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The party is loud. Aren’t they always? Tonight, it feels more excruciating than usual, like someone shines a light right through his corneas, past his pupils, burning into his retinas like he’s done something to deserve it.
Jonathan’s nose wrinkles, his shirt dampening at the strongly-scented, no doubt alcoholic drink knocked into and effectively spilled all over him. What a lady, not offering up an apology for ruining his clothes. It takes a while for him to find the stairs through the crowd.
His shoes audibly click as he steps further up, escaping the loud chatter and laughter of the people he dreads seeing everyday. He doesn’t know why he came here. Well, yes he does—tonight was a poor attempt at stepping out of his comfort zone. He’s starting to wonder, though, why it ever came to his mind. No one should be subjected to this.
He pushes a door open, eyes scanning over what must be the owner’s bedroom, or maybe their parents. He freezes, already beginning to retreat as he lands on a figure sitting on the bed, facing away from himself, hands bracing on the bed like they need to ground themselves somehow.
“Sorry,” he whispers to no one, he doesn’t figure they can hear him, moving the door shut.
That should be it, until an awful voice calls out to him, “Byers?”
“Oh.” Jonathan’s hands slip from the doorknob, sweat coating them, pushing it back open. He forces himself to step inside, stopping at the furthest end of the bed.
He has to squint his eyes in the dim light, leaning forward, his hands picking at the worn, threading fabric of the bedspread. “Is that you, Steve? Harrington?”
“Uh-huh.” His hand is gripping a red solo cup that he slowly decides to set on the bedside table.
Jonathan slips over to the other side, sitting next to Steve. Next to is generous—he leaves a foot of distance between them. They aren’t friends. It would be more accurate to say they’re from two different worlds.
“You’re drinking,” Jonathan kicks his foot at the ground, “How’d you know it was me?”
Steve shrugs. “Don’t know.” He lifts his head, turns it to Jonathan before his eyes find his face, as if his body is too sluggish to use more than one function at a time. “I don’t like you.”
“Right. You know, I didn’t realise.” He grimaces when the thought that maybe Steve can’t detect his sarcasm in his state crosses his head. “I did.”
“Mm,” hums Steve. “I was drinking when I called you the other night.”
“I know.” He had. He'd heard the slur in his words, the drunkenness coated in his sugary affections before he could ask.
“But I meant what I said.”
“Okay.” Jonathan’s voice devolves into a whisper.
Steve runs a hand through his hair, fingers melding into one another. He lacks fine motor skills tonight. “I’m serious.”
Jonathan gnaws at his bottom lip until the taste of metal burns against his tongue to bite back a sigh.
“I know,” he tells Steve again, “I know you meant it, I guess.”
“Don’t guess,” he shifts closer until he can hover over Jonathan despite their lack of a height difference, “just know.”
Jonathan leans his head over, slightly up to press his lips to his companion’s cheek. “Okay. I know.”
Steve shrinks back down. Does the action make him feel small? Feminine, maybe.
“I love you.”
“Mhm.” Jonathan scratches the space between his eyebrows. “Tell me when you’re sober, so I can believe you.”
Steve swallows, a pitiful moan drawn out of his lips. His feet press at the fraying wooden boards of the bedroom floor hidden by a carpet. It’s embarrassed by its condition, the same way he is now. He doesn’t get to cover up.
“You know I can’t do that, Byers,” his voice cracks, and he coughs into his hand, “you know…”
Jonathan looks out at the stars through the window. “I know.”
And he does.