Chapter Text
Steve’s knuckles hovered over the Byers front door for the third time in as many minutes. This was stupid. This was so stupid. He should just go home, pop a couple of Tylenol, and pretend the ringing in his ears wasn’t getting worse every day.
But his hand knocked anyway.
Jonathan answered, blinking in surprise at finding Steve Harrington on his doorstep at nine o’clock on a Thursday night. “Uh, hey?”
“Hey.” Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, trying for casual and landing somewhere near desperate. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah, sure.” Jonathan stepped aside, confusion written across his face. They weren’t exactly friends—more like people who’d survived the apocalypse together multiple times and occasionally nodded at each other in the video store.
Steve stepped inside, noting Joyce wasn’t home, Will was probably with Mike, and the house was quiet in that particular way that made his shoulders tense. Too quiet. Like the room before they—
“So what’s up?” Jonathan asked, closing the door.
Steve turned, opened his mouth, closed it. God, how did you even ask this? He went for casual, forcing his signature Steve Harrington smile. “What, can’t a guy just stop by to hang out?”
Jonathan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “We don’t really… hang out.”
“Well, maybe we should. You know, everyone’s always saying how we should all stay connected after everything. Keep the party together or whatever.” Steve was rambling now, gesturing too much with his hands. “And I was just driving around, thought I’d see what you were up to—”
“Steve.” Jonathan crossed his arms, not unkindly, but definitely skeptical. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing! I just—okay, fine.” Steve ran a hand through his hair. “I heard you… I mean, I know you smoke. Weed. Sometimes.”
Jonathan’s expression shifted from confused to more confused. “O-kay?”
“Where do you get it?” The words came out too fast, too eager. Steve tried to course-correct. “I just, you know, wanted to try it. For fun. Like a normal person thing. Everyone does it in college, right? And I never really got around to it in high school because of basketball and my dad would’ve killed me, but now—”
“You want to try weed,” Jonathan said slowly, like he was testing out the words.
“Yeah.”
“For fun.”
“Exactly!”
Jonathan stared at him for a long moment, and Steve could practically see the wheels turning in his head. “You’ve been to parties where people were smoking. You never seemed interested before.”
“Well, maybe I’m interested now.” Steve’s smile felt too tight on his face. “Come on, man. Can you help me out or not?”
Something flickered across Jonathan’s face—uncertainty, maybe concern. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, I’m not a dealer or anything—”
“I’m not asking you to be my dealer. I’m just asking if you have any. Right now. That I could… try.” Steve heard how desperate he sounded and tried to dial it back. “Look, forget it. This was dumb. I’ll just—”
“No, wait.” Jonathan held up a hand, studying Steve with that same unsettling intensity. Like he was one of his photographs he was trying to figure out the right angle for. “You can come in. I just… are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah. Yes. Definitely.”
Jonathan didn’t look convinced, but he jerked his head toward the hallway. “Come on.”
Steve followed him to his bedroom—small, dimly lit, smelling faintly of developer chemicals and something earthy. Jonathan shut the door and gestured for Steve to sit on the bed while he pulled a small wooden box from his desk drawer.
“So,” Jonathan said, settling cross-legged on the floor with the box. “You just randomly decided tonight was the night to try weed.”
“Yep.” Steve sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing his knee.
“And you came to me specifically because…”
“Because I know you have it? And you’re… I don’t know, experienced?”
Jonathan opened the box, pulling out rolling papers and a grinder, but his movements were slower than necessary. Deliberate. “Steve, you’re wound up tighter than I’ve ever seen you. And that’s saying something.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bouncing your leg so hard you’re shaking my floor.”
Steve immediately stopped, then felt stupid for making it so obvious. “I’m just—it’s been a long week. That’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” Jonathan started breaking up the flower, but he kept glancing up at Steve. “And you thought weed would help with your long week.”
“I thought it might help me relax. Isn’t that what it’s supposed to do?”
