Archive of Our Own ^beta

The old structures must fall so truth can be seen.
— The Tower, Major Arcana

The idea sounded harmless when Robin pitched it. “Carnival,” she said, flipping a page of a local paper she’d been hoarding for weeks. “About an hour out. Lights. Food. People pretending things are normal. Thought we could… I don’t know. Exist around it for a night.” No one argued.

They had all been circling the same small spaces since the end, same houses, same silences, same careful avoidance of Eleven’s name. Grief had made them polite. Trauma had made them tired. The idea of leaving Hawkins, even briefly, felt like a kindness. Steve volunteered to drive before anyone could ask.

He was still glowing about the new car. Clean lines. No blood in the upholstery. No memories clinging to the trunk. He was proud of it in a way that was almost shy, like he was afraid to admit that having something intact again mattered to him.

Robin and Nancy immediately started arguing about being shotgun.
“I called it,” Robin said.
“You didn’t call it,” Nancy replied. “You assumed it.” Steve glanced back over his shoulder, smirking. “Loser sits in the back.”
Jonathan laughed quietly and slid into the passenger seat without comment, already buckling in. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.
Robin noticed. She always did.

Steve’s hands tightened on the steering wheel for half a second longer than necessary before he pulled out. The radio stayed off. The hum of the engine filled the car instead. Jonathan’s knee was close, close enough that Steve was aware of it without looking.

Robin watched the way Steve drove when Jonathan was beside him: steadier, more focused. Like he was aware of carrying something fragile even when nothing was being said. It fit too neatly with a pattern she’d been recognizing for ages.

Steve Harrington didn’t keep relationships. Not really. He burned through them fast, girls who left confused, annoyed, or bored. Girls who all said some version of he’s nice, but distant, he’s fun, but empty . It had started after the Byers had left town. After Jonathan had disappeared west with his family.

Steve hadn’t spiraled. He hadn’t grieved loudly. He had just… disconnected. Meaningless sex. Long drives. Silence where there had used to be purpose. Robin had clocked it early.

She had first told Nancy after Eddi and Max. Nancy had framed it as coincidence at first, maybe Steve was just lost without the kids, maybe it was the end of the fight that had kept hunting him. She hadn’t looked convinced.
But now she did. Now after Vecna finally was gone for good, after it was safe to say things out loud again. After Eleven had died but the rest of them hadn't. After the world was finally saved and started to rebuild itself.

Jonathan reached for the radio without asking, fingers finding a station somewhere between static and melody. Something soft, unfamiliar. Steve didn’t comment. He adjusted the volume once, a fraction lower, like he was making room for it rather than claiming it. Robin watched it all from the backseat.

She had been collecting the evidence for a while.
Steve had changed when once Jonathan had come back to Hawkins. Not all at once. Not dramatically. It was subtler than that—something in the way he hovered too close, offered help before it was asked for. The way he tried, awkwardly and earnestly, to smooth things over between Jonathan and Nancy when their relationship started to crack, as if he could have fixed it by sheer effort alone.

And when that didn’t work, there had been the bickering. Constant. Sharp. Personal in a way that had nothing to do with Nancy and everything to do with proximity. Robin had recognized it for what it was immediately: friction from two people standing too close to something they refused to name.

Then there was the thing with the bat. Steve had carried that stupid, nail-studded bat for years—through monsters and blood and near-death—and when he lost his car, when the Beemer vanished into the void with everything else, Steve hadn’t broken down over the car. He hadn’t even broken down over the loss of half his life, secured in the trunk. He had broken over the bat.

Robin remembered that too clearly. The way Steve had gone quiet, hollow-eyed, like something sacred had been taken from him. Not because it was a weapon. But because Jonathan had made it. Because it had been handed to him, once, without ceremony, and Steve had held onto it like proof of his own worth.

Another piece of evidence was the thing after the Russians happened.
Steve had been still drugged, still shaking, sitting on a bathroom floor with his head tipped back against the stall while Robin had laughed too loud to keep herself from crying. He had told her then, out of nowhere, unguarded, that he’d been a terrible person.

Especially to Jonathan. That the camera Jonathan thought Nancy had given him? That had been Steve’s. Bought quietly. Passed along without credit. A gift disguised as absolution. Robin had filed it all away.

And last but not least: the tower. The image hadn’t left her head since it had happened—Steve slipping, fingers scrambling, gravity winning. Jonathan had thrown himself over without hesitation. Grabbing Steve’s wrist like it had been pure instinct. Like it had been muscle memory. The look of disbelief in Steve's face the moment he had realized Jonathan saved him.

The three seconds after he had gotten pulled back on the platform. Clinging to one another before Dustin had crashed into Steve.

In the days after Vecna had fallen, the bruises had bloomed where Jonathan’s fingers had held on. Dark, unmistakable. Robin had caught Steve once, alone, distracted, staring at them. Not with fear. With something close to longing.
He had traced the marks gently with his thumb, like he had been touching proof that he was still here and that he had mattered enough to Jonathan to risk falling with him.
Robin had clocked the facts one by one.
She didn’t need a confession at this point she already knew for sure.

She’d been collecting all these moments like evidence for years now, careful not to say a word. Because Steve Harrington, for all his growth, would bolt if confronted directly. He needed to arrive at truths the long way around.

