boys don't cry
planning his baby brothers funeral. his mama's spiraling, talking to the lights. his asshole dads back. everyone thinks he's a creep. he just needs a hug. you're there.
pairing: jonathan byers/reader
warnings: very very angsty - especially to do with the byers fam. i rewatched s1 for the millionth time and i wrote this in a day. hurt/comfort. kinda character study. not a part of my under pressure series!! there might be a lil epilogue for that soon. im just maternal abt him sorry guys this was made in like 8 hrs.
wc: 3k
“S-Sweetheart, please. Please, it's your mom. Just — just give me a sign, sweetie. Please.” his mother calls, clutching a clump of christmas lights.
It's not for him though.
He's never really been sweetheart, or sweetie. That was always more for his baby brother. Where he got ‘Aw, good morning, honey!’ Jonathan would get ‘Why didn't you wake Will for school on time?’
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.
He's asleep. The lines of worry around his eyes seem vanished. People always get the best sleep after they've been crying, anyways. You smile, just listening to him and the pelting rain wash over the windows.