“Sometimes.” Jonathan’s voice was careful. “But you shouldn’t do this alone your first time. Sometimes people get paranoid, or anxious, or just weird about it.”
“I’ll be fine,” Steve said automatically.
“Yeah, probably.” Jonathan pulled out a longer paper, starting to roll. “But I’m not letting you drive home high, so you’re stuck with me for a few hours.”
“That’s fine. Great. Whatever.”
Jonathan’s hands paused. “You know, for someone who supposedly wants to try this ‘for fun,’ you seem really tense about it.”
“I’m not tense.”
“Steve.”
“What?”
Jonathan set down the half-rolled blunt and looked directly at him. “Why are you really here?”
Steve felt his chest tighten. “I told you—”
“You told me something, yeah. But I don’t think it’s the truth.” Jonathan’s voice wasn’t accusatory, just… knowing. Like he could see right through the performance. “I’ve seen you at parties. You barely drink anymore. You’re the guy who stays sober to make sure everyone gets home safe. You once spent twenty minutes talking Tommy Hagan out of doing coke in Rick’s bathroom. So why are you suddenly at my house at nine PM, lying about wanting to try weed ‘just for fun’?”
Steve’s jaw clenched. He could feel his left eye starting to drift—it always did when he got stressed—and he quickly looked down at his hands. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah, actually. It does.” Jonathan’s voice was gentle but firm. “Because if you’re looking for an escape or trying to numb something out, that’s different than just wanting to relax. And I need to know which one this is.”
“Why? You gonna lecture me about drug safety?”
“No. I’m gonna make sure you’re okay.” Jonathan leaned back slightly, giving Steve space. “Look, man, you don’t have to tell me anything. But I’m not giving you weed until I know you’re not going to do something stupid with it.”
Steve laughed, bitter and sharp. “Like what? It’s weed, not pills.”
“Like use it as a bandaid for something that needs actual help.”
The words hung in the air between them, and Steve felt something crack in his chest. Small and sharp and painful. He kept his gaze fixed on his hands, on the way they were clenched into fists on his knees. “I’m fine.”
“Steve—”
“I said I’m fine!” It came out harsher than he meant it to, and he immediately felt guilty. Jonathan was just trying to help, and here Steve was, being an asshole about it. He took a breath. “Sorry. I just… I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Can we just do this?”
Jonathan was quiet for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he picked up the blunt again and continued rolling. “Okay. But if you start feeling worse instead of better, or if you panic, you tell me. Immediately.”
“I’m not gonna panic.”
“Steve.”
“Fine. Yes. I’ll tell you.”
Jonathan sealed the blunt with practiced ease, examining it with a critical eye. “It’s not like drinking,” he said, shifting into explanation mode. “You’re not gonna lose control or black out or anything. Most people just feel… relaxed. Like everything slows down a little. Sometimes you get the giggles, sometimes you get philosophical, sometimes you just want to eat everything in the kitchen.”
“Sounds good,” Steve said, aiming for light and missing.
“Your mouth might get dry. You might feel kind of heavy, or like you’re moving through water. Sometimes colors look brighter, or sounds are different.” Jonathan looked up at him. “And sometimes people get in their heads about stuff. If that happens, just remember—you’re safe, you’re in my room, and it’ll wear off. Okay?”
Steve nodded, not trusting his voice.
“Come down here—it’s easier.” Jonathan gestured to the floor.
Steve slid off the bed and sat across from Jonathan, their knees almost touching in the small space. His heart was hammering against his ribs, and he couldn’t tell if it was nerves about the weed or about Jonathan’s earlier questions or about the fact that his eye was definitely drifting now and Jonathan was close enough to notice.
He tilted his head slightly, trying to make it less obvious.
“You’re gonna inhale when I tell you to, hold it for a second, then breathe out. Don’t try to hold it too long your first time—you’ll just cough.” Jonathan flicked the lighter, and the flame caught the end of the blunt. He took a quick drag himself first, held it, then exhaled away from Steve. “Okay. Your turn.”
