Chapter Text
I want to break these bones 'til they're better
I want to break them right and feel alive
You were wrong, you were wrong, you were wrong
My healing needed more than time
—Eight, Sleeping At Last
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Jonathan knows it's redundant to say he hates hospitals.
Everyone does. No one’s happy to be here. But fuck, does he hate hospitals.
His entire body is on fire, ribs, knees, feet, hands all aching with bruises from—yesterday? The day before? He can’t remember. He remembers every second of it. The hospital room number. (316.) How easy it was to plunge the pair of scissors into Tom’s neck. How relieved he was to watch Tom slump to the floor, how horrified that relief made him feel.
But he can’t remember when it happened.
Yesterday. Definitely yesterday.
Anyway, his entire body hurts, but he can’t stay still. He continues pacing the length of the waiting room as crowded as it is.
Hawkins has never felt as full as it has tonight. The hospital is packed. Starcourt is still flooded with police and firefighters and out-of-town reporters and Owen’s people and exhausted Hawkins residents who just want honest fucking answers for once.
Same as the people rushing in and out of this floor. Trying to find a loved one, hoping they’re here, hoping they’re not.
Jonathan’s been there. He hopes for the best but he doesn’t know what that really means anymore.
Case in point: the woman who runs into this wing of the hospital. She stops at the front desk. Grips the countertop like it is the only thing keeping her from collapsing onto the floor.
“My daughter. She was at the mall this morning and she hasn’t been home since—I went there after the news, but I don’t—they told me to come here, please, is she—?”
Jonathan’s throat tightens. He glances at Joyce. Joyce straightens in her chair. She grips her cup of coffee so hard the styrofoam cracks.
“Ma’am,” the receptionist says. “What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Carol. Carol Perkins.”
Jonathan’s pacing slams to a stop. It’s not the first time he’s thought tonight that no, this is too far, but it’s the time that catches him off guard the most.
“She’s in 6E,” the receptionist says after checking. Finally, finally, finally, Jonathan feels all of the air sink into his lungs. “Minor wounds. Just checking now to see if she broke her hand. You’re free to visit her.”
Carol’s mother squeezes the receptionist’s hand. “Thank you,” she says wetly before she flies off into the elevator.
Jonathan looks at Joyce again. She leans her head against the wall. He doesn’t hear her, but he can see her mouth take shape of the words: thank god.
Joyce catches Jonathan’s eye. She tilts her head, beckoning him over. He goes.
In the seat next to Joyce, El is curled up, her eyes closed, her head on Joyce’s shoulders.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” El says before he can say anything. “Can’t. Stupid chairs.” She throws an irritated look at the seat’s long metal armchairs. There’s still blood and sweat and dried tears on her face. She refuses to get up, go to the cafeteria or washroom until a doctor comes in telling them they can see Hopper. Joyce refuses to go too. They’ve been sitting there for hours now.
Joyce rubs El’s arm. “Should be any minute now we hear about your dad.” She tips her cup up at Jonathan. “Want some?”
“No thanks. Tastes like bitterness.”
“Don’t you mean it tastes bitter?” El asks.
“That too.” Jonathan glances at the entrance into the floor. “I’m gonna grab a snack. You guys want anything?”
“Will should be back any minute from the vending machine. He’ll get you something. You need to sit.” Joyce starts to stand, but Jonathan instinctively guides her back into her seat by her shoulders. “Excuse me?”
“You need to sit. I’m fine.”
“You haven’t stopped moving since we got here,” Joyce says. “I promise it’s not gonna kill you to just take a beat, Jonathan.” She tries to squeeze his shoulder, but he winces before her hand even fully settles. “I thought the paramedics checked you out at the scene? What’s wrong? What hurts?”
“Nothing,” Jonathan promises. He removes her hand, holds it between both of his. “Just tired. Worried.”
“We’ll talk when we get home,” she promises in turn.
This means he’s going to tell her what the hell he’s been doing this week and she’s going to tell him what the hell she’s been doing. (Well, beyond the vague details she’d given him of a road trip with Hopper, dangerous for her boys but not for her, along with a request to be safe. Obviously, he and Will did not comply.)
