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The first time Steve genuinely questioned if something was wrong with him, was in senior year of highschool.
He told everyone—told Nancy—that she'd knocked some sense into him, but it wasn't true. Well—kind of, she'd played a big part.
What had really knocked sense into him, was getting socked in the face by Jonathan Byers. There was more to the fight than that, but the first punch; that's what stuck out to him.
Steve wished he could say that when he ran away with Tommy and Carol, he went to sulk; but he didn't. No. He replayed the scene over and over in his head. He found himself feeling over his busted lip.
Not with disdain.
Not with jealousy.
No, it was something Steve hadn't thought of before. Hadn't felt before. The kind of feeling that made his mouth feel a little dry.
The feeling of being knocked off the throne of 'King Steve'.
How Jonathan had done that, was still beyond him. The freak? Hell, he barely looked like he had meat on his bones. And yet—he handed Steve his own ass. Besides the punch, he'd thrown him around.
It made his stomach twist, in something that he chalked up to guilt.
And if that day stuck in his head for weeks, had him waking up in the middle of the night from something that was too far from a nightmare; that was between him and his bed.
It was an easy enough incident to forget; in a way.
He didn't stay stuck on it, but he wouldn't say he didn't change—at least, he definitely liked to think he changed.
Stopped being so stuck up.
Tried to be a better boyfriend. All of that jazz.
And eventually, he stopped thinking about how Jonathan Byers could throw him around.
Like everything else, though, that wasn't permanent. Short lived, even.
The second time that Steve Harrington genuinely thought something was wrong with him, was in starcourt mall.
Again, Steve wished he could say it was, hell, when he was taken captive by russians—a time he genuinely thought he was going to die.
Or after he learned about the girl he'd been harboring a crush on for months—so he thought—swinging the other way.
But no. It wasn't.
The thing that stuck with him, was watching Jonathan jump a counter in food court; to grab a spoon for El bite.
It wasn't even a particular show of strength, or anything big—especially considering what followed.
But. It stuck in Steve's head, anyway.
It made his mouth dry in the all-too familiar way, and his stomach flipped. And the way he made it back over to counter, and back to the group like it was nothing? Don't even get Steve started.
Seriously, there was a time and place for these things—and that moment? Not one of them.
He would really like to blame the fact that was the only memory that was clear of that night on head trauma, or drugs, or something, and he tried.
Unfortunately, his best friend thinks she's something of a therapist, or anything along those lines.
She's always trying to dissect Steve—and worse, she's always right. Steve refused to believe that at first. Sometimes, he still refuses to.
This, unfortunately, lead to him being even more confused with himself a year later. In denial was probably more accurate. He wasn't very proud of the things he'd done within that year.
That was besides the point, though. He has another memory to bury those things under—and what would you expect, other than Jonathan Byers himself?
Steve had considered himself in the clear after Jonathan moved. A foolish assumption, really, and he shouldn't have been surprised to see him in Hawkins again.
After the split in Hawkins, most people had joined together to help any victims. It was the decent thing to do, obviously. Steve went, of course.
The Byers obviously ended up there, which didn't seem like a big deal, and wasn't a big deal—Steve had a year to bury any questionable feelings under—until Steve looked up to see Jonathan lifting a box of canned goods, with ease.
To make matters worse?
Steve knew he'd tried to pick up that same box about thirty minutes before. And Steve wasn't weak, don't get him wrong, but the box was full of cans, and—
And Jonathan lifted it like it was a box of blankets.
The feeling was more than familiar now, and all at once, Steve realized he hadn't gotten over anything. His mouth went dry.
His stomach flipped.
He wanted to blame it on anger. Jealousy. Thinking Jonathan was better than him, or soemthing. Everyone would've believed that; if he said it. Except Steve himself.
And when Jonathan walked by him, Steve wished he couldn't say he turned his gaze back to the laundry he was folding, and that he didn't watch Jonathan carry that box across the room.
Watch him set it down, and push a hand through his hair.
Like he hadn't even done anything.
Something in him wanted to curse Robin out, and something else in him wanted to pull Jonathan into the nearest closet (pun intended).
Now, though—Steve was sure something was wrong with him.
No, seriously, something was awfully, conceningly wrong with him.
The world almost ended, and he couldn't stop thinking about how Jonathan Byers might look without that baggy clothing.
He needed his brain to stop being so stupid and gay.
The same thoughts that had been circulating his mind for too long had been amplified by what might have been the maximum amount possible.