He passed it over. Steve took it awkwardly, not quite sure how to hold it.
“Like this,” Jonathan adjusted Steve’s grip, matter-of-fact. “And just… breathe. It’s just breathing.”
Just breathing. Right.
Steve brought it to his lips and inhaled. Smoke filled his lungs, harsh and immediate, and he immediately started coughing, eyes watering.
“Easy, easy,” Jonathan took the blunt back, patting Steve’s shoulder as he wheezed. “Happens to everyone. Try again in a sec.”
Steve caught his breath, wiping his eyes. “That was terrible.”
“Yeah, first time usually is.” Jonathan took another hit, casual and smooth, then offered it back. “Smaller this time.”
The second time was better. Still harsh, but Steve managed to hold it for a moment before exhaling. He handed it back and waited.
“Takes a few minutes to kick in,” Jonathan said, taking his turn. “Just relax.”
They passed it back and forth in silence, and Steve gradually became aware of a shift. Nothing dramatic—just a subtle loosening in his chest. The perpetual tension in his jaw easing. His shoulders dropping from where they’d been hunched up near his ears for what felt like months.
“How you feeling?” Jonathan asked after a while, stubbing out what was left.
Steve considered the question. His body felt heavier, like he was sinking into the carpet, but not in a bad way. More like gravity had gotten friendlier. “Weird,” he said honestly. “But not… bad weird?”
“That’s normal.” Jonathan shifted to lean against the side of his bed, and Steve mirrored him without really thinking about it. Their shoulders brushed, and Steve noticed in a distant, fuzzy way that the contact didn’t make him want to flinch.
“My hands feel tingly,” Steve said, staring at his fingers. He flexed them experimentally. “Like they’re asleep but not uncomfortable.”
“Yeah, that happens.” Jonathan’s voice sounded slower, or maybe Steve’s brain was processing it slower. “You good?”
“I think so.” Steve let his head fall back against the bed frame. The ceiling had those textured bumps in the paint, and he found himself tracing patterns in them. “Your ceiling looks like the moon.”
Jonathan huffed a quiet laugh. “What?”
“The texture. It’s like craters.” Steve tilted his head, and normally that would make him self-conscious about his eye, but right now he couldn’t quite remember why he cared. “Or maybe popcorn. Moon popcorn.”
“Moon popcorn,” Jonathan repeated, and there was something amused in his voice. “Okay.”
They sat in silence for a while, and Steve became aware of how much noise usually filled his head. The constant loop of anxiety, the endless replay of worst-case scenarios, the ringing that never quite went away. It was still there, but muffled now. Like someone had turned the volume down to a manageable level.
“This is nice,” he said without meaning to.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Steve closed his eyes, and the darkness behind his eyelids was soft instead of threatening. “I feel like I’m floating. But also sinking. Is that normal?”
“Completely normal.”
“Weird.” Steve opened his eyes again, turning his head to look at Jonathan. From this angle, with both of them slumped against the bed, Jonathan’s face was doing something funny. Not bad funny—just his nose looked bigger from below, and his hair was falling in his face, and Steve had the sudden, overwhelming urge to laugh.
“What?” Jonathan asked, noticing.
“Your hair is in your face.”
“Yeah, it does that.”
“It’s like a curtain. Like those beaded curtains at Spencer’s, but hair.” Steve could feel the laugh building in his chest, bubbling up like soda. “Beaded Jonathan.”
“Beaded Jonathan,” Jonathan repeated, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
That was it. Steve started laughing, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. It wasn’t even that funny, but something about the absurdity of it—sitting on Jonathan Byers’ floor, high for the first time, comparing his hair to store curtains—just broke something loose. The laugh rolled out of him in waves, his shoulders shaking with it.
“Oh my god,” he wheezed, “I can’t—why is that so funny?”