He doesn’t want to tell her everything. How can he put that on her? If he’s careful, she won’t notice the map of bruises Tom left behind on Jonathan anyway. Isn’t the gift of his safety and wellbeing all he can give her now? The best thing he can give her now?
She deserves the best. She deserves the truth. There is no coexistence between the two.
“Okay,” he says at last.
Joyce pulls him down by the sleeve of his shirt. When she kisses his forehead, he lets out an exhale. It feels like his first real one all day.
Jonathan stands back to full height. “I’m still gonna get something. Maybe just water. Want some more coffee?”
“If you don’t mind, then—”
“Gotcha.” Jonathan swipes Joyce’s cup and then looks at El. She looks so small, her feet up on her seat, her trembling hands tucked between her knees. Her head still rests on Joyce’s shoulder but she sits with the rest of her body tensed, angled away like this is all of the comfort she can allow herself. Like this is all the comfort it’s acceptable for her to take.
It’s not fair, he thinks, which is stupid, because what is? What has ever been fair?
El touches the ends of her hair. There’s a big knot there. It’s speckled with blood.
It’s not fair.
Jonathan clears his throat. It’s a shot in the dark, but he takes it anyway. “Are you hungry? Can I get you anything?”
“Eat something,” Joyce says. “Anything.”
El sits up. She looks around furtively then leans in like she’s confessing something.
“I like Skittles,” she whispers. “Do they have them?”
Jonathan grins. Definitely his first one all day.
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When Jonathan reaches the vending machine, there’s a half-second where he can’t find Will and the floor beneath his feet starts to shake.
It hits him like a bullet to the chest: the world will never stop ending. None of it will ever stop.
I knew it wasn’t over. He whirls around frantically. His forehead throbs to the familiar tune of devastation. I knew it, I fucking knew —
“Jonathan?”
Will turns into the hallway with a pack of salted chips. His face is wiped clean, his eyes clearer and softer.
“Sorry.” Max stumbles in after him, wiping her hands on her shorts. Her face is also clean, but her eyes are redder. “We went to the washroom. Kind of got lost with all the people here tonight, so it just ...”
“No, you’re good,” Jonathan says. He hates that a split second of panic has already made him breathless. But then Will’s walking up to him, outstretching his bag of chips. Jonathan forgets about every emotion except relief. “You guys want anything else?”
Will glances at Max.
“I’m fine,” Max says. “Seriously. Go be with your family right now, you don’t have to—”
“I know,” Will interrupts. All of the seats in this small wing have been dragged to add extra seats in the waiting rooms and hospital rooms, so Will plops onto the floor next to the vending machine. “I’m good here. Really. There’s no space in the waiting room anyway and it smells weird there.”
Jonathan sniffs his shirt.
“I didn’t say you smelled weird,” Will starts to say. But then Jonathan bends down and Will leans in. “Okay, well, now I’m saying you smell. Go home and shower.”
“I don’t even know where our car is,” Jonathan admits. “So I couldn’t if I wanted to. But I don’t.”
Max sits next to Will. “You don’t want to shower?” Her almost-smile is a faint thing, tucked into her knees; it makes the world a little quieter, a little steadier.
“I don’t want to leave.” Jonathan grips the change in his left palm until it digs indents into his skin.
“He’s going to be fine,” Will says. He tilts his chip bag towards Max without looking away from Jonathan. “That’s what the doctor said. I know burns are serious, and I know it was close, but he’s Hopper. He’s not dying. He’s not okay now, yeah, but he will be.”
“He will be,” Jonathan echoes. He’s exhausted, and it kind of hurts his face too, which makes him wonder what the fuck injury he got to his face that he can’t remember receiving, but he smiles. Ruffles Will’s hair. Will pulls a face, pretending to be annoyed.
“So this is me saying you can leave,” Will says, “which sounds very bad, like I want you to leave, which I don’t, but—”
“Shh,” Max says. “He’ll understand if you just don’t finish that sentence.”
Jonathan nods. “It’s true.” He tosses his change into his other hand and refocuses on the vending machine. “Everyone else has been checked out and picked up?”
“Yup,” Will says.
Skittles. C6. Perfect.
