• DEFINITELY NOT ABOUT YOU •
Pairings: Singer!Jonathan Byers x Fem!reader
Summary: Your musician best friend is back on the biggest stage yet. As his manager, you make sure everything is perfect. As his best friend, you couldn’t be prouder. Until Jonathan plays an unscheduled solo song—one that hits a little too close to home. It’s definitely not about you… right?
Themes&warnings: Famous!AU, unspoken mutual pining, mutual yearning disguised with teasing, best friends that is just to afraid to say that they love eachother not platonicly, the reader giving Jonathan nicknames. (horrible lyric writing attempt from the fanfic writer)
Notes: first time writing my underrated king— kinda nervous. This is for all the Jonathan fans out there, wherever you are. Also this took so long bcs of the whole lyrics thing (I know it's bad, I tried tho)
You looked up at the shining sign above the arena entrance, smiling proudly. It was the first time his name had been displayed in lights this large.
It wasn’t the first time his name had been on a stage— it was just the first time the stage was this big. His name had been known around the world since his early debut. And oh boy, you were proud of him. He and his band is literally playing in Los Angeles after all.
A hand settled on your shoulders, and Jonathan’s quiet voice brushed your ear.
You rolled your eyes, smiling at your best friend. “No complaining. This is the manager speaking, and I think your name should be big—and it should glow. You are that fabulous, J.B.”
He chuckled softly at the nickname you’d given him ever since he became what you liked to call a star. “Right. Fabulous.”
“Go get ready,” you said, giving him a gentle push toward the backstage door. “Tonight’s going to be a sellout.”
“Okay, boss.” He gave you one last glance before disappearing backstage. You followed not long after, the curtain brushing against your arm as you slipped inside. You took your usual spot at the side of the stage, a perfect spot where you could see everything and still feel the buzz of the crowd.
You checked your watch, the same clunky digital one you’d had since high school. Showtime.
You then gave the stage manager a nod as he dimmed the lights.
Jonathan stepped onto the stage as a silhouette against the blinding lights, and the crowd erupted. He was wearing the same worn-out flannel he’d stubbornly kept in rotation, despite your repeated attempts to introduce the concept of stage wear.
But you had to admit, though— he looked effortlessly cool. Pure 90s grunge charm.
He leaned into the mic stand, a soft smile gracing his features. “Hey, L.A.,” his voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but the PA system carried it through every corner of the crowd.
"I hope you're ready to hear us"
The set rolled on—song after song, familiar hits that had earned them international fame. The energy was electric. Jonathan was completely in his element, shredding a solo before jumping back to the mic, hair falling into his eyes. To which you watched with a proud smile but weird feelings flew tonyour stomach.
As the set neared its end, Jonathan lifted a hand, signaling the band to pause. The crowd quieted, attentive. You glanced down at the setlist, brows knitting together.
There isn’t supposed any more songs. The set list is already finished.
“We’ve been playing a lot of the usual stuff,” he said, adjusting the mic height. He glanced over to the side of the stage, his gaze locking with yours for just a second. A strange look that made your stomach flip in a way.
“I actually wrote this one on the bus coming down here. It’s… well, it’s a little different.”
He shifted his weight, adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder. “It’s just a song about watching someone build something with you—and then realizing the world’s watching too.”
He paused, gaze drifting again, almost instinctively, toward you. Then—quickly—back to the crowd. “That’s all.”
He started a slow, fingerpicked intro. The melody instantly grabbed the attention of everyone in the room. It wasn’t the usual driving anthem he and the band does; it was softer, more vulnerable.
The band members shared surprised glances, and they quickly decided to just let jonathan play on his own. he bassist counting them in. The soft, unfamiliar chord continued.
Then he started singing to an unfimiliar song, his voice, no longer carried by the powerful PA system, but sung with a raw, gentle quality, filled the stage and to the crowd.
“Sunrise eyes and a bitter tongue, a steady hand and a loaded gun,” his voice was melodic, rich with an emotion tone. The tone—the one he only ever sang like that late at night on the tour bus, when it was just the two of you.
The bassist and drummer watched their bandleader with quiet amusement, easily reading between the lines and noticing his careful refusal to meet your gaze.
“A map of scars that she tried to hide,” he crooned, the sound of his acoustic guitar filling the iconic theatre. “The strength inside that the world denied… She’s the only anchor that I’ve ever found, keeping my feet on the shaky ground.”
Jonathan stared down at his guitar, every word a confession laid bare for a room full of strangers and one person who knew the private language of his heart.
A hush fell over the crowd ever since the song started, an almost religious silence that felt heavier than the screams from minutes before. You still stood frozen, a blush creeping up your neck as the weight of the song settled firmly on your shoulders.
The rest of the song blurred as you focus on how Jonathan is singing it somehow. The way the whole show is now just filled with Jonathan's voice wrapping around everyone like a secret they weren’t supposed to hear.
