think I didn't notice you freaked out? Obviously you saw something. I’ve been thinking, researching myself. You. know. something.”

 Nancy always knows. How could you forget that?!

 “You. know. Barb isn't just missing.” her voice breaks, between crying or choking you. “And whatever happened’s definitely related to Will Byers.” 

 She's hurt, she's so hurt. Course she is! You could sob with the emotion crashing through you. Terror, grief, guilt, pride — no one holds a candle to Nancy Wheeler. 

 “Something with radiation, or chemicals, from Hawkins Lab. Some poor, deformed animal experiment on the loose. That's what I've figured.”

 “...You're not wrong. There is.. a thing.” You whisper, shaking. 

 “Nancy. People are being hunted. By it. It got me. There's government involved. This is so much more.. supernatural than—”

 “Monster. It's a monster.” Mike finishes over your shoulder. 

 “Mike?!” she sputters, completely confused. You steer him out onto the Byers porch with you. Her suspicious gaze flicks between you. 

 “…Okay,” Nancy says finally. Quiet now, dangerous. “Explain. Properly. And don’t lie to me.”

 You inhale, shaky. “Okay. A monster. It’s real. It attacks.”

 Mike nods fast. “It took Will.”

 “And Barb,” you add.

 “It's not from… our world. I saw where it comes from. Me and Jonathan… were there. Remember the butterfly effect? How in a different universe something could be wildly different? Like that. It's Hawkins, but not. The.. different version.”

 “The Upside Down.” Mike says.

 “Sound travels between. The monster reacts to it. That’s how it found me. I think signal attracts it.” you continue.

 Mike jumps in. “There’s a girl, from Hawkins Lab. They were doing experiments on her. She can—” he hesitates, then blurts, “—move things with her mind. Superpowers.”

 “And she's wearing your dress.” you mutter. “And my jacket.”

 Nancy stares. “...Jesus.”

 Suddenly, everyone inside — comes all but barreling outside, cramming into cars. 

 “We're going, now!” someone screams.

 “Nance, you coming or what?!” you call. Finalizing her involvement.

 You're pushed into a car occupying way too many, a five seater holding seven. Poor Dustin gets smushed to the floor, while you're roughly knocked sideways onto Jonathan. 

 This happens a lot, summertimes in packed cars to the lake, shoved onto someone's lap. Never with Jonathan, though. God, you'd swear he was a live wire with how on fire you feel. His cheeks blush, deep. Hands hover, uselessly, terrified to touch the girl on his lap. 

 “Sorry!” you both huff, in tandem. He settles an awkward hand round your waist, his brown, earnest eyes freezing onto yours. You're more nervous about this than the monster. Maybe you did ruin it, after all.

 And Jonathan, can’t even be in proximity of you, without essentially turning to mush. 

 Everyone takes some sort of job at the school. Salt, pool, water. A ‘bath’, as El said. Nancy interrogates Mike more, you watch Lucas and Dustin, bickering like an old married couple. 

 The small little girl floats in a salt water kiddie pool, completely blindfolded. 

 Immediately — all the electricity goes out.

 She doesn't move at all, barely even to breathe. It's silent. Complete silence.

 So quiet, you can hear the ancient air vents whistling. It's nostalgic, they got broken during a Star Trek versus Star Wars fight in your time in 7th grade. There's a little Han Solo figure rattling around in there somewhere.

 “Barbara.” Eleven suddenly whispers. 

 Shit. “What's happening? Is Barb okay?!” Nancy asks, fearful.

 “Gone.” Eleven mumbles. “Gone. Gone.” her little voice breaks into screaming. “Gone! Gone!”

 Nancy grabs your hand, like instinct. So shaken, she couldn't form words if someone had a gun to her head. 

 “I'm sorry,” you tell her. It's your fault. “I-I'm so sorry.” 

 Eleven's still going. 

 “Will.” she says.

 “...Hurry.” an abrupt voice crackles the walkie talkie.

 Jesus Christ. Will! There's screaming, and crying — both from the walkie talkie and gym. Rushing and scrambling — then Joyce and Hopper are gone.