Jonathan looks at Max as he puts his change in. “Uh, Max, are your parents—”
“Not sure. I tried calling, but ...” She shrugs, picking at her shoelaces that are tinged red at the edges. “I talked to a nurse and she says a deputy must’ve gone over to tell them about Billy, but it’s so chaotic today, so I don’t know for sure.”
“Do you want me to drive you there?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “No thanks.”
“Okay. Yeah. Let me know if you change your mind.” Jonathan punches in the number, watches as the row tips forward, maddeningly slow before it dumps his one bag of Skittles. As he reaches for it, he catches his reflection in the glass. He looks away before the state of his face can sink in.
He looks at Max. When she catches his eye, he tries to smile but can’t quite make it. “But it’s okay if you don’t change your mind. Someone else will tell them. What happened at Starcourt, what—” He belatedly remembers to lower his voice. “What people need to think happened? Government’s gonna have to cross their ts, dot their i’s. All I mean is that someone will tell them. Just so you don’t have to worry about that. If you were.”
Jonathan doesn’t know if he’s said anything worth anything. If not, at least he’s got the excuse of his brain rotting from exhaustion, right? And the excuse of Tom nearly beating him to death. Thanks, Tom. Much appreciated.
The phantom touch of scissors burns into Jonathan’s hand. It cuts like guilt. But before his brain can throw him back there, Max exhales so deeply that he hears it.
“Okay,” she says, visibly relieved. “Yeah, thanks, good to know. Um, how’s El?”
“She’s hanging in there. Think she’s mostly just antsy to see Hopper. Her leg’s been bandaged out so now all she has to do is wait.”
Will’s forehead creases. “Think she’s sleeping at home tonight? Ours, I mean? The cabin’s not an option.”
“Yeah,” Jonathan realizes out loud. He doesn’t add that El will have to stay with them for longer than tonight. Even if the cabin is salvageable, Hopper’s not going to be in any shape to fix it up for at least—
Jonathan doesn’t try to guess how long that may be.
“But all of her stuff is there, isn’t it?” Max points out.
“Maybe I should swing by the cabin? Or, like, what’s left of it and get as much of her stuff back as possible?” Jonathan suggests.
Will jumps to his feet. “I’ll go with you.”
“I was at the cabin just a few days ago,” Max adds, standing. “I know where all her important stuff is.”
Jonathan waves his hands so frantically, he nearly sends his pack of Skittles sailing onto the floor. “No, you guys should stay here. It’s been a long day. You’re safer if you don’t—”
Will scoffs. “So it’s not safe for us but safe for you to go alone? We’re coming with you. It’s not safe for you to go alone.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Yeah? In what way?”
“In the way that you can stay here, and I’ll—”
“Wow, it’s finally happening. You two are arguing.”
“We weren’t arguing,” Jonathan and Will say automatically. At the same time, they swivel their heads to look at Joyce.
Joyce grins. For one moment, all the exhaustion on her face is lifted. She seems lighter, brighter than she has been in ages. Her styrofoam cup is already crushed in her hands but she squeezes it again as she approaches them.
“Hey, Max,” Joyce says. “Want a snack?”
Max brushes her hair behind her ears. “I’m okay, thank you.”
“I can redo your braid for you if you want? Get you some coffee?”
“I’m really okay,” Max insists. “How’s El?”
“The rest of your friends just got here. They’re keeping her company, so I thought I’d come over here and let you know.”
Will and Max exchange confused looks.
Jonathan perks up. He strains his ears to pick out their voices. It’d be impossible to hear anything specific with how many Hawkins residents are camping out here tonight if it were anyone else but El, Mike, Lucas, and Dustin. He could pick their voices out anywhere. Not just from familiarity. They’re simply that loud together.
But, like, mostly the familiarity.
“They biked this far,” Will exclaims, a mix between deep irritation and deeper joy. “The roads here are so dangerous.”
Joyce smooths Will’s hair back, fixing him with an amused smile. “They said Nancy drove them. She’s coming up in a second. Just parking.”
Before they’d split up outside Starcourt, Nancy told Jonathan she was coming to the hospital one way or another to check up on Hopper, on his family, on Jonathan. First, though, she needed to go home and make sure the rest of her family was fine.
He’d known to expect her. But it still gives him a gentle kind of shock knowing that she’s here. It’s the same kind that hits him now as he watches Will offer Joyce some of his chips once, twice, thrice before she accepts.