When Steve had fallen off the tower, he really thought it was over for him. He saw his entire life flash before him, or whatever people say. But it wasn't. Over for him, that is.
No, he was alive. Because Jonathan saved him.
Even after everything.
And yet—he wasn't even focused on that part. He was grateful, don't get him wrong, but…
He couldn't stop thinking about how Jonathan just… held him. Pulled him up.
With one arm.
Jonathan Byers held his entire body weight with one arm.
"Just hold on." He'd told Steve. "I've got you."
And Steve was holding on to everything but his own goddamn sanity.
They had literally saved the world, and the thought at the front of his head the whole time?
Just how strong was Jonathan?
He caught himself staring—the way Jonathan held the flamethrower. The way he helped the kids free—held the kids. It made it hard for him to swallow. Not to mention hard to focus.
And now, he couldn't escape it. He found himself in situations with Jonathan over and over again, it was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid him.
Even when Jonathan wasn't doing anything, he found himself staring. At his arms. Looking for what ever secrets he had that Steve apparently didn't know about.
He wondered if Jonathan could manhandle him still—it made sense, anyway, he pulled him up after he was dangling off a tower! By himself!
It made his face hot, his stomach twist, and his mouth dry.
Like, what else could he do?
He bet Jonathan could hold his hands behind his back, and he doubted he'd be able to pull himself free.
Press him into the mattress, maybe, hold him down, make him be patient—
Jesus Christ.
"Steven Harrington. Are you even here with us?" Robin was waving her hand in front of his face. Steve's gaze snapped to her face, eyes a little wide. He felt his face get warm, and he was sure his ears were red—he was sure she noticed, too.
"I've been talking to you for two minutes, dingus." She frowned, feigning offense.
"Sorry," he muttered out, bringing his beer bottle to his lips and taking a swig.
He was too sober to be this out of it.
Nancy and Jonathan shared a look, before they both laughed. It made his stomach twist; envy, probably.
A week had passed since they'd killed Vecna.
Everyone had been pretty busy, with the military releasing the town from lockdown and what not, but the four had finally found time to get together.
To celebrate.
The only problem was that Steve had been avoiding Jonathan. He was seriously trying to straighten out his brain.
He didn't know why he was so hooked on it, but he wanted—he needed to know where Jonathan was hiding the strength he clearly had.
Had to know what else he could do.
Like, one look at the guy—Steve really tries not to judge, honest—and he seems… scrawny. Underfed, even.
He swallowed.
Robin nudged him with her foot, an eyebrow raised. Concern. Steve just looked away—there was no way he was admitting anything to her.
Not now, at least.
He opted to find anything else to focus on—but there wasn't a lot to find.
The four of them had agreed to meet up in the soon to be Byers-Hopper house. The place was still pretty torn up, though—no one really had time to fix it. They had plans, but it wasn't exactly something you could get around to quickly.
The other three continued on their conversation, but Steve was only half listening. After a moment, he cleared his throat, forcing himself to his feet.
"I'm going to get another beer. Anyone else want one?"
He hadn't even finished the beer he had right now.
Robin requested another, but Nancy and Jonathan both turned him down, still having their own.
He nodded, making his way into the kitchen. He set his own beer on the counter, and then leaned against it with one arm.
He rubbed at his temple.
If he struggled to function when he wasn't around Jonathan, how was he expected to function when they were together?
He tried to chalk it up to morbid curiosity at first—seriously, how was he that strong? What did he even do?
Maybe, he was just glad to be alive, he tried.
Unfortunately for him, neither of those gave an explanation for wanting to see him naked.
He pushed that thought away, letting a breath out through his nose.
"Hey. You good, man?" His head snapped up to the voice, and—because the universe hated him—it was, of course, Jonathan.
"Oh—" He muttered, standing up straight. "Yeah, no. I'm fine." He waved his hand dismissively.
Jonathan nodded, empty beer bottle in his hand. He looked away, sucking at the inside of his cheek; like he hadn't thought the whole thing through far enough. Regret, maybe.
Jonathan wasn't even comfortable being in a room alone with him, and here Steve was having thoughts about the man bending him in half.
He was going to hell. So, so far to hell. Near the bottom level; where they kept the really awful people. Steve wanted to groan. Or disappear. Both, maybe.
"Hey, uh. I know I said this before, but, I really owe you, you know? Like—genuinely. I wouldn't be alive if you hadn't… you know, saved me."
Jonathan looked back to him now, head tilting. A bit of an amused smile on his face. "Don't mention it. Honestly. I wasn't going to just.. Let you die, or whatever."