The carnival was smaller than advertised; it smelled like sugar and oil and hot metal.
Cotton candy stuck to fingers and lips, melting faster than anyone could eat it. Steve bought four without comment, handed them out like offerings, and Jonathan laughed when a strand caught in Steve’s hair. He reached up without thinking and tugged it free, fingertips brushing Steve’s temple just long enough to register. Steve went still for half a second. Then he smiled like it hadn’t mattered at all. Robin saw it, Nancy saw it too. Jonathan didn't.

They wandered without a plan — bright lights blinked against the dark, music bleeded from different directions, the whole place hummed with movement. Nancy dragged Robin toward the Ferris wheel almost immediately, already grinning.
“We’re riding together,” she declared. “No arguments.”

Steve opened his mouth. Jonathan beat him to it.
“Shotgun’s already taken,” Robin answered , jerking her thumb toward the loading platform. “Looks like it’s us then” Jonathan finally said defeated.

Steve blinked. “Oh. Uh—yeah. Sure.”
The wheel lifted them slowly, the carnival shrunk beneath their feet. Jonathan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking out over the lights. Steve sat stiff at first, then relaxed as the wheel creaked and settled into its rhythm.
“It’s kinda nice,” Steve said eventually. “From up here.”

Jonathan hummed in agreement. “Yeah. Quiet.”
They didn’t talk much after that. They didn’t need to. The wheel carried them up and down, city lights distant, the night wide and forgiving.

Back on the ground, they drifted toward the games. They were terrible at them.
Ring toss. Ball toss. Milk bottles that never quite fell. Steve laughed it off, dramatic groans and exaggerated sighs, while Jonathan got increasingly indignant, muttering about rigged systems and late-stage capitalism.

Nancy wandered off toward the shooting gallery, eyes sharp. She didn’t miss a single target.
The attendant handed her a massive prize, oversized, ridiculous, triumphant. Jonathan stared at it, aghast.
“You’re kidding me,” he said.
Nancy smirked. “Skills.”
Jonathan crossed his arms, pouting openly.
Steve leaned closer, voice low, playful. “Hey. Don’t be sad. I can get you something too.”
Jonathan snorted. “Oh yeah? What, the consolation prize of shame?”
Steve grinned. “Watch me.”
In the end he didn’t get the biggest prize. Or even the second biggest. But he did manage a win. The bear was medium-sized, plush, holding a red heart stitched to its paws. Steve took it without ceremony, walked straight back to Jonathan and handed it over.

No comment. No joke. Jonathan froze, then laughed, surprised and real. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, but he hugged the bear to his chest anyway.

Robin caught Nancy’s eye. Nancy raised an eyebrow. Robin nodded once.

That also was the moment Robin saw it:
The tarot tent sat at the far edge of the carnival, lights low and warm, curtains shifted in the breeze. A painted sign promised clarity and truth in looping letters.
“Oh,” Robin said. “Oh yes.”
The boys groaned in unison. “Nope,” Steve said immediately.
“Absolutely not,” Jonathan added.
Robin spun on her heel, hands up. “Okay. Let's make a Deal.” They paused.
“Nancy and I get individual readings,” Robin continued. “You two get one together. On me.”
Jonathan frowned. “Together?”
Steve squinted at the tent. “Why together?”
Robin smiled sweetly. “Because it’ll be funny.”
Nancy snorted and whispered. “Liar.” Robin ignored her.
Jonathan sighed. Steve hesitated.
Then he shrugged. “Fine. But if it tells me I’m gonna die, I’m suing.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes. “You’re not dying.”
And with that, half amused, half wary, they followed the lights toward whatever the cards were about to reveal.

They stepped into the tent one after the other, the noise of the carnival dulled as the canvas fell shut behind them. Inside, the air was warm and close, heavy with incense, something smoky, something sweet. Strings of small lights were pinned along the seams of the fabric, casting a low amber glow over a round table draped in dark cloth. Candles flickered, their flames bended as if reacting to their breath. A woman sat there, looking like she had already awaited them.

Before anyone could speak, Robin leaned forward, hands clasped with excitement.
“Okay,” she said brightly. “So. Two individual readings. And then one pair reading. I'm paying for all of it.” The reader lifted her gaze.
Her eyes moved over the group, Nancy’s calm curiosity, Robin’s barely-contained thrill and then stopped.

On Steve. On Jonathan. She didn’t look away.
Her gaze lingered, sharp and assessing, moving from Steve’s tense shoulders to Jonathan’s guarded stillness, then back again, like she drew a line between them only she could see. One corner of her mouth twitched faintly amused.
“Of course,” the reader said at last. “Sit.”
Robin practically vibrated. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “She knows.” and elbowed Nancy in the side. Nancy snorted softly. “Relax. It’s just cards.”

“Cards tell stories,” the reader replied calmly. “Especially when people won’t.” Nancy went first, after they all settled into the chairs around the table. She took the deck the reader slid toward her, shuffled once, twice, precise, confident movements, then held the cards between her palms for a brief moment before spreading them across the table like the reader had instructed her to do.