 Oh god. 

 Your eyes feel boiling, hot tears steaming up. You've always been an angry cryer, this isn't that. Barb, your Barb. Your poor girl’s gone. You'll never see her again. And you spent your last itty bitty moment with her, annoying her at a party you dragged her to, that she didn't wanna be at. That monster killed her. Attacked her. Ate her. And her body's… there, forever.

 Nancy stares into space, overlooking the kids. They all look so little, so young. Poor Nancy looks like some veteran soldier. You should talk to her — that's your girl, too. You've dragged all your friends under with you. Your fault. You can't help but think of last week, walking home from work — past Mirkwood. Why the fuck didn't you do anything? You heard it! 

 “S-Stay with the kids.. okay? Keep ‘em safe.” you whisper to Nancy, fright-frozen. She barely nods, tranced. You'll be damned if you let those kids see you this scared, and crying,

 You slide down a school-spirited hallway wall. What you wouldn't give for your only worry to be cheering your Friday game, bossing around Chrissy Cunningham and other freshman girls. You feel helpless. You need to do something.

 Hm.

 “Look at me. Hey…” someone’s soft voice interrupts your thoughts, draping a denim jacket over your shaking shoulders. “You're crying. You.. alright?”

 Jonathan, crouching infront of you. He looks worried, stressed, and sweet. Gentle hands grip your shaking shoulders, his face crumblingly concerned. You could just disintegrate in his hands. 

 “My mom and Hopper are gone.. in there. Finding him. Getting Will.” he sounds so hopeful.

 Hm. 

 “Will.. you do something with me?” you hesitate, wiping your eyes.

 “Of course, anything.” he whispers.

 “Come back to the station.”

 One eyebrow raises. “What?”

 “Get our stuff from the station. Your mom and the Chief are gone in.. they're just walking in like bait for the monster. We need to..”

 “Kill it? You wanna finish the job?”

 “Yes. But.. we gotta..” you hesitate. “We're luring it. I'm not sure at all, but you can attract it. Definitely.”

 His adam's apple bobs, as if he's physically swallowing the gruesome idea. A more certain hand tucks one side of your hair behind your ear. 