He should've stopped there. He could've. It would've seemed like a perfectly normal statement—Jonathan wouldn't even think anything of it.
"I didn't… I didn't realize you were so, er, you know.." Someone please take the words 'you know' from him. He's begging. "Strong."
Jonathan paused, like he hadn't expected the statement. Which was fair. Steve hadn't expected it when it came out of his own mouth.
After a moment, he laughed awkwardly. "Uh, thank you?"
"I mean—" Steve continued. Because, apparently, he didn't know how to shut up, "I kind of knew, from… well, you know. But.. Just—wow. It's impressive, really? You held my entire weight off a tower."
Jonathan gave a small nod, swallowing thickly. Steve pretended like he didn't focus on the way his adam's apple bobbed.
"I mean, you don't weigh that much." He gave a small shrug, and Steve wanted to pounce on him like a feral animal.
He laughed; he wasn't sure if he found anything funny or just wanted to ease the tension. "I have like four inches on you, I probably weigh more than you.."
Jonathan shrugged again. "Uh, yeah. I don't know," He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Doing stuff for my mom probably helped me a lot more than I realize. Carrying Will around 'nd stuff, too."
No, that didn't stir something in Steve. Shut up.
"You don't… Look like it." It was more judgmental than he wanted it to sound, really. He meant it like a compliment.
Jonathan looked like a deer in headlights, but only for a few moments. As if the thought of being seen; noticed, was foreign to him. Then, he smiled a little. Ducked his head, like he did when he didn't want someone to see. "I get that a lot." A faint flush crept up his neck.
"Yo," Robin announced her presence, an arm in the air. "'M leavin'. Nance is takin' me home." She held up a thumbs up, to Steve specifically, who rolled his eyes.
Nancy peaked her head in. "Yeah, I'm gonna take her home. I don't really think she should have any more…" They all shared a glance towards Robin, and she furrowed her brows.
She'd had a considerable amount more than everyone else—she wasn't taking her breakup with Vickie wonderful; but who could blame her. It'd been pretty messy. Steve gave her a look of sympathy, stepping over to put his hand on her shoulder.
"You sure you don't want me to take you back?"
"Nah." She slung her arm around Nancy, who offered a sheepish smile.
"I've got it, Steve. Don't worry; I'll take good care of her."
He just gave a small nod, before Robin started ushering her towards the door.
The two men made eye contact again, the concept of being alone adding a little more weight to the situation. It made Steve feel like he was being scrutinized—not that he necessarily was, it just kind of always felt like that with Jonathan.
A silence fell over them, and Steve couldn't help it when his gaze drifted to the jacket Jonathan had on, and then to the white tee he had underneath. He chewed at his lip.
God, he was seriously going to hell. He was going to burn forever.
He cleared his throat, opting to look away again. He leaned back against the doorway, which—that was his first mistake, honestly. He should've thought that one through.
He didn't, though, and therefore was not prepared when the spot he'd chosen creaked, and then gave way.
Jonathan reacted faster than he could—like the guy could see into the future, or some shit—and didn't waste any time before grabbing Steve's arm, and tugging him away. His other hand went to Steve's waist, stabilizing him.
Steve's hands instinctively found his shoulders, and if he wasn't out of breath from the fall, he was out of breath now.
He'd definitely gotten the wind knocked out of him, but he was pretty confident he could blame half of that on Jonathan.
"Shit. You okay? This place is like a trap," He muttered the last part, his gaze fixed on the mess that used to be a doorframe.
"Yeah," Steve answered, feeling like his brain was on autopilot. "Thanks, man."
"Hopper's not gonna like that," Jonathan clicked his tongue, before dragging his gaze to Steve. He seemed.. surprised, when he registered the man in front of him. Like he hadn't realized he was there, or something.
Neither of them moved.
Steve was sure highschool him was cursing him out right now—not even for how badly he wanted to kiss another guy, but for how badly he was handling the situation. He wondered at what point he'd lost all of his libido.
"Hi." He said after a few minutes. Smooth, Harrington.
"Hey," Jonathan returned.
Steve let his gaze drop, and shit, he wanted to lean in. He swallowed around whatever lump was in his throat.
Apparently, his brain and his body weren't on the same page, because—against his better judgement—he found himself leaning in.
"Woah—Steve," Jonathan let go of his arm, hand instead finding his chest. Pushing him back a little.
Steve felt heat rise to his face, and a mild amount of panic settle in his stomach, but Jonathan continued.