The reader leaned in, turned the cards one after the other, studying the spread.
Her voice stayed even as she spoke of the past: choices made young and fast, a hunger for truth that had cost her safety. Her present, standing at a threshold, neither lost nor settled. Her future, movement, purpose, a life shaped by decisions rather than fear.

Nancy listened quietly, nodding when something landed too close to home. When it was over, she leaned back, thoughtful.

Robin went next, grinning as she shuffled with exaggerated care. “I’m emotionally prepared,” she announced. “Destroy me.”
The reader smiled this time, small, knowing. Robin’s cards came fast and bright. Past confusion reframed as survival. Present honesty, sharp and loud and brave. A future built on chosen family, love found sideways, joy that didn’t ask permission.

Halfway through, the reader’s gaze flicked, briefly, toward Steve before it returned to the spread. Robin swallowed. “Okay,” she said more quietly. “That’s… extremely rude. But also very precise."

Then the reader gathered the deck again and placed it squarely in the center of the table.
“Now,” she said, lifting her eyes. “The pair.”
Steve stiffened.Jonathan frowned. “We—”
“—will,” Robin cut in cheerfully, already pushing Steve with her elbow into the side. “They will.”

The reader's gaze lingered on Steve and Jonathan in a way that made Steve shift in his seat. “You’ll draw together,” she said. “Alternate. One card at a time.”
Robin perked up immediately.
Oh. This is going to be good.

Jonathan reached for the deck first, but the reader shook her head.
“No. Him.” Steve blinked. “Me?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’re the anchor.”

Robin felt something in her chest tighten. Steve shuffled the cards awkwardly, like he was afraid of breaking them, then handed the deck across. Jonathan shuffled next, slower, more deliberate, eyes down, shoulders tense. When the deck returned to the table between them, the tent felt quieter, heavier.

“Now Alternate,” the reader repeated. “One card at a time.” Steve drew first.

He flipped the card.
The reader inhaled softly.
Robin leaned forward.
The Tower. Upright. Of course it was.

The image seemed almost too on the nose, stone splitting, lightning tearing straight through the structure. Steve stared at it like it might bite him.
“This is the foundation,” the reader said. “Where the connection was forged. Not gently. Not fairly. Through collapse.”
Robin swallowed. Yeah, she thought. That sits right.
Jonathan drew next.
The Moon.
The reader’s fingers paused above the card.
“This,” she said slowly, “is what you learned to live inside of. Uncertainty. Fear dressed as intuition. Wanting without clarity.”

Jonathan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look up.
Robin felt a quiet, vindicated hum in her chest. Yeah. That’s him.
She glanced sideways at Nancy. Nancy was already looking at her.They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to.

Steve drew again. Strength.

The reader nodded. “What you show the world,” she said to Steve. “Steadiness. Protection
Endurance. Even when it costs you yourself.”
Robin almost laughed—soft and fond and a little broken. Tell me about it.

Jonathan’s turn.
The Hermit.
The reader tilted her head. “What you hide,” she said gently. “Withdrawal. Watching instead of acting. Fear of being seen too clearly.”

Jonathan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t argue.
Robin felt a flicker of something sharp and satisfied. Clocked.

Steve drew again.
Five of Cups.
Loss. Regret. Mourning.
Robin’s fingers curled into her jacket sleeve. She’d seen Steve grieve in pieces—never all at once, never out loud. This felt… intimate. Uncomfortable.

Jonathan drew.
Two of Swords.
“Indecision,” the reader said. “A refusal to choose. Because choosing would mean risk.”
Nancy shifted beside Robin. Just a fraction.
Robin leaned closer and murmured under her breath, “She’s not wrong.”

Steve drew again.
The Lovers. Reversed.
The tent seemed to hold its breath.
“Not separation,” the reader clarified quietly. “Hesitation. Connection denied, not absent.”
Steve’s mouth parted slightly. He didn’t look at Jonathan. Jonathan didn’t look at him.
Robin felt something settle into place inside her, solid and inevitable.

Jonathan drew the next card.
Justice.
“Truth delayed,” the reader said. “Balance demanded too late.” Robin winced. Ouch.

Steve drew.
Temperance.
“Learning restraint,” the reader said. “Learning to wait.”

Jonathan turned the next.
Page of Cups.
Emotion newly spoken. Vulnerable. Unsteady.
Robin glanced at Nancy again. Her eyes were glassy now, not crying, but close. Like she was watching something click into focus she hadn’t known how to name before.

Steve drew.
The World.
The reader’s eyebrows lifted. “Integration,” she said. “A self becoming whole.”

Jonathan drew his final card.
Judgement.
The reader went still.
“This is the reckoning,” she said quietly. “The moment where truth can no longer be postponed.”

Robin’s pulse thudded hard in her ears.
One card remained.

“Now both of you,” the reader said. “Together.”
Steve and Jonathan reached for it at the same time. Their fingers brushed.
Robin saw it, felt it, the way Steve stilled, the way Jonathan didn’t pull back.

The card flipped.
The Star.
Placed between them.
The reader folded her hands. “This connection survives collapse,” she said. “But only if you stop pretending gravity isn’t real.”