Jonathan was grinning now too, more open than Steve had ever seen him. “You’re definitely high.”
“No, no, I’m serious—” Steve tried to compose himself, but another wave hit him. “Beaded. Jonathan.” He dissolved again, and this time Jonathan was laughing too, quiet and genuine.
When Steve finally caught his breath, his stomach ached in the good way, and he felt lighter than he had in months. “Okay,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Okay, I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Steve took a deep breath, feeling the air expand his lungs fully for what felt like the first time in forever. “That was weird.”
“The laughing?”
“All of it. But yeah, especially that.” Steve let his head thunk back against the bed frame. “I don’t remember the last time I laughed like that.”
Something shifted in Jonathan’s expression—that photographer’s eye again, seeing too much. “Steve—”
“Your walls are really boring,” Steve interrupted, staring at the blank space across from him. “You should put up more pictures. You’re literally a photographer.”
“They’re in portfolios. And some are in the living room.”
“But not in here. Why not in here?” Steve turned to look at him, genuinely curious. “Don’t you want to see your work?”
“I see it all the time while I’m developing it.”
“But that’s different. That’s work. I mean stuff you’re proud of. Like…” Steve gestured vaguely. “Like victories.”
“Victories,” Jonathan said softly.
“Yeah. Things you did that turned out good.” Steve’s brain felt fuzzy around the edges, but the thought seemed important. “Everyone should have victories on their walls.”
Jonathan was quiet for a moment, and when Steve’s gaze drifted back to him, he found Jonathan watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read.
“What?” Steve asked.
“Nothing. Just…” Jonathan shook his head slightly. “You’re different like this.”
Steve’s stomach tightened, just a little. “Different how?”
“Looser, I guess. Less…” Jonathan seemed to search for the word. “Less performing.”
The observation should have made Steve defensive, but the weed had sanded down his sharp edges. “Is that bad?”
“No. It’s good.” Jonathan’s voice was gentle. “I like it.”
They fell into another silence, and Steve found himself studying the grain of Jonathan’s wooden floor, the way the light from his desk lamp cast everything in warm amber. It was peaceful in a way Steve’s house never was—no echoing hallways, no pristine surfaces that screamed don’t touch, don’t mess up, don’t exist too loudly.
“I like your house,” Steve said.
“It’s small.”
“It’s lived in. That’s different.” Steve traced a finger along a scuff mark on the floor. “My house is like a museum. Everything perfect, nothing real.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“Yeah.” The word came out before Steve could stop it. “Yeah, it is.”
He could feel Jonathan’s gaze on him again, and this time Steve kept his eyes on the floor. His left eye was definitely wandering—he could feel it, that disconnected sensation like his eye was doing its own thing. And Jonathan was close enough to notice, probably had noticed already, and—
“Steve.”
His chest tightened. “What?”
“Look at me.”
“I’m good looking at the floor, thanks.”
“Steve.” Jonathan’s voice was patient, knowing. “It’s okay.”
“What’s okay?”
“Whatever you’re worried about right now. It’s okay.”
Steve’s throat felt tight. He forced himself to look up, to meet Jonathan’s gaze, and yeah—there it was. Jonathan’s eyes tracked the movement, the slight drift of Steve’s left eye, and Steve wanted to look away again but couldn’t seem to make himself move.
“I know,” he said, voice rough. “I know you can see it.”
“See what?”
“Don’t—” Steve let out a sharp breath. “Come on, man. Don’t make me say it.”
Jonathan’s expression softened. “Your eye?”
Steve flinched like he’d been hit. “Yeah. That.”
“What about it?”
“What do you mean, what about it?” Steve could feel his heart starting to race, the pleasant buzz of the high turning anxious at the edges. “It’s—it’s obvious. It’s—”
“Steve, hey.” Jonathan shifted closer, and Steve realized distantly that he was starting to spiral, his breath coming faster. “Hey, you’re okay. Just breathe.”
