Stonathan ❤️

104

NOT MINE!!

all credits go to lavenderlow on ao3

A/N: *TW: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE AND LOTS OF OTHER SUICIDAL/DEPRESSED THEMES. BE WARNED*

It was so, so cold.

Jonathan stood on the edge of the bridge from Hawkins to the next town over. Of course, he planned this night to be on one where there was a storm coming in, from the east, one of the gnarly ones -- he could see the lightning over the horizon of tall pine trees and the stars that managed to slip through the clouds. It was easily under forty, given it was the tail-end of November. Wind whipped at his hair, which was grown out past his ears, now, the way Steve said he liked it --

Steve. Oh, Steve. He can't even think of his name without tears coming to his eyes. He could feel his hands tremble just a little bit more as he hung off the edge, feet planted on the wrong side of the railing, hands held on tight behind him -- it would be so easy to just let go. So, so easy. He watched as a tear fell out of the inner corner of his eye, into the river below him, spearheading into the wind that was picking up. Simple as that.

Steve said he needed a break. A break from what? The day before was like every other day, in Jonathan's mind, or maybe he was just so fucking deranged that his memories were getting warped in his head and he completely made up Steve telling him he loved him in the backseat of his damn BMW with his stupid fucking hair in his face and those goddamn silver rings on his fingers that he loved to play with -- maybe he never said that he'd die for him. Maybe he never said that he would give up his father's business, give up going to college, give up his fucking mansion that he lived in just to be with him. It was easier to think that he was going crazy than Steve had lied.

He would never lie.

"God-" He whimpered, into the stinging air around him, quiet enough that he couldn't even hear himself over the sound of the wind. "Jesus fucking Christ, I'm a dumbass," he continued, wanting to scream it all out and lose his voice before he lost something worse. He could feel his fingers getting tired as he looked over the edge of the bridge. "Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan, you're stupid. Look at yourself. Look at where you are right now."

He looked at his surroundings, even though it was so dark outside that he couldn't see more than ten or so feet in front of him. His car was parked somewhere off in the distance. The end of the bridge was somewhere off half a mile into the night, and he didn't really mind that he couldn't see the rest of it. He looked up, into the clouds that were forming and the stars that were slowly becoming enveloped. He looked down. The river was starting to speed up. He could see rain in the distance.

He shut his eyes for a moment. He could see in front of him the ugly, stained walls of a gas station bathroom that he stopped in halfway to Missouri when he was close to eleven. Someone had written in black Sharpie, "Suicide victims are just angels that want to go back home," and he scoffed. Yeah, fucking right. He'd be going to hell and he knew it, what with the pictures he took that one fucking night and sleeping with another man and probably a shitload of other things in between -- if he was any angel, he'd be the angel in Steve Harrington's dreams.

"Okay Byers," he said, shutting his eyes tight and white-knuckling the railing. "Pussy, come on, do it," he whimpered again, feeling his lips start to quiver and his cheeks burn, and all of a sudden he was crying harder than he ever has. His lungs hurt, his head hurt, his hands hurt, his feet hurt, his heart hurt so bad, and he just wanted it to stop. Was it so wrong?

His eyes opened when he heard something louder than the crickets.

Jonathan whipped his head around and locked eyes with the fucker himself.