It’s done for now. They can rest for now. They’re okay for now. He really hates the phrase for now. What a fucking cop-out. At least it’s honest.
That has to be worth something, right? Halfway to peace isn’t the same as getting there, but it’s closer. They’re all closer.
“I was thinking of swinging by the cabin,” Jonathan says. “Seeing what’s left of it to bring back home for El and Hopper.”
“We were thinking of it,” Will interjects. “And are in mutual agreement that I should go with him too.”
“You can’t drive.”
“So? You can. But you don’t have a car.”
“Neither do you.”
“This just sounds like a ‘none of us can go’ deal,” Joyce says. “Or am I mishearing this?”
“You’re mishearing absolutely nothing,” Max says. “This is what they were arguing about. I wanted to see how long it’d take them to remember they don’t have a car.”
Joyce frowns. “Wait, where’s the car?”
“It’s ... somewhere,” Jonathan says weakly. “I can’t remember but it’s in town.”
“You forgot where the car is?”
“I don’t even remember if I had it. Did you?”
Joyce scratches her head. “I don’t remember either.”
“It’s somewhere,” Will repeats with feeling. “And we’ll go find it right before we go to the cabin!”
“Or I ask Nancy to take me to the cabin and then we find the car,” Jonathan suggests. “It’s probably by Starcourt anyway, so—”
Joyce grips Jonathan’s shoulder. “No, I don’t want you there. Not now with all those people still there scouring every inch of what’s left of the mall. We’ll get it in the morning, okay? Or whenever is easiest. Don’t worry about it.”
“I won’t,” Jonathan lies. Joyce holds him a little tighter, readjusting her grip like she’s just double-checking that he’s really here. “But I should go to the cabin. It’s not like I’ll be alone,” he says with a pointed look at Will, “and we’ll be back soon. Mom, I can’t—”
“I know,” she interrupts. He doesn’t know what to do with all this gratitude blooming inside of him that she didn’t make him say it—that he can’t spend another minute in here after the past three hours of waiting. She nods again, lifting her arms. She lets him crawl into the space she makes for him. He lets himself melt in her grip.
“Max, Will,” Joyce says with her chin tucked over Jonathan’s shoulder, “if you both really want to go, then it’s—”
“I’m okay,” Will sighs. He pats Jonathan’s shoulder. “I’ll let you win this one. For now.”
Jonathan laughs wetly. “How generous of you.”
“Yeah, I’ll stay too.” Max sidles past them and plucks the Skittles out of Jonathan’s hand. “I’ll say hi to the rest of the Party and give this to El.” But as Will heads towards the other end of the hall where everyone else is, Max stays still. “Ms. Byers?”
Instead of letting go of Jonathan, Joyce pivots him so she can face Max. “Yes?”
“He’s gonna be fine, right? El’s dad?”
Jonathan feels Joyce tense in his arms, but she doesn’t miss a beat in answering. “Yes. He’s going to be fine. And so are you. C’mon, let’s get you something else to eat, okay?” She nods ahead at Will and watches them retreat before she turns to Jonathan. “When you get back, if you just wanna go home, spend some time alone with Nancy—”
“Mom, don’t be ridiculous.” Jonathan takes the hand she’s got on his shoulder and squeezes.
She drags her thumb over his knuckles. He tries not to wince. His hand stings, the phantom pain of punching Tom yesterday. Or two days ago. Maybe it was three?
She squints at the fresh red blooming on his knuckles. “What happened here?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“You’re okay?”
He’s got blood on his hands that he’ll never be able to wash off. Hopper’s still in surgery; he’s going to live but it’ll never be the same again. Jonathan’s out of a job, and so are so many of Hawkins’ residents now that Starcourt died tonight.
Will they have one funeral for the dozens of people dead or some kind of mass memorial? He’s always kind of known this town was poisoned to its core. But he never fully understood that this apparently means they’re owed a lifetime of suffering, an endless loop of remeeting death—until what?
Joyce cups Jonathan’s jaw with her warm calloused hands, shaking him out of his thoughts.