The reader looked at the table for a moment longer, as if to memorize the pattern.
“This is not a love story,” she said finally. “At least not the way people expect one.”
Steve stiffened slightly. “we are not-” He began to say but got stopped by the Readers raised hand.
“You began,” she continued, nodding to The Tower, “with impact. With violence you didn’t choose, but did endure.”
Her gaze shifted to The Moon.
“And you learned how to survive in the dark. To wait. To watch. Mistaken silence for safety.”
Jonathan swallowed.
She traced the shape of the spread with one finger.
“Strength and withdrawal. Loss and indecision. Wanting and refusal.”
Her finger tapped The reversed Lovers card.
“Not because the connection was wrong,” she said, “but because neither of you believed you were allowed to have it.”

Robin’s chest ached. Nancy’s hand had curled tight in her sleeve.The reader’s finger came to rest on Judgement.
“This is the moment you are approaching now,” she said quietly. “Where pretending not to know becomes more painful than knowing.”
Then, finally, she placed her palm lightly over the card between them.
“This card does not promise happiness,” she said. “It promises orientation.”
She looked up at Steve and Jonathan together.
“You do not crash because you are reckless,” she said. “You circle because you are afraid of the damage, impact might cause.”
A heartbeat of silence. “But gravity,” she added, almost gently, “does not disappear just because you refuse to name it.” A final silence settled over the tent for a few seconds.

Robin didn’t dare to breathe. “Hope,” the reader finished, “is not the absence of fear. It is the decision to stop pretending you are not already falling.”

Robin didn’t clap. Didn’t joke.
Didn’t’say holy shit even though it was clawing at the back of her throat.
She sat very still as the reader gathered the cards, like if she moved too fast the whole thing might shatter.

Because this wasn’t a party trick. This wasn’t vague mystic nonsense. This was someone laying out something Robin has been circling for years and finally saying it out loud without flinching. Robin watched Steve first.nHe tried to play it cool, leaning back in his chair, one ankle hooked casually over the other, but his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. His jaw was tight in that way that means he was holding something back with his teeth. He hadn’t looked at Jonathan since The reversed Lovers card had hit the table.

Then Jonathan. He hadn’t moved at all.
His shoulders were drawn in, chin slightly dipped, eyes locked on the spread like if he kept staring long enough he might find a way around it. Like if he understood the pattern well enough, he won’t have to step into it. Robin felt something ugly and protective twist in her chest.
Because she knew this look on both of them.
Steve looked like he was about to do something stupid just to break the tension.
Jonathan looked like he was already blaming himself for wanting anything at all.
Oh no, Robin thought. This did not fix anything. If anything, it named the wound too cleanly.

She risked a glance at Nancy. Nancy’s expression was soft but unsettled,,eyes glassy, lips parted like she was still processing something that shifted under her feet. Not heartbreak. Not jealousy. Recognition and that, somehow, made it worse. Robin cleared her throat too loudly. “Okay!” she said, clapping once, sharp and forced. “Wow. Super enlightening. Ten out of ten would be emotionally devastated here again.”
The reader only smiled.

The night felt colder when they stepped out of the tent. The carnival noise crashed back in all at once, laughter, music, lights, too bright, too loud, like the universe didn’t just stop and was only pointing directly at something fragile and real.

The moment didn’t get the chance to settle.
They’d barely taken three steps from the tent when a woman appeared out of the crowd like she’d been conjured, skirts brushing the gravel, bangles chiming softly, a wicker basket hooked over her arm. Red roses spilled over the edge, impossibly bright against the carnival lights. “Oh—perfect,” she said, zeroing in without hesitation, straight at Jonathan. Robin clocked it instantly. Of course. She would’ve bet money the tarot reader had sent her. The woman smiled wide, eyes sharp and knowing. “For your love,” she said, plucking a single rose from the basket and pressed it into Jonathan’s free hand, the stem cool and green against his fingers. “Every heart deserves a sign of love”
Jonathan froze. He stood there holding a teddy bear with a stitched heart in one hand and a rose in the other, like the universe had decided subtlety was optional tonight. His mouth opened, then closed again. For the briefest second, so quick Robin almost missed it, his eyes flicked to Steve. The rose tilted. His hand shifted.
It looked like he was going to give it to him.
Then something tightened in Jonathan’s face. He hesitated. Thought better of it. He pulled the rose back to his chest instead, awkward and uncertain, like he didn’t know where it belonged.
“Uh—thanks,” he managed.
The woman winked, already moving on, basket swaying as she disappeared back into the noise. Silence dropped hard in her wake.

Robin forced a laugh. “Wow. Subtle,” she said brightly. “Ten out of ten carnival ambiance. Really commits to the bit.”
Nancy nodded along, a little stiff. “Yeah. Very… thematic.”
Jonathan didn’t laugh. He stared at the rose like it had personally offended him, then shoved it stem-first into the crook of his elbow with the bear, as if containing both objects together might made them cancel each other out. His shoulders drew in, posture closing, eyes distant.