 He nods.

 ~~~

 ~ The Byers’ House. Finishing the job. ~ 

 Bear traps, ignition, and guns, oh my!

 You reconnect Joyce's Christmas lights Lonnie tore down. You figure the communication between here and the Upside Down — lights, radio connections, sound — connect directly to the monster's presence. Barb and the party music, Will and his walkie, you and your tape recorder — things like that, signal connection, electricity, and communication between worlds have connection to when the monster shows up.

 And so you play The Overload by The Talking Heads on Jonathan’s radio. 

 You grimace, hearing Jonathan hammering something, aggressively, outside.

 You absolutely drench the entire hallway in gasoline, pour an entire bottle of Joyce’s liquor in for good measure. That's where you'll trap it. Burn it. 

 You hear something slam. Jonathan appears startlingly — and if you didn't look like serial killers before, god, you do now. A baseball bat with nails through it. 

 He starts, shy. “Um.. I'll take this. I can swing—” 

 “I’ve seen.” you whisper.

 He smiles slightly. “And I've got this for you..” he hesitates.

 A shovel. With blades hammered through. Jesus.

 “You've got a good hit. Sucks I couldn't, y'know. Rig a spirit stick for you.” He tries to joke, awkwardly. 

 You nudge him gently, it's fleeting. 

 “...Will you help with the bear trap?” you ask.

 Jonathan stretches out the trap’s spring, straining as he forces its jaws apart. “Weight. Need weight on it.”

 You go to stand on the latch. He stops you, “Wait — Hands.” He lifts your hands to his shoulders, keeping you steady.

 Jonathan's observant. He's picked up on the way your hands do this little squirmy thing just as they touch him. The way you blush makes him feel less nervous. It's almost like he's pining for excuses to touch you.

 The latch clicks.

 He holds your hand, like you're made of glass, to help you off. Now'd usually be when you both gasp and huff “sorry!” simultaneously. 

 He looks like he's going to — you don't want that. “Jonathan…” you whisper, softly, stopping him.

 His brows furrow. He stares at you, like a deer in headlights. You could get lost, and never return, in the earnestry and frightenedness his eyes hold. And you're the prettiest girl he's ever seen. 

 “..Jonathan?” you repeat, barely audible. 

 CREAK.

 Something shifts outside. Like it's literally stomping, angrily, on the front porch. 

SLAM. SLAM. SLAM.

 Outside. It's outside.

 “The music’s not—!?” you rush, grabbing your weapons. “Lights—! When the lights flicker — that's when it—!”

 He swings you his direction. He kisses you.

 Like a dying wish. Cause it might as well be. His hands grip your waist so wantingly your clothes wrinkle. You stumble, pinned against the wall. So close, you can feel his knees weakening. Oh, you never want this to stop. He's warm and slow, and he's sweet about it, and it's so obvious he's never kissed a girl before. But god, you're used to him being the shy one. He's all over you. 

 CRASH.

 The door is forced open. Shit. Shit!

 “Did you really think I'd sit back and babysit while you—?! Oh…” 

 Nancy. It's fucking Nancy.

 “Nancy! You idiot! We thought it was—!” 

 “The monster? The monster you're planning on killing? That you thought I'd sit back and relax about?” she grabs the gun.

 “No, but.. yes! So if you're gonna yell, do it fast! We have like — five minutes!” you snap.

 Then—

The doorbell?

 “Jonathan! Are you there, man? I just want to apologize!” Steve Harrington, of all people, calls. No way. 

 “You better know how to shoot that!” Jonathan points to Nancy before bolting to the door. He doesn't even let Steve peek in. 

 He speaks through gritted teeth. “I'm. serious. Get out. You need to leave. Please. You need to go—”

 “Henderson? Is that you? Hey — Is that my Nancy?!” Steve forces his way in. 

 Jonathan knocks him back outside aggressively. There's screaming and there's fighting — again. There's half a fistfight, pushing and shoving.

 Nancy grabs you.

 “Cut your hand.” She yanks through the Byers’ drawers. “You need to cut your hand if you want to lure that thing.” 

 “What?!” you say.

 “Blood. That's what it's attracted to. I don't know what theory you had, but that's what I've figured out.” 

 You get a famous 'I'll do it if you do it’ look from her — then you're holding a kitchen knife. 

 “Leave! You need to leave! I mean it!” Jonathan yells. “I smell gasoline! Is that a fucking baseball bat?! I'm not leaving until I know those girls are okay!” Steve screams back.

 She takes your hand, and the cold blade. 

 “Nancy, wait. Look, no more secrets, okay?” you whisper. 

 “No more secrets.” she smiles. “3, 2, 1…”

 Blood drips onto the Byers floor. Yours and Nancy's.

 Steve sees it, freezes. Nancy holds a gun to his head. “You either need to get out. Or grab something heavy.” 

 One light flickers. Two. Three. 

 Something by The Clash, The Cure, The Smiths, jolts out on the radio. Slows, then speeds.

 The Christmas lights begin to pulse. Then the living room is red, green, red, green.

 “W-What's happening? What is happening?! Why does she have a shovel?! And.. the wall. Look, guys — the wall!” Steve shouts, absolutely petrified. 

 The wall. Something writhes and stretches behind the wallpaper. Squirms, rips.

 A hand presses from the other side. It's fingers bend backwards, clawing through. 

 The wall splits.

 Plaster cracks, littering the gasoline-soaked floor. A claw punches through. Another. That flower-faced creature crashes to the floor, smashing house vases. 

 It’s here.

 Not a theory.

 Right here.

 It shrieks and screams. It's hungry. It's looking. It jumps at Jonathan. It heaves over him, drooling all over his face. He thrashes under it, but he's pinned down completely. 

 You swing that rigged shovel. Again. Again. The blades slash into the monster's meaty flesh. It's blood splatters all over you. Your face. Your clothes. 

 You get it off Jonathan. Then it turns to you. 

 It knows you. It's had you before. And — you're fucking covered in blood. 

 It snatches you with both its claws, once again. It slurps the spilling blood off your palm, it’s mouth watering. 

 Nancy shoots, aims perfectly — And empties out Lonnie’s gun. The bullets just bounce off its back. Tears prickle your eyes. You're gone. Dead—

 You fall?

 A horrified Steve whacks the nailbat at the monster, just enough for it to drop you. Then your being dragged, everyone rushing past the trap. “Jump!” Someone yells. “Go—Letsgo—Now!”

 Everyone hauls into Will’s room, gasping for air. The monster chases down the hall, smashing into walls and furniture. It trips, crashing across the floor. You hear metal jaws snap and screech closed. 

 “He’s in the trap!” Nancy calls. “Jonathan, now!” you scream. 

 He launches the lighter into the gasoline drenched trap. Flames burst. The smoke alarm screeches. All you can see is streaking, firey orange. 

 The monster howls. Flames climb its limbs, crawl up its spine. Its flesh splits, its skin blisters and blackens. It writhes and thrashes, burning to smithereens.

 What's left collapses fully into the trap's spikes. 

 Someone extinguishes the fire, smoke clouding the entire house. 

 “It has to be dead.” Jonathan says, almost pleading. “It has to be.” 

 ..Silence. There's a collective sigh.

 The lights flicker again. More.. gentle now. One by one, like a little guiding trail.

 You all follow the flicker. It's almost… calming.

 You hear a faint crackle. “...Jonathan?” you swear you hear Joyce whisper.

 Connection.

 The four of you creep outside. More flickering. Street lamps, car headlights, porch lights. Everywhere.

 “It can't be still here. It can’t.” Nancy shakes her head.

 “...I don't think that's the monster.” Jonathan says. 