Suddenly, Jonathan doesn’t have to strain to hear the kids. He hears Dustin, going lightning-fast as he animatedly tells a story from this week, and the other kids’ wheezing with an attempt to stay silent while El’s the only one who gives in and somehow, impossibly, wonderfully, laughs. It won’t take long until Nancy comes up in the elevator. He wants to beat her, be first downstairs first.
“Yeah,” Jonathan breathes out. “I’m okay.” It’s not really true. But he’s still standing, so it can’t be a complete lie.
Can it?
He kisses Joyce's forehead, pulls away, and doesn’t resist when she pulls him back in to kiss his forehead back.
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Jonathan nearly misses it.
He’s probably got a concussion, and his body has never been this fucking inhospitable before with all of the bruises he doesn’t want to find underneath his clothing, and the hospital is even more suffocating than usual.
On his way to his first floor, Jonathan passed two sets of sobbing parents and a small child. The child’s forehead was bandaged and she had a lollipop in her mouth. She looks exactly like Holly. Jonathan knew it couldn’t have been her. He’d nearly run into a wall when he’d turned around to double-check anyway.
So he’s a little off. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want anyone else to be here. He’s in a rush.
But he sees that fucking sweater. It jerks him to a stop.
Keep going, his brain screams. You’re seeing shit.
But his heart keeps him rooted in place, responding, of course, you are, because what you’re seeing is real. Don’t leave.
Jonathan doesn’t.
He stands still near the first-floor elevator. Waits until the sea of people at the very entrance of the hospital fan out, and there he is.
In the same sweater the night he’d come over to apologize to Jonathan, the night he’d forever tied himself to this cycle, Steve is walking in the same direction as Jonathan. Steve hasn’t noticed him yet. Jonathan looks around for Robin, maybe, or Dustin, but no. Steve is alone.
Jonathan doesn’t think twice about calling out, “Steve?”
Steve looks startled to hear his name. Even more startled to see who’s calling him. Still, his feet move faster, and so do Jonathan’s. It’s not long before they meet in the middle between the elevators.
The sight of a particularly thick bandage around Steve’s head pounds Jonathan’s forehead as badly as all of the overlapping voices, beeps, and rush of footsteps around them, but then Steve looks into his eyes. Everything else quiets.
“They still haven’t discharged Hopper yet?” Steve asks breathlessly.
“No, no one’s even been able to see them, but my mom thinks it shouldn’t be any longer. Did you want to visit?”
“Um. Yeah, of course, but I’d come in to get checked out actually. I thought I had a concussion or something, and my heart was all racing, real fun stuff, but no, I’m apparently fine. Aside from the obvious.” Steve gestures to his swollen eye, the scrapes all over his face.
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
It’s a stupid question, but Jonathan still asks, “Fine? Are you fine?”
Steve blinks. “Are you? You look like hell.”
Jonathan laughs, a jagged sound that cuts its way out of his throat. It hurts his own ears to hear, but Steve’s shoulders slump at the noise.
“Would think so considering we’re still there,” Jonathan says.
“Okay, not to be, like, apathetic or anything—”
“Great way to start a sentence. Go on.”
“But look at your face.”
“How do I look at my own face without a mirror right now?”
“Okay,” Steve sighs, exasperated but determined still to make his point. “I’m looking at your face, and I know how shitty I look right now, okay? But you? Not a goddamn scrape on yours. How is it every time we do this, I come out of this looking like this entire town just stepped on my face, and you look—you look—”
Jonathan rubs his forefinger along his forehead then lifts it to Steve. “Do you see the literal dirt on my finger right now? The dirt I got from touching my face?”
“That’s not that—” Steve squints at Jonathan’s finger. His face twists. “Okay, yeah, yikes. But you see my point, don’t you?”
“Are you mad at me for not having my face bashed in? I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” Steve scratches his neck. “That was a joke.”
“I know,” Jonathan says quickly. He offers a half-smile. “It was funny.”
Steve laughs. Jonathan’s not sure why but he laughs back, wondering if it physically hurts Steve too like it’s hurting and re-hurting every tender part of Jonathan’s body. Jonathan wonders if Steve also doesn’t care.
“It wasn’t, but thanks for the nice lie,” Steve says.
“No, it was, but, uh, you know what it is kind of funny?”
“What?”
“Think this is our longest conversation.” And because Jonathan’s clearly got another head injury to add to his already long list, he adds, “I’m proud of us.”
