Stonathan ❤️

120

NOT MINE!!

"So that was your big falling out? Luke Skywalker?"

"Basically."

―

The universe was merciful enough that Steve passed his Caesar retake with a B minus. Ms. Click handed it back to him while giving him another once-over, again stopping just short of saying you look like hell . Instead, she tutted and said, "Still not sleeping?"

He shook his head no, and earnestly took her advice to buy some chamomile tea.

As soon as he got home, he microwaved a mug of water and steeped two bags of Bigelow's. Beer was more surefire, but he couldn't justify it when he was still trying to shake Saturday night's headache.

In the end, the tea didn't do much more than scald his tongue and taste like soapy water; but the mug gave him something to hold while he paced around.

Jonathan hadn't answered his calls on Sunday, either; the last time Will turned him away― he's doing homework, sorry ―his tone had been apologetic, almost pitying. Steve had told him that it was alright, and to come swim again next weekend if he wanted.

He could maintain friendships with tweens who wanted to use his pool, if nothing else.

There had been no more dreams, partly because he was barely sleeping and when he did he was having nightmares, the kind where he fell off a cliff and then jolted awake, heart racing. A part of him had childishly hoped that the chamomile tea would serve the function of some magical potion, sending him into a prophetic sleep from which he would only awake once he had figured out how to make Jonathan talk to him again.

He would've settled for something nice about listening to cassettes or joining the circus.

―

On Sunday night, something had possessed him to put the copy of Japanese Whispers Jonathan made for him into his Walkman. Out of ideas and sick of pretending he was going to finish his tea, Steve wandered up to his room and pressed play again.

By track four, he remembered that The Cure's most-used word was kiss.

Once upon a time, Jonathan had been insulted when Steve called it sex music, so they spent one of their listens tallying it: Every kiss; every mention of going to bed ; and anything else about mouths or hands that was sung in that particular sultry way of Robert Smith's.

At the end of the night, Steve had triumphantly declared, "It's sex music or it's suicide music. No in between."

"Sometimes both," Jonathan said, which was as close Steve ever got to an admission of defeat.

The last time he saw it, the composition book where he'd jotted down his notes on The Cure was still in Jonathan's bedroom, discarded on his cluttered desk. He didn't really need it anymore, having become fluent in British goth; but now he wished he'd grabbed it.

Jonathan would probably burn it.

Before this, they'd been one-to-one on giving each other the silent treatment: Once when he pissed Jonathan off with some flippant comment about girls, and then again when Nancy had dumped him and Jonathan was both the first and last person he wanted to see for a few days.

Steve couldn't figure out what he'd done to earn this extended punishment. It wasn't like he'd said something truly bigoted―he'd been careful not to say queer , remembering the way Nancy had scolded him. Maybe he'd telegraphed disgust or discomfort on his face, though he didn't think so; he didn't even feel particularly disgusted or uncomfortable. He'd actually surprised himself by being something closer to confused or fascinated, like he'd figured out that Jonathan was an alien and wanted to learn more about his home planet.