 ~~~

 ~ Hawkins General. Outside a saved little boy’s hospital room. ~

 Hospitals are usually overbearing, sterile, and rash. Right now it feels… relieving, though. 

 Joyce appears from Will’s room’s door. Her face is blotchy, her eyes watery. She gestures you over. You're pulled into the tightest hug imaginable, and she whispers, “He's awake. He's okay. Wake the boys.” 

 You beam. “Oh, and sweetheart—” Joyce tips her head, making I know eyes. The type that say I've known you would never be ‘just friends’ since 5th grade. 

 You lightly shake Dustin and Lucas awake, while Mike has been pacing the entire time.

 “Byers!” They scream. You hear merciless chattering. “We had a funeral! Jennifer Hayes was crying!” and “Troy peed himself! Infront of the whole school!” then “We found a girl! She has superpowers! She flipped a van with her mind!” Their frantic little voices mesh together.

 You grin, leaning back happily—

 —“Ah!” you startle, bumping into Jonathan. 

 “...Sorry.” he huffs. He wipes his eyes hurriedly. Oh, they're teared up and red, the way when someone's been crying a long while.  

 “Do you wanna…?” he gestures to the hallway. “While they…?” he waves at your boys. 

 You nod, still smiling.

 You haven't talked about the kiss. How could you? There's been no time. The only time you have talked is as he lent you some clothes to wear, rather than your blood drenched ones.

 The hallway is hushed and quiet. “I-I.. made you a mixtape.” He says, rummaging through his jacket. Huh. With the little time, he'd have to have made it before this ordeal. 

 “And… I'd like to say.. something to you.” He stammers.

 “Oh?”

 “Yeah, I-I don’t know if this is stupid, but — Well I was thinking, when this is all…” He trips over his words, running hands through his hair.

 “Maybe we.. could, like, do something? If you want. Um, whatever you'd like. You don't have to—”

 “Are you asking me out?” you grin.

 “You don't have to! I'm sorry, just if you want. I've probably fucked this up, I'm so sorry, you really don't—”

 “I'd like that, Jon.”

 Oh.

 Really? Seriously? Me? he thinks, stunned speechless. His mouth opens, closes. Opens again, “..Cool.” he comes up with, sounding exactly the opposite. 

 You rise on your tiptoes. Kiss his cheek.