“Aw, me too.”
Her voice floats in from right next to the hospital’s main doors. It cuts through all the distance and other voices on the first floor. He’s not sure how he didn’t notice Nancy standing there in a fresh change of clothing, her hair dripping wet from a shower, her mouth curved in a smile, tired and barely there but there all the same, and—
Oh. He’s running. Of course he is.
“Hey,” Jonathan exhales, right before he hugs her so tightly that she’s lifted off her feet. She tucks her breathless snort of laughter against his neck and slings her arms around his shoulders, breathing him in.
“Hey.” Nancy draws back far enough to see his eyes. Her hand trails down his face. He catches a glimpse of her scar and hates that it settles some of the noise in his head.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m alive,” she says wryly, but her blue eyes are brighter than the sky, and he doesn’t know why this makes him want to sob, but he knows she’d understand.
“Yeah.” He leans his forehead against hers. His muscles loosen for the first time tonight. “Yeah, you are. Thanks.”
“Thanks yourself. I appreciate you not dying.” She strokes his cheek. He doesn’t wince when she brushes past a red ache on his jaw he doesn’t remember getting, but she does.
“I know I look like shit,” he says warmly.
“I don’t think so.”
“See? Told you.”
Nancy and Jonathan both turn at the sound of Steve’s voice. Jonathan feels like he should be embarrassed and not just relieved that Steve’s still here and didn’t slink away.
“Technically, you just said that I look.” Jonathan disentangles from Nancy, to be polite, but searches blindly for Nancy’s hand. “You didn’t finish your sentence.”
“Guess I’ll still leave you hanging. Because what we need tonight is obviously more suspense and mystery,” Steve says easily. He looks at Nancy. His smile is real, the relief that sags his shoulders even realer. “Hi, Nancy.”
“Steve,” Nancy says. Jonathan knows she’s resisting the urge to pull Steve into a clinging hug, can feel it in her grip after their fingers fumble and find each other. “Uh. Great stuff tonight. Excellent work.”
Steve laughs. The red that sweeps down his neck is softer than the bruises on his face. “Very normal way of saying that, but much appreciated.”
“Sorry, I just—”
“No, I get it,” Steve says quickly. “I mean, the fuck are we supposed to say, right? The fuck can we say? I did, uh, mean it, though. I appreciate it. You were great tonight. Both of you. Great work staying alive.” He gives them thumbs-ups with both of his hands and immediately looks like he wants to die because of it. “Jesus, please ignore that.”
“Absolutely not,” Nancy says solemnly. Jonathan’s face hurts from laughing. He’s too tired to be annoyed about it. “The kids are all upstairs. Unless Max left?”
Jonathan shakes his head. “No. Her parents haven’t picked up any calls and she doesn’t want anyone to drive her home just yet. They might already know, though. Deputies are making visits around the clock to inform families, so I don’t know what’s happening.” I don’t know what’s going to happen either.
“Fuck,” Nancy mutters. “Is there anything we can do?”
“I don’t know about Max but I was thinking of swinging by the cabin. See if there’s any of El and Hopper’s stuff we can salvage. Maybe there can be a change of clothes for Max to change into too.”
“We can sneak back into mine too? I’ve got lots of future hand-me-downs for Holly I can nab for them. And we can swing by yours too. Get you something homemade to eat. And you really don’t look disgusting—”
“But I need a shower, yeah, no, absolutely. I can smell myself and it’s revolting.”
“Oh my god,” Nancy says, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “I was gonna say a shower might just make you feel better. You smell like firecrackers. It’s nice, but.”
“But,” Jonathan agrees. He wants every clinging remnant of tonight gone. He wants to go back, but he can’t. He wants to push forward already, but he can’t do that either. He doesn’t want to be here, but he has to be.
What’s left to do? Wipe every part of tonight off himself.
“You don’t mind driving, though?” Jonathan asks Nancy. “I don’t know where my family’s car is.”
“Great, we’ll just add finding it to the checklist,” Nancy says chipperly. “I’m too tired to sleep or wait upstairs anyway.”
“You sound excited to sift through literal rubble and look for a car.”
“Is that a question?”
“No, I just like stating facts. Like your hand’s warm. You look lovely tonight.”