“I am breathing,” Steve said, but his chest felt tight again, the familiar sensation of panic starting to crawl up his throat. “I just—you’re staring at it.”
“I’m looking at you. There’s a difference.”
“No, you’re—” Steve pressed a hand to his chest, trying to slow his breathing. This was stupid. He was freaking out over nothing, just like he always did, just like he had no right to because other people had it so much worse—
“Steve, listen to me.” Jonathan’s voice cut through the spiral. “You’re safe. You’re in my room. You’re high, and sometimes that makes anxiety feel bigger than it is. But you’re okay. I promise.”
“You were staring at my eye,” Steve said, and he hated how small his voice sounded.
“Because I was trying to figure out if you were okay. That’s all.” Jonathan held his gaze steadily, not looking away from the drift, not flinching or pretending it wasn’t there. “It doesn’t bother me. If that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It bothers me.”
“I know.” Jonathan’s voice was so gentle it made Steve’s chest ache. “But it shouldn’t. It’s just part of you.”
“It’s not supposed to be part of me. It’s—” Steve swallowed hard. “It’s from—”
“From what happened to you,” Jonathan finished quietly.
And there it was. The thing Steve had been dancing around all night, the real reason he was here, sitting on Jonathan Byers’ floor and falling apart over his own face.
“Yeah,” Steve whispered. “From that.”
Jonathan didn’t push. Just waited, and maybe it was the weed or maybe it was the exhaustion or maybe it was just that Steve was so goddamn tired of carrying it alone, but the words started coming anyway.
“I’ve been having panic attacks,” he said, staring at his hands again. “Like, a lot. Over stupid stuff—doors slamming, people yelling, sometimes just when it’s too quiet. And I thought—I don’t know what I thought. That I could just push through it or ignore it or—” His breath hitched. “But it’s getting worse.”
“That’s not stupid,” Jonathan said firmly.
“Yes it is. Compared to what everyone else went through—”
“Steve, stop.” Jonathan’s voice was sharper now, cutting through Steve’s spiral. “Stop making it smaller than it was. You got tortured by Russian soldiers. That’s not—that’s not something you just get over.”
Steve’s hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs, trying to stop it. “Other people had it worse.”
“That doesn’t mean what happened to you didn’t matter.”
“El almost died. Max is—Max might never wake up—”
“And you were tortured.” Jonathan said it plainly, matter-of-fact, like he was stating an obvious truth. “Steve, you can’t rank trauma like that. It doesn’t work that way.”
“I should be fine by now.”
“Says who?”
“Says—I don’t know, everyone?” Steve laughed, but it came out choked. “I’m Steve Harrington. I take hits and keep getting back up. That’s what I do.”
“That’s what you do for other people,” Jonathan said quietly. “But what about for yourself?”
Steve didn’t have an answer for that. His chest was tight again, but different this time—like something was trying to break out instead of claw its way in.
“The eye is from them,” he said, barely above a whisper. “From when they—when they hit me. Something got messed up, and now it just… drifts sometimes. Especially when I’m tired or stressed or—” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Or whatever this is.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No. It’s just…” Steve’s voice cracked. “It’s just this constant reminder, you know? Every time I look in a mirror, every time someone notices, I’m right back in that room with them—”
His breath caught, and suddenly he couldn’t get enough air. The room was tilting, or maybe he was tilting, and the pleasant fuzzy feeling of being high had twisted into something sharp and frightening.
“Okay, hey, hey.” Jonathan’s hand landed on his shoulder, warm and grounding. “Steve, you’re okay. You’re spiraling. That’s all this is. The weed’s making it feel bigger.”
“I can’t—I can’t breathe—”
“Yes you can. You are breathing. Watch me.” Jonathan shifted so he was directly in Steve’s line of sight, his face calm and steady. “In through your nose. Come on, with me.”