Steve noticed. Robin could tell the exact second he did, the way Steve’s jaw tightened, the way his weight shifted forward like he was bracing for impact. His expression sharpened into something defensive, almost combative.
“Can we move on now?” Steve said abruptly.
Jonathan blinked. “What?”
“I asked, can we move on now?” Steve snapped, already turning like the answer didn’t actually matter. “This place is—” He gestured vaguely at the lights, the noise, the crowd. “It’s a lot.”
Nancy frowned. “Steve—”
“I’m fine,” Steve cut in too fast. “I just don’t want to stand around.” He started walking.
The night air hit him like a reset button. Cool. Damp. Loud in the way carnivals always were, metal clanked, music bleeded together, laughter bounced off rides that didn’t look safe. It should have felt grounding.

It didn’t. Steve walked a few steps ahead without meaning to. Not storming off. Just… moving. His hands felt wrong. Too empty. His chest felt like someone had cracked it open and forgotten to close it again. The cards wouldn’t leave him alone.
The Tower. The Lovers, twisted in their meaning. Like they had followed him out of the tent. He thought about the radio tower. About the moment his footing slipped. About the world tilting sickeningly sideways. About Jonathan’s hand that had locked around his wrist, hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to leave marks that had lasted days.

Gravity isn’t real, he almost laughed. At least not between people.
Except it was. It always has been. Behind him, Jonathan followed after a beat, clearly rattled. His silence felt heavy, deliberate, not sulking, but processing. He walked carefully, shoulders drawn in, gaze fixed ahead like looking anywhere else was safer. He was still holding the teddy bear close.
Steve noticed it then—the medium-sized plush with the heart in its paws clutched awkwardly against Jonathan’s jacket. Jonathan hadn’t set it down. Hadn’t handed it off. He carried it like it mattered, arm curled around it unconsciously, thumb rubbing the fabric every few seconds like a grounding habit. Something in Steve’s chest tightened. He hadn’t meant it as a joke. That was the problem.nHe shoved his hands into his pockets, fingers curling tight. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with the reading. With the way the reader had looked at them like she already knew the ending. With the way Jonathan’s fingers hadn’t moved away when they had brushed each others. With the fact that Jonathan was still holding the stupid bear like it meant something to him.

Steve slowed just enough for Jonathan to catch up. Then bumped his shoulder. Not hard. But not an accident either. Jonathan shot him a look. “What was that?”
Steve shrugged, jaw set. “Crowded.”
“It wasn’t,” Jonathan said.
Steve stopped walking. Robin winced internally. Here we go.
“You wanna say something?” Steve asked, tone sharp, edged with challenge.
Jonathan stiffened. “No. Do you?”
Steve scoffed. “Don’t think so.”
Nancy stepped between them slightly, voice calm but firm. “Okay. Hey. We’re not doing this.”
Jonathan looked away, frustration flickering across his face. Steve crossed his arms, posture closed off, aggressive in the way Robin knew too well. Classic Steve Harrington defense mode. Push first. Push hard. Make it ugly so no one gets close enough to hurt you.

Robin watched it happen with a sinking feeling. He was pushing Jonathan away on purpose.
Picking at him. Testing him. Trying to provoke something he could fight instead of whatever this was, quiet, tender and terrifying.

Jonathan didn’t take the bait. That almost made it worse. He stayed distant, gaze unfocused, the bear tucked tight against his side, the rose slowly wilting in his grip as if the night itself didn’t approve of being held onto too tightly. They walked on like that, close, tense, orbiting again.
Robin had the unsettling thought that the tarot hadn’t predicted anything at all. It had just named what was already happening. She had hoped the reading would push them, yes. Maybe a little bit. But that push they had gotten, had been way too much. It felt like it had stripped something bare and left it exposed to the air. Steve hadn’t relaxed. He hadn’t softened. If anything, the sharpness had settled deeper under his skin, like a splinter that couldn’t be pulled out. He smiled too fast. Joked too hard. Walked like he was bracing for a fight.
Robin and Nancy fell a few steps behind without saying a word. They didn’t need to speak to understand each other.

Nancy saw it too, the way Steve kept glancing at Jonathan, waiting for something that never came. The way Jonathan held the bear too tight, rose stem tucked awkwardly between his fingers now, gaze fixed straight ahead. Not lost. Not confused.
Withdrawn.Jonathan wasn’t spiraling. He was retreating. “He’s shutting down,” Nancy murmured.
Robin nodded. “And Steve’s about to blow something up.”

They walked in silence for a few seconds longer than was comfortable. “If we step in,” Robin said quietly, “Steve’ll turn it into a joke or a fight.”
“And Jonathan will disappear completely,” Nancy added. They exchanged a look.Not helpless. Resigned. Deciding.
“So we don’t,” Robin said.
Nancy swallowed. “We let it play out.”
The words felt dangerous even as she said them. Like stepping back from a crack in the ice and pretending you weren’t listening for it to break.

They watched Steve try one last time.
He slowed his steps, turning slightly. “We could just… head back home, right? It’s late.”
Robin almost said yes. Jonathan didn’t look at him. “If you want.”
Something flickered across Steve’s face, too fast to be named. He scoffed, heat bled through. “Wow. Thrilling enthusiasm.” Jonathan didn’t rise to it.

That was new. Jonathan simply tightened his grip on the bear, jaw set, gaze fixed somewhere ahead and unreachable. Whatever he was feeling, he wasn’t offering it up. Not to Steve. Not to anyone. Nancy felt a sharp ache of recognition. Jonathan Byers knew how to survive by going quiet. Steve laughed, brittle and forced. “Guess I’m doomed by destiny now. Hope the stars don’t charge rent.” Deflection. Loud. Desperate.