“Lovely.”
“Is that a question?”
“No, I just like repeating things. Go on, give me another fact.”
“I’d like to kiss you now,” Jonathan murmurs, pushing a wet lock of hair away from her eyes. He can’t tell if the main floor has gotten quieter and emptier and less covered in grief or if instead, he’s too blessedly far away from it all.
Nancy brushes her grin against his mouth, so thankfully close that he doesn’t notice his returning grin. “One more fact?” She asks.
“You’re gonna kiss me now. But that’s more of a guess.”
She laughs. He feels the sound on his face, feels it right to his core. “Good guess.” She kisses him, a gentle press of lips, an unspoken I’m here that he hears and believes in well. He finds her hand again. He doesn’t have to see to know their twin scars are lined as neatly as possible, his I’m here too in the press of their skin.
And then behind them, Steve sneezes. Nancy and Jonathan jerk apart. This time, Jonathan is embarrassed to have put Steve through watching them like this.
But again, mostly relieved that Steve’s still here.
Steve sniffs. “Sorry.”
Nancy turns pink but she doesn’t look away from Steve. “What for?”
“Um. My sneezing?”
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan says hastily. “That you sneezed.”
“Thanks, man?”
“Steve,” Nancy cuts in, kindly ending this trainwreck of a conversation. “Did you drive yourself here?”
Steve fishes around his pocket and pulls out his ring of keys. “Yup.”
“Even though your eye’s all—” Jonathan forgoes finding the right word to describe how swelled and purpled Steve’s eye is in favour of Very Effectively scratching at his own eye.
Steve waves a hand. “I can see in the other eye. I’m okay.”
“And you have a concussion?” Nancy asks.
“Yeah, but who here doesn’t?”
Nancy raises her hand. Jonathan’s, like, sixty percent sure he does—or else, yikes, why else is his head pounding?—but to support Nancy’s point, he raises the hand not holding hers.
“I’m fine,” Steve insists.
“The same way that everyone’s fine tonight?” Jonathan asks, sharper than intended.
Steve’s eyebrows furrow. “Are you mad that I just lied about being okay because—wait. Wait.”
“That was easy,” Nancy says proudly, swinging Jonathan’s hand.
“Ignore that,” Steve says. “That was my concussion talking. I’m okay.”
“Your concussion adds to the case that you shouldn’t be driving.” Nancy beams triumphantly at Steve. It’s a shot of sunshine in the middle of the darkest kind of night there is and right next to her, Jonathan is warmed to the bone.
He’s not the only one.
“You look pleased that I’m very fucking concussed right now,” Steve says, his voice scratchy, fond.
“Nah, I’m pleased you have no choice but to accept a ride. Look, your house is on the way to Hopper’s cabin anyway. It’s not much of a detour and you should just let me make it up—let me just do this one tiny thing,” Nancy says, her voice cracking down the middle.
“Nance, you don’t have to—”
Their heads all turn to the entrance before the man even speaks. The footsteps belong to him and the woman he’s hand-in-hand with already loud and hurried enough to catch their attention. They march towards the elevator, him leading her until he brings her to a stop just a few feet away from Jonathan, Nancy, and Steve.
“Slow down,” he tells her. “We don’t know which floor he’s on. Let’s ask someone first.”
She screws his eyes shut. Her chin trembles. It’s so clear that she’s fighting hard not to pave over the dried track of tears on her face with fresh ones, but the man rubs her back, and just like that, she’s done for.
She almost looks relieved to let it out. Like collapsing is a luxury she’d been waiting to indulge. Even though he can’t avoid it, Jonathan feels horrible for listening in. He doesn’t want to peek in on one of the worst moments of a stranger’s life.
But then the man looks ahead at them, mustering up a wet smile.
“Excuse me. You wouldn’t happen to know where the morgue is, do you?”
“The basement,” Jonathan answers with an outward steadiness he can’t find within. “They’ve got deputies posted as soon as you get off the elevator and they should, uh, help you from there.”
“Thank you,” he says. The woman nods. Jonathan doesn’t know why looking at her makes his throat tight with guilt so he just nods and tells himself he’s only looking away to give them privacy.
Nancy presses the elevator button for them. The three step aside so the pair can walk in.
It’s a stupid thing to say. But here Jonathan goes, saying it anyway, right as the elevator door starts to close.
“I’m sorry.”
The man’s eyes widen like he’d forgotten anyone was there, but his wet smile returns. The woman looks at Jonathan. He can feel her eyes trace over his muddied, grimy, sweat-drenched clothes, the dark bags beneath his eyes, the dried tears on his face that he can’t remember letting out.
She straightens her back. “Yeah. I’m sorry too,” she says softly. She must think this is his worst night too.
The elevator door closes.
Jonathan isn’t sure if the silence that suffocates the three of them lasts five seconds or five minutes. He snaps it when he says, “Steve?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. He starts walking towards the front doors but suddenly stops halfway there. He looks over his shoulder and appears bewildered that Nancy and Jonathan aren’t right behind him.
That’s great because Nancy and Jonathan are also bewildered too.
This must be the closest they’ve all come to being on the same page since the last time he’s seen Steve in that sweater, wearing it that very first night at Jonathan’s house a million years ago.
“Why aren’t you guys ...? I agreed to the ride,” Steve says, even though no, he absolutely did not. “Should’ve known better than to try and push back against you, Nancy. Too relentless for me to have even bothered. C’mon. I’m so graciously letting you give me a ride. This is still the concussion talking, but someone might as well benefit from it, right?”
“Yes, of course. How kind of you.” Nancy taps her thumb against the back of Jonathan’s hand. Only when he taps back does she start walking forward. Jonathan wants to kiss her again, a thanks he doesn’t know how to articulate, and then a few dozen more wait, what the fuck, we’re still alive kisses, but he’ll save it for later.
He doesn’t want to presume anything about Steve. It’s been almost a year since he and Nancy broke up. But still. He doesn’t want to be a dick.
Although, he sees the dazed shine in Steve’s eyes and his sleepy smile as he opens the door for Nancy. Any presumption Jonathan would make probably wouldn’t be far off.
Steve keeps the door open for Jonathan too. Jonathan automatically says, “Thanks, dude.” His eyes widen because, what the shit, did he just say dude? Does he usually say that? He can’t remember.
Nancy snorts but doesn’t say anything else.
Steve lets the door fall shut. His smile never falters, but the light in his eyes does. It becomes even brighter. Like something’s just clicked and he’s seeing Jonathan for the first time but doesn’t quite recognize him. Jonathan expects Steve to say something, anything, to make fun of him just a little.
But when Steve follows Nancy to her car, his eyes glued to the pavement, Jonathan swallows past the taste of disappointment.
He doesn’t know what he expects. Steve has seen Jonathan on some of the worst days of his life. With a jolt, Jonathan realizes he’s probably seen Steve on some of his worst days too.
But that doesn’t warrant anything else. No deeper connection or understanding. Nothing but a shared understanding of Hawkin’s poisoned earth and a string of shitty days and shitty truths that they can’t talk about to anyone else. As if they even talk about it with each other to begin with.
The parking lot is quiet. Full of cars, devoid of other people. From this side of town, Hawkins almost seems still, its heartbeat temporarily steady after this frantic week. A week. Has it even been that long?
As they stop by Nancy’s car, the nearest streetlight flickers. They all jump. Nancy drops her keys. At the same time, Nancy and Jonathan spring down to grab it. They bump heads.
Steve tries and fails at concealing his laughter.
At their glares, Steve sobers up. “That was the concussion’s fault.”
“You look very pleased that we’ve both given ourselves head injuries,” Nancy says, standing to full height.
“I know right? My concussion’s such an asshole. But seriously, you good?”
“Oh, yeah.” Nancy touches her forehead before she squints at Jonathan’s, prompting Steve to do the same. Jonathan can’t tell if his forehead is pounding or if it’s his heartbeat. “You okay?”
“Okay,” Jonathan promises. “No concussion. No asshole concussion, either, which is good, because otherwise tonight would’ve really fucking sucked.”
Nancy and Steve burst into laughter that only exhaustion can be responsible for. Their overlapping giggles fill the parking lot, Jonathan’s ears, and his tired heart before he joins in. It takes a minute for them to wind down.
This is such a fucking weird night. Jonathan has never meant that more positively.