Jonathan breathed in slowly, deliberately, and Steve tried to match him. His breath stuttered and caught, but he managed to pull air into his lungs.
“Good. Now out through your mouth.”
They breathed together, and gradually—so gradually Steve almost didn’t notice—the panic started to recede. Not gone, but manageable. Like the volume turning back down.
“There you go,” Jonathan said softly. “You’re doing great.”
Steve let out a shaky laugh. “I’m having a panic attack on your floor while high. I don’t think that counts as great.”
“You’re here, you’re talking to me, and you’re still breathing. That’s pretty great, actually.” Jonathan squeezed his shoulder once before letting go. “And for what it’s worth, I really don’t notice your eye unless you’re actively freaking out about it.”
“Liar.”
“I’m serious. I notice when you’re uncomfortable about it, because you get all tense and try to hide it. But the actual eye?” Jonathan shrugged. “It’s just part of your face, man. Same as mine being too long or my nose being crooked.”
“Your nose isn’t crooked.”
“It is, actually. I broke it when I was twelve.” Jonathan tapped the bridge. “See? Slight bump.”
Steve leaned in without thinking, squinting at Jonathan’s nose. “Huh. Okay, yeah. I see it.”
“Point is, everyone’s got something. And yours… it’s not this big obvious thing you think it is.”
“It feels obvious.”
“That’s because it’s yours.” Jonathan’s voice was matter-of-fact, but not unkind. “We’re always harder on ourselves than other people are. Trust me, I spent two years convinced everyone was staring at my thrift store clothes before I realized literally none of that mattered.”
Steve huffed a laugh, feeling some of the tension drain from his shoulders. “That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. Because you chose your clothes. I didn’t choose—” He gestured at his face. “This.”
“No, you didn’t.” Jonathan met his gaze steadily, still not looking away from the drift. “But you survived the thing that caused it. That counts for something.”
Steve’s throat felt tight again, but different this time. Less panic, more something he couldn’t name. “I don’t feel like I survived it. I feel like I’m still there sometimes.”
“The panic attacks.”
“Yeah. And the—” Steve hesitated, but the weed had loosened his filter, and Jonathan already knew most of it anyway. “I hear things. Doors slamming sound like gunshots. People yelling in other languages makes me freeze up. Sometimes I’m just in the grocery store and someone drops something and suddenly I can’t breathe and I have to leave and—”
His voice broke, and he realized with distant horror that his eyes were burning. He was not going to cry. He was not going to sit on Jonathan Byers’ floor, high and vulnerable, and cry about Russians who couldn’t hurt him anymore.
“And you thought getting high would make it stop for a while,” Jonathan said gently.
Steve nodded, not trusting his voice.
“That’s not stupid, you know. Wanting a break from your own brain.”
“Feels stupid.”
“It’s not.” Jonathan was quiet for a moment, then said, “But this isn’t a fix, Steve. You know that, right?”
“I know.” Steve wiped at his eyes roughly, frustrated at the weakness. “I just—I’m so tired, Jonathan. I’m tired of being scared all the time. I’m tired of feeling broken. I’m tired of—” He gestured helplessly at himself. “All of it.”
“You’re not broken.”
“I have panic attacks over nothing and I can’t control my own face—”
“You have panic attacks because something really fucking traumatic happened to you, and your eye drifts sometimes because you were physically assaulted. That’s not being broken, Steve. That’s being human.”
Steve let out a shaky breath, and some part of him—the part that had been wound so tight for so long—finally began to uncoil. Not completely, not healed, but just… looser. Like Jonathan had found the right thread to pull.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” he admitted quietly.
“You can’t fix trauma like a car, man. It’s not that simple.” Jonathan shifted, getting more comfortable against the bed. “But you can learn to live with it. Learn what helps when you’re spiraling. Talk to people who get it.”
“Like who? Everyone else has their own shit to deal with.”
“Like me, for starters.”
Steve looked over at him, surprised. “You?”
“Yeah, Steve. Me.” Jonathan’s mouth quirked in something between a smile and a grimace. “You think I don’t have nightmares about Vecna? About California, or the lab, or any of the other dozen times we almost died? I’m high right now partially because it helps me sleep without seeing Will getting dragged into the Upside Down.”
“Oh.” Steve felt stupid for not realizing. “I didn’t know.”
“Most people don’t. Because I don’t talk about it.” Jonathan met his gaze. “But maybe we both should. Talk about it, I mean.”
“What, like therapy?”
“I was thinking more like… I don’t know. Just not suffering alone?” Jonathan’s voice was tentative but genuine. “We could hang out sometimes. Actually hang out, not just see each other at group gatherings. And if you need to talk about the panic stuff, or if I need to talk about the nightmares, we just… do.”
Steve considered this. The idea of regularly spending time with Jonathan Byers would have seemed absurd six months ago, but right now, sitting on his floor and feeling more settled than he had in weeks, it didn’t seem absurd at all.
“Okay,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Steve managed a real smile, small but genuine. “But maybe next time we hang out we could do something less…” He gestured at the space between them. “Intense.”
Jonathan huffed a laugh. “You’re the one who showed up asking for drugs.”
“I asked for weed, not an emotional breakthrough.”
“Sometimes you get both.” Jonathan was grinning now, and Steve found himself grinning back, and god—when was the last time he’d just smiled at someone without it being performance?
They fell into an easier silence after that, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. Steve’s body still felt heavy and slow, but the panic had fully receded, leaving behind just the pleasant buzz of being high and the strange warmth of being understood.
“Hey Jonathan?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for not letting me do this alone.”
Jonathan glanced over at him, and there was something soft in his expression. “I’m glad we did this. Honestly, it was great to talk to you, not the uh—the ‘King’. You, just you.”
And somehow, Steve believed him.
They spent the next hour in a pleasant haze, talking about nothing important—music, movies, the weird way Robin organized the horror section at Family Video. Steve’s laughing fit made a few return appearances, especially when Jonathan tried to explain his photography techniques while high and kept losing his train of thought mid-sentence.
“No, wait—wait,” Jonathan said, gesturing with his hands. “Light is like… you know when you pour water and it goes—” He made a swooshing gesture. “It does that. But with photons.”
Steve dissolved into giggles again. “That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. You’re just not listening to the photons.”
“I’m not listening to the photons,” Steve repeated, and the absurdity of it sent him into another fit.
But as the high gradually wore off, leaving them both tired and fuzzy-headed but more grounded, Steve realized something had shifted. Not fixed—Jonathan was right, trauma didn’t get fixed like a car. But lighter, maybe. More manageable.
When Steve finally left, close to midnight and definitely too late but neither of them had noticed the time, Jonathan walked him to the door.
“You good to drive?” Jonathan asked.
“Yeah. I feel pretty much sober now. Just tired.”
“Good.” Jonathan hesitated, then said, “Hey, Steve? I’m serious about hanging out. If you need to talk or just… exist around someone who gets it, I’m around.”
Steve nodded, feeling that tightness in his chest again—but the good kind, the kind that meant something was healing instead of breaking. “Same goes for you, man. For the nightmares or whatever.”
“Deal.”
Steve made it halfway to his car before he turned back. “Jonathan?”
“Yeah?”
“You really don’t notice it? The eye?”
Jonathan leaned against the doorframe, backlit by the warm glow of the house. “I really don’t. Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Scout.”
“Okay, photographer’s honor. Which is more binding anyway.” He smiled, and it was genuine. “Get home safe, Steve.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I will.”
And as Steve drove home through the quiet streets of Hawkins, his mind fuzzy but calmer than it had been in months, he thought maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to carry everything alone. Maybe asking for help wasn’t weakness. Maybe showing someone the broken parts didn’t mean they’d see you as less.
Maybe Jonathan Byers, of all people, understood that better than anyone.