Jonathan didn’t respond. He’d fallen half a step behind again, not because he was lost, but because he was done chasing the conversation. Thoughts stacked neatly behind his eyes, filed away, controlled. The reading echoed, unwelcome but precise.

Gravity does not disappear just because you refuse to name it.

He didn’t hate that it felt true. He hated that it felt inevitable.,Robin clapped her hands together too brightly. “Okay! New plan. Food. Funnel cake. Fried Oreos. Something incredibly unhealthy to ground us back in reality.”
Damage control. Minimal interference.
Steve didn’t wait for an answer. He veered left, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense, not running, but not slowing either. Jonathan watched him go. Not longing. Not hopeful.
Assessing. Chosen distance because it was safer than wanting.

Jonathan’s silence didn’t soften. It sharpened.
He walked fast now too, just close enough to Steve to be impossible to ignore, then angled his body away, subtle, deliberate. When Steve spoke, Jonathan answered without looking at him. When Steve joked, Jonathan didn’t bite. When Steve slowed, Jonathan matched him exactly, like he was proving a point neither of them had named.
It felt intentional. Steve noticed. Of course he did.
“What,” Steve said finally, voice tight, pitched low so the others wouldn’t hear. “Are you now mad at me?” Jonathan glanced at him, brief, assessing. His expression was calm. Too calm.
“No,” he said. “Why would I be?”
Steve scoffed. “You’ve barely said five words since the tent.” Jonathan’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “You’ve said enough for both of us.”
That landed.
Steve stopped walking. “Okay. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Jonathan asked evenly.
That tone, that careful neutrality, hit Steve harder than anger would’ve. It felt like being edged out of a conversation he didn’t realize he was losing.
Nancy slowed instinctively. Robin’s shoulders tensed. “I’m just saying,” Steve pushed, heat crept in, “you don’t have to act like I dragged you here.”
Jonathan shrugged. “You didn’t.”
Dismissive. Flat. Provocative in its restraint.
Steve laughed once, sharp. “Right. Sorry. Forgot you’re above having reactions.”
Jonathan met his eyes this time. Really met them.
“You want one?” he asked quietly.
Steve didn’t answer fast enough. The space between them tightened, too much pressure, nowhere for it to go. Robin felt it in her chest, a sick, sliding sense of inevitability.
This isn’t stalling, she thought. This is crashing.

They passed the mirror maze without meaning to.
Flashing lights. Warped reflections. Bodies split and stretched and doubled at impossible angles, a funhouse distortion of closeness and distance.
Nancy slowed. “Hey,” she said, carefully casual. “Mirror maze?”
Steve groaned. “Hard pass.”
Robin tilted her head, eyes bright in that way that meant she’d already decided something. “Come on. Low stakes. Five minutes. In, out. Then we regroup.”
Steve looked at Jonathan without thinking.
Jonathan shrugged, noncommittal. “Doesn’t matter.” That, the indifference, needled Steve more than it should. “Cool,” Steve muttered. “Then let’s not.”
Robin softened instantly, deploying the big guns. “Steve,” she said, mock-pleading. “Please. For me. I need something stupid and contained right now.” Nancy backed her up with a smile that was gentler but no less strategic. “We’ll stick together.”
Steve exhaled through his nose. He didn’t want this. They could feel that much clearly. But the pressure inside them had nowhere else to go.
“Fine,” Steve said. “Five minutes.”
Jonathan nodded once, like it was already decided.

As they stepped inside, the lights dimmed. The air cooled.The maze swallowed sound almost immediately. Laughter bounced back wrong. Voices overlapped with themselves.

For a few turns, they managed it, Steve in front, Jonathan just behind him, Nancy and Robin bringing up the rear. The mirrors fractured them into pieces: Steve’s shoulders multiplied and stretched, Jonathan’s face briefly overlapping his own in a way that made Steve’s chest tighten, like his body recognized something his brain refused to name. “Don’t let go,” Robin called.
“I’m right here,” Nancy answered.
Then, one wrong turn.
Nancy and Robin vanished first.
One second Robin’s nervous laugh was right behind the boys, Nancy mid-sentence, and the next their reflections slid sideways and disappeared around a corner, like glass swallowed them whole.
Steve stopped short and spun. “Robin? Nancy?”
No answer. Just echoes. Just too many versions of himself staring back.
Only Jonathan was still there.
Steve could feel him behind him for a few more turns, footsteps close, familiar, steady. Jonathan matched his pace easily, like this wasn’t a problem yet. Like he trusted Steve to lead them out. Steve hated that. He sped up without meaning to. Took corners sharper than necessary. Let the distance stretch. Didn’t check behind him. Subconsciously creating space.
“Guys?” Jonathan called, voice pitching just enough to scrape. “Nancy?”
Steve didn’t answer. Another turn. Another wall of mirrors. His reflection fractured again, too tall, too sharp, eyes a little too wild. When Steve finally glanced back, Jonathan was gone. Steve’s breath stuttered.