You finally snapped out of your daze when one of the stage crew walked past you, making you clear your throat and listen to the rest of the song.
“We built this life out of paper planes,” he continue the song, the raw vulnerability making your chest tighter. “Through backstage fights and the driving rain. A whispered deal in a crowded bar, she said, ‘We’re going to make it, no matter how far.’ ”
He paused for a half-second before the next line, the anticipation tightening the air even further. Which turns out, he was getting ready for the final lyrics.
“So take my hand when the lights go down, you’re the only home that I’ve ever found. When the silence hits and the world goes cold, you’re the only truth in a story told.”
Jonathan hit the final chord, letting the soft resonance linger in the air. The silence held for a beat, two beats, before the audience erupted into a wave of applause and cheers, sensing the sonority and the power of the moment, even if they didn't know the story.
Jonathan stepped back from the mic, exhaling shakily. He glanced toward you, careful and shy, that familiar smile tugging at his lips.
“Uh,” he muttered into the mic, voice cracking slightly. “Yeah. That’s not making it to the studio. Thank you, L.A.”
You, however, felt lightheaded, the lyrics still swirling in your mind. Jonathan was known for his cryptic lyrics, but those lyrics felt intensely personal and direct. He wasn't singing about a generic girl; he was singing about someone specific, someone he knew intimately.
After the encore and the final bows, you met him backstage. The band was buzzing, the energy high, and the air smelled of sweat and expensive champagne. Jonathan was immediately surrounded by well-wishers, but you caught his eye across the room. He extricated himself from the crowd and moved toward the quiet corner where you waited, a self-conscious look on his face.
"A sellout, just like you predicted, boss," he said, trying to sound casual as he leaned against the wall, running a hand through his damp hair.
"Oh, absolutely," you replied, crossing your arms and adopting your best 'manager' pose, trying to hide the tremor in your voice. "Great show, J.B. Really kept them on their toes with that... unscheduled acoustic number."
He flushed slightly, avoiding eye contact and picking at the label of a water bottle. "Yeah, impulse thing. Wrote it today."
"On the bus, I heard." You smirked, stepping closer. "Catchy tune. Bit of a change of pace from 'Shout It Out Loud'."
"It was just... an experiment in songwriting," he mumbled, his denial game already in full swing.
"Right," you teased, raising an eyebrow. "An 'experiment' with 'sunrise eyes and a bitter tongue' and 'a map of scars' ?" You leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, “You described that girl down to a T, Jonathan Byers. The magazines are going to have a field day with saying you have a secret girlfriend.”
He finally looked at you, his quiet eyes wide and slightly defensive. " Hey— It could be about anyone with sunrise eyes, which isn't a thing, but a bitter tongue is definitely a thing that you have."
"Uh-huh," you hummed, enjoying the moment, ignoring the strange, warm flutter in your stomach. "It was sweet, J. I'll give you that. Very… vulnerable."
"I was just messing around," he insisted, though his cheeks were still red. "Don't go putting it on the list of the new album tracklist, okay? It’s not the band's usual vibe."
You laughed, a genuine, delighted sound that cut through the room. "Relax, Rockstar. Your street cred is safe. For now." You gave his arm a playful punch. "Now, come on. We've got people to see and a very fabulous after party waiting for the big, glowy star."
He smiled, a real, soft smile reserved just for you. "Okey, boss."
Back in the tour bus later that week, somewhere between LA and Denver, you were reading a physical fan zine a groupie had handed you, pointing out the various theories about the mystery girl. About how J Byers is performed his new perfect song that isn’t going to make it to records.
Jonathan walked in from the front of the bus, a thermos of black coffee in hand. He raised an eyebrow at your reading the material. "Enjoying the fiction?"
“‘Does rockstar J. Byers have a darkroom muse?’ ” you read aloud, grinning. “They think you have a secret girlfriend.” You said, closing the zine and finally looking up at him with a smirk. "Told you."
He set his coffee down and leaned against the counter, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "Idiots. It's just a song."
"Whatver you say, Rockstar" you chuckled and stood up to put the magazines to a table.
He quickly looked away, staring intently out the bus window at the passing desert landscape. "It's my artistic way of song writing. Metaphors. You wouldn't understand."
"I think I do," you said, laughing softly. " I have put up with your songwriting ever since we were in high school, Jonathan. I understand how you make metaphors"
Jonathan finally turned back to you, looking flustered. "Look, it's definitely not about you, okay? I write about general feelings of longing and.. It’s just fiction. "
You leaned back, completely satisfied with his terrible deflection. "Right. 'General feelings.' Keep telling yourself that, Rockstar Romeo."
He shook his head, picking up his coffee and taking a large gulp, muttering, "The things I put in songs that people overanalyze," while a small, secret smile played on his lips.
You knew he wrote that song about you. He knew you knew. And for tonight, that was enough.
