Hava(she/her)

a crack in his whispered voice reminds you of the wrecked and needy way he was crying (no, literally) your name the night before

the memory alone makes your heart race and insides heat up, your hands itch to touch him again so early in the fucking morning

when you answer he's stirring awake more alarmed "oh shit, shit shit-" he says, fumbling limbs moving clumsily to get up from bed and look for his clothes that got discarded on the bedroom floor at some point

you have to bite back a smile at the state of him: sleepy eyes, messy hair, red bruises on his neck, so clearly and evidently fucked out

an amused hum escapes your mouth at the image of him walking in to work late and looking like that

"think this is funny huh?" he nods at you with sheepish smile, pushing a hand through his hair to try to tame the strands that keep falling on his face

"maybe" you tease, raising to your feet to help fix his mop of hair and the collar of his shirt

but then- his proximity and his smitten stare makes you dizzy, his stupidly cute and handsome face too much to handle, too hard to resist

you kiss at his eyelids again, only this time around your lips instinctively trail down towards his cheek and then his jaw without ever separating from his skin

"baby, c'mon..." he drawls, like he's protesting, but its not even nearly convincing with how his hands are going up your sweatshirt, grabbing anything and everything he gets his grip on

your mouth glides against his face until you catch his needy and defeated sigh with your lips

Billy never was very good at doing anything in moderation.

He drank too much and drove too fast, went through packs of cigarettes faster than any guy at work and had fucked his way through most of the girls in this shit town.

It also meant he couldn't stop himself from coming back to her.

Meeting at either window, kissing real quick before his dad yelled at him to drive Max somewhere or her mom needed help with a chore. He would pull at her bra straps, big hands on her shoulders as he held her tight to his body, her little fingers curled into his shirt.

If he saw her during a block party he might yank on her sleeve, a little wait-around-for-me-tonight signal that had her hiding a smile. He didn't smoke on the days he saw that smile, and he figured she liked it better that way.

"You want to move back to California, right?" She asked one night, letting him hold her around the waist as they leaned back against the side wall of Billy's house.

"Yeah. I hate it here."

"You got enough money?" She played with the fingers of his right hand, twisting his ring onto a different finger. Billy squeezed her waist a little as a response.

"Nah, not yet. I don't get nearly enough hours at the pool anyway. " Not that it paid much anyway.

"I've never been there." Her voice was soft, hesitant to keep talking about it. He liked that and leaned to press a kiss to her cheek to let her know he didn't yet mind it.

"It's nice. So much warmer than here. You can see all of the sky."

No grey overcast that lasted all through basketball season.

She tilted her head all the way back to look at the cloudy Hawkins sky, crown of her head resting against his chest. "Is that why you always wear jackets?"

Did he? Billy supposed he was always wearing jackets outside of the pool. And working out. Even then, sometimes, when the fall started.

"I guess. Do you not like them?" He teases, smirk washing away the watercolor California memories. She looks alarmed and shakes her head quick.

"I do! Especially, um, the leather one."

"Yeah?" He squeezes her waist quickly before spinning her around. "Like a guy in leather?"

"That's cheesy."

"You're blushing, though."

Before he lets her think about arguing, Billy pulls her up to straddle loosely around his hips, leaning back against the wall to catch her weight. She scrambled to lean against him, unsure hands grabbing awkwardly at his shoulders. He feels a brief sting from her nails and allows himself to continue tying the knot forming in his stomach.

Big hands settling on her hips to keep her glued to him, he laughs at her nervousness before pressing a kiss to one side of her neck.

"You're not gonna fall." Billy kisses her again, a little lower, and the tiny hitch she lets out instead of arguing adds another knot. Perfume was dabbed into her skin, something flowery and nearly faded from an hour ago.

After a couple more from him she has a fleeting moment of boldness and kisses him a couple times, leading from the corner of his lips to his jawline. He can feel her strawberry-colored lipstick smudge against his skin. So fucking cheesy but he doesn't bother wiping it off.

She shifts a little, pressing closer to his chest. He moves his hands closer to the bottoms of her hips so he can help her grind real slow against him.

"Mmm, yeah." He ignores her blush and scandalized little opening of her mouth, kissing her lips until there's a filthy wet sheen over their soft pinkness.

"We're outside!" She gasps between kisses, and he punishes her with another grind. Billy can feel his cock twitch in his jeans, thick fabric pushing down through his boxers.

"I don't care." He rolls her hips against his with each word, laughing when she tries to push against him to stop. Little hands on his pecs just made him want to do it again.

"We still have all our clothes on, baby. We aren't doing anythin' wrong." He pulls off his jacket with one hand at a time, making sure she didn't move off him. "For now."

He rubbed his thumb up her thigh, spreading her legs just a little more firmly around himself just press her further against his growing bulge. Her panties were thin as fuck and so warm where they fit against him. Then she rolled against him herself, and the breath that left his mouth was too fast.

"Shit, baby. See? You like it." He moves to kiss her neck again, enjoying the way her nails scratched slightly into his skin as she tightened her grip on his shirt.

She does it again, whimpering softly when she felt how hard he really was now. "Feels painful, Billy." She traced a little line along the seam of his jeans and Christ, he was really seeing stars now.

"Like it's hurting you?" He slid a hand down to idly rub at her thigh, stopping the grinding of her hips.

"No. Hurting you. It's so sensitive, and you're in denim."

"I'm not fucking sensitive." He slammed her hips back down on his to prove the point, then unzipped his jeans so the denim layer was gone from above his boxers. Now the outline of his aching cock was clearer, and she gladly palmed at it.

"Better?"

"Fuck off. Christ, you act so innocent and scared just to pull shit like that--" He bit back what would be an embarrassing groan as she palmed him again. He knew when a girl wanted him to shut up, so he kissed her and kissed her again until she had to take a breath.

“I’m s-sorr-“ He kissed her again.

“Hasn’t anyone told you to stop apologizing when you don’t need to?” He pulled her little hand back to his bulge, coaxing her to squeeze it just a little, his eyelids lowering.

“You get me so worked up. It’s fucking stupid.”

She leaned to press an angelic kiss—yes, angelic, that’s what it was—to his cheek before rolling her hips so her clothed little pussy could rub against his outline. He could feel the dampness of her panties now and the thought of how soaked that cunt was made his cock throb underneath her thighs.

He could feel her nails dig into him again, and he bucked his hips up into her. Another whine from her lips and he was doing it again.

"Gonna come just from this? Yeah? You don't want us to undress out here. Neighbors might see. So you better come. "

Billy was all but bouncing her now, rough, quick rocks of their bodies as he held her thighs tightly to push and pull her pretty cunt against his cock, the fierey friction of fabric quickly becoming an afterthought.

"Fuck, fuck!" He cursed in harmony with her sweet little sighs and whimpers, her face buried in his shoulder as best she could with all the movement. "S-slow down! Billy, mm!"

He could feel the slickness of her cum spreading through her panties, the sticky texture clinging to where it met his boxers. Jesus, she was so warm, cheeks pinker than a beach sunset and hands trembling instead of grasping.

He shushed her little erratic chokes for air after she came, ceasing their pace to a gentle roll. "That felt good, yeah?"

"Uh huh." She breathed out softly, watching him pull his cock out of his boxers and stroke it just three times before spilling all over her thighs.

"Yeah, it definitely did. " Billy whispered, keeping his breathing in control.

"You're so pretty. " She mumbled, kissing his throat.

"I'm not pretty, but you sure are." He laid his jacket to clean up her thighs while he tucked himself back in his pants.

"We can be pretty together?"

"Alright. "

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.