Steve stood there longer than he meant to.
The mirrors didn’t give him space. Every direction held another version of him—too tall, too sharp, jaw set wrong, eyes reflecting panic he didn’t want to admit to. One Steve looked angry. One looked scared. One looked like he might break something just to feel solid again.
He dragged a hand through his hair, breath coming too fast.
“Okay,” he muttered to no one. “Okay.”
The word echoed back warped and wrong, bouncing off glass until it didn’t sound like English anymore.

For a second, just a second, he thought about the cards. About the reader’s voice. About collapse and gravity and the way Jonathan’s fingers had brushed his earlier like they were allowed to exist there.
Steve turned sharp, trying to orient himself.
Every direction looked the same.
The maze pressed in, too close, too loud in its silence, reflections stacked until he couldn’t tell which version of himself was real anymore.

Outside, Nancy felt it first. Not fear but worry.
She stopped walking, hand curling reflexively into Robin’s sleeve. “Robin.”
Robin was already turning. She scanned the maze entrance, eyes flicking between the glass panels, the laughing exiters, the flashing lights.
“They should’ve been out by now,” she said. Too casual. Too fast. Nancy nodded. They waited.
Thirty seconds stretched into something heavier.
Robin swallowed. “I shouldn’t have—”
“I know,” Nancy said quietly. “Me too.”
The laughter spilling out of the maze didn’t match what they’d walked into. It felt wrong. Like watching people exit a building that was still burning.
Robin took a step toward the entrance, hands already curling into fists. “If this goes bad—”
“It already has,” Nancy said softly.
And then—

“Jonathan?” he called anyway, already defensive, like he’d been accused.
No answer. Steve scrubbed a hand over his face, breath coming too fast. Every mirror showed him the same thing: a guy on the verge of losing control, jaw tight, eyes too bright. Too many Steves. Too much noise. Then footsteps, quick, uneven.
Jonathan rounded the corner, relief breaking across his face before he could stop it. The teddy bear was tucked awkwardly under his arm, the rose bent and half-crushed in his fist.
“Oh—there you are,” Jonathan said. “I thought I lost you too.”
Something sharp and ugly punched through Steve’s chest. Panic flared first. Then relief. Then something worse than either.
Good, his brain supplied viciously. Now you don’t have to deal with it.
Steve snapped. “Jesus Christ,” he shot back. “Do you ever pay attention?”
Jonathan’s relief vanished. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You just…wandered off,” Steve said, voice sharp, climbing. “You disappeared and act now surprised when I'm pissed.”
Jonathan’s mouth tightened. “I was behind you. You sped up.”
Steve laughed, ugly. “Wow. Okay. Sure. Always my fault”
Jonathan didn’t soften. Didn’t apologize. He tilted his head slightly instead. “You always do that.”
Steve bristled. “Do what?”
“Decide you’re alone before anyone actually leaves,” Jonathan said. Calm. Flat. “It saves you the trouble of waiting.” That hit harder than anger. Steve stepped closer, crowding him into a wall of glass. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
Jonathan didn’t move. “Then stop acting like a case study.”
“Don’t,” Steve warned.
“You really think I don’t know what this is?” Jonathan continued, voice steady, surgical. “You pick fights so you don’t have to sit with whatever you’re actually feeling...”
Steve’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know what I’m feeling.”
Jonathan met his eyes. “That’s the problem. You never say it. You just make it everyone else’s problem.”
Steve scoffed. “Wow. That’s rich.”
“Is it?” Jonathan asked. “Because from where I’m standing, you dragged me into mess, let everyone tear you open, and now you’re mad at me for not bleeding with you.”
“That’s not fair,” Steve snapped.
Jonathan’s voice dropped. “Neither is you pretending I asked for this.”
Steve’s hands curled into fists. “You sat there and let them do it.”
Jonathan laughed once, sharp. “You sat there too.”
Steve stepped closer, reflections multiplying his anger. “You love this,” he accused. “Standing back. Watching. So you don’t have to interact. So you don’t have to acknowledge this…”
Jonathan’s eyes flashed. “No. I just don’t pretend, like you do.”
Steve faltered just for a second. Then hardened. “Say it,” Steve finally snapped. “Say what you think this is about.” he swallowed hard.
Jonathan's grip tightened on the bear, on the crushed rose. Seconds of silence passed. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and devastating. “There is nothing… ” Jonathan said. “Because if it was, you wouldn’t be sich an asshole.” Steve laughed, a cracked, reckless sound. “Right. Of course. Steve, the giant meathead…” He turned away sharply.
“Steve—” Jonathan reached out. Steve shoved him. Not hard enough to knock him over but hard enough to mean it.
Jonathan stumbled, shock flashing across his face. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Steve spun back, eyes blazing. “Hit me.”
“What?” Jonathan looked surprised.
“You heard me,” Steve said, breath ragged. “You’ve done it before.”
Jonathan straightened slowly. “I’m not your pressure valve.”
“Why?” Steve demanded. “Scared you’ll like it?”
Jonathan’s jaw set. “You want to be hurt so you don’t have to be honest.”
Steve stepped forward again, crowding him, voice raw. “Do it. Or I will.”
Jonathan lifted his hands, not defensive. Not yielding. Steady. Provoking.
“Then do it,” he said. “Prove me right.”
Steve swung.