"You're drunk. I don't want to…"
"What? Dude—I've had, like, one beer. I should be offended if you think I'm that much of a lightweight," He frowned.
Jonathan seemed surprised. "What?" Steve raised a brow. "You're acting, I don't know, weird. Asking about how strong I am? Not to mention, zoning out earlier, and now—" He gestured to Steve.
Steve could almost laugh. "No, what? I'm not drunk. It's—" He paused, considering his words. "You. You're, like, I don't know. Puttin' a spell on me, or some shit."
Now, Jonathan laughed. "A spell? Seriously? You've been spending too much time with Dustin."
Steve could agree with that; and honestly, he didn't mind blaming his issues on Henderson.
"No, but it's like.. being around you, I can't fucking focus! I can barely function. You're—how are you so strong?" He absentmindedly slid his hand from Jonathan's shoulder, to his bicep. "It's.. impressive."
A pause, Jonathan didn't say anything. His eyes followed Steve's hand.
Every moment from the past few years was swirling in his head, and all Steve wanted to do was ask Jonathan to break him.
That would, obviously, be inappropriate, though. And he didn't.
Instead, he found himself squeezing his arm.
He heard Jonathan squeak—something between a sharp inhale and a noise of surprise—but honestly, he was too focused on the task at hand to think about anything else around them.
It was firm, even through the jacket, Steve could feel the muscle build up. He wasn't even flexing.
After years, the answer was literally at Steve's fingertips.
Under those puffy jackets, under the shit-ton of layers he piled on, Jonathan Byers—underweight, scrawny, loser—Jonathan Byers, wasn't really so frail.
And, shit, if that didn't make Steve's mouth dry out. Not that that was something new.
He slid his hand down again.
"Steve." Jonathan hissed, almost a warning, but Steve was practically in his own world.
"Holy shit," He didn't even realize he cursed outloud. When he finally pulled his gaze back to Jonathan, the other man was chewing on his lip. His face was flushed—to be fair, anyone would've been embarrassed in his situation.
"Dude. You've got to stop wearing so many layers."
Jonathan turned his head, letting out an amused huff. "You're overdramatic. There's barely anything there. I have small arms,"
Steve shook his head. "I mean, maybe. But the jackets aren't doing you any justice."
Jonathan rolled his eyes, looking back to Steve. "Who's the creep now?"
"Oh, definitely me." Steve didn't hesitate to answer. He'd more than accepted the creepiness after how he replayed getting punched in the face.
Jonathan tilted his head, that same amused grin from before on his face. Like he knew something Steve didn't. It made Steve smile.
"You're sober?" He muttered, and if Steve were a dog, his ears would've perked up and his tail would've been wagging.
"I wish I could say I wasn't,"
Jonathan closed the rest of the small gap between them, pressing their lips together. Steve, embarrassingly, practically melted into the kiss. He pressed himself closer, and Jonathan stumbled back a little.
It was a short kiss, and Jonathan pulled back pretty quickly, even when Steve tried to move with his lips.
"I have wanted that for longer than you will ever know," He muttered.
"What?" Jonathan laughed, but he didn't get an answer. Steve pressed their lips back together, and after a short moment of hesitation, Jonathan kissed him back. His free hand found the other side of Steve's waist, and he gave a light squeeze.
Steve wished he'd crush him, but he pushed that thought to the side.
Jonathan's hands slid down from his waist, to his thighs, and he pushed the other man back towards the counter.
Steve grunted in return, one hand coming up to tangle in Jonathan's hair. He gave an experimental tug, and smirked into the kiss at the noise he pulled from the back of Jonathan's throat.
Jonathan squeezed again, seemingly in retaliation, before lifting him up onto the counter.
Shit, if that didn't go straight to Steve's dick.
He drug his tongue over Steve's bottom lip, and Steve didn't hesitate to part his lips for him.
What? You can't give a starved man bread and expect him not to eat it.
One hand trailed back up to Steve's hip, thumb pressing over his hipbone. Steve squeezed at his shoulder.
A few more minutes passed, before Jonathan broke the kiss again. He didn't pull back, though, just rested his forehead against Steve's own.
Steve focused on the raggedness of Jonathan's breathing.
Relished in it, if you will.
Jonathan squeezed at his thigh again.
"I'm serious, Byers. No more baggy shirts."
The other man laughed against him. "That's not happening, Harrington."
Steve pouted, but all he got was an eye roll.
"For you, only, maybe."