Jonathan saw it coming.
Not because Steve telegraphed it, Steve never did but because something in his posture gave way, a split-second drop in control that Jonathan had learned to read long before he ever admitted he was watching.

Jonathan stepped back. Steve’s fist kept going. It hit glass instead of skin. The sound was violent and wrong, a sharp crack that echoed through the maze as the surface spiderwebbed and gave way. Steve hissed, stumbling back, clutching his hand as blood welled instantly across his knuckles, bright and shocking against his skin.
A thin line opened along the back of his hand, across his knuckles. Another across his index finger. Red dripped onto the warped floor, smeared across fragments of his own reflection.
Jonathan froze. And then the shock shattered.

It didn’t fade, it split, sharp and violent, snapping into anger so fast it made his vision blur. Heat surged up his spine, into his chest, into his throat, and when he spoke it tore out of him raw and furious. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Jonathan snapped, his voice ricocheting off warped glass and fractured reflections. “Is this what you wanted? To push until someone hit you back? To bleed until it finally feels like control again?”
Steve let out a short, wrecked laugh, breath hitching. “Don’t pretend you care now. You had just made it clear that there is nothing…” The words landed like a blow.
Jonathan flinched, actually flinched, like Steve had hit something soft and unguarded. His eyes flashed wide, panicked, unmoored. For a heartbeat, it looked like he might say something. Something honest. Something that would crack this whole thing open for good.
Then Steve turned. He ran. “Steve!” Jonathan shouted, lunging after him, his voice swallowed by laughter and alarms and the maze’s warped acoustics. He caught a glimpse of Steve’s back once, bleeding hand clutched tight, shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold himself smaller and then Steve was gone. Vanished into mirrors and emergency-lit exits, swallowed whole by motion and noise and too many ways out.
Jonathan stopped short, chest heaving, fists clenched hard enough to hurt.
The maze reflected him back in pieces, angry, shaken, breathing too fast and for once, he didn’t look away.

Outside the mirror maze, the night kept moving like nothing was wrong. Music thumped. Lights flashed. Someone laughed too loudly nearby. The carnival didn’t pause for implosions. Robin paced.
She tried to keep it casual, her hands shoved into her jacket sleeves, weight rocking from heel to toe, but she’d worn a shallow groove into the gravel without realizing it. Nancy stood a few feet away, arms folded tight across her chest, eyes fixed on the maze exit like she could will people out of it. “This was a bad idea,” Robin muttered.
Nancy didn’t argue. She just nodded once. Sharp. Guilty. “Yeah.” They waited.
A group of teenagers spilled out first, shrieking and laughing, one of them wiping tears from her eyes. Not them. Then a couple holding hands. Then a dad with a kid on his shoulders.
Robin’s stomach dropped a little further with every wrong face.
And then—
Steve busted out. Too fast. Too sharp. Like he’d been fired from a cannon.
Robin barely had time to register him before he was already veering hard to the right and disappeared into the crowd. His head was down. One hand was clenched tight to his chest, wrapped in red-soaked paper towels someone must’ve shoved at him. He didn’t look left. Didn’t look right. Didn’t look back.
“Steve!” Robin called.
He didn’t even flinch. Nancy took one step after him, then stopped, instinct finally caught up. There was no way to chase him through that, through bodies and noise and lights and dark. He was already gone. Robin’s heart was in her throat. “Shit, Shit, shit, shit.”

They turned back to the maze exit almost in unisono. Seconds dragged. Then Jonathan stumbled out. Slower. Like gravity had finally decided to notice him. His shoulders were tight, posture locked like he was bracing for another hit that never came. The teddy bear was still tucked under his arm, fur dulled with grime, the stitched heart creased from being crushed too hard. The rose was broken, the stem snapped, petals missing. He looked wrecked in a quieter way than Steve had. Contained. Dangerous.
Nancy moved first. “Jonathan.”

He blinked, like he hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone. “He—” Jonathan started, then stopped. Swallowed. His jaw set hard. “He ran.”
Robin closed the distance in two steps. “Yeah. We saw.”
Jonathan’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I tried to stop him.”
Nancy’s voice softened, careful. “What happened?”
Jonathan laughed once, short, humorless, cutting. “He punched a mirror.”
Robin flinched. “Of course he did.”
“He was trying to get me to hit him,” Jonathan said flatly. There was anger there, but underneath it, something raw and shaken that hadn’t settled yet. “Like that would fix whatever’s wrong with him.”
Nancy’s breath caught. Robin dragged a hand down her face. “Okay,” she said, forcing a steadiness she didn’t feel. “Okay. We’ll find him.”
Jonathan shook his head once, sharp. “He doesn’t want to be found.” That landed heavy between them.nThe maze entrance loomed behind Jonathan, glass panels gleaming under carnival lights, fractured, cracked, still humming faintly with echoes.
Robin looked from the maze to the crowd where Steve had vanished, then back to Jonathan.
The tarot tent felt very far away now.
And very, very right.

They didn’t argue about it. They just started moving. Robin took the left side of the midway, scanning faces, craning up on her toes like Steve might somehow be taller than the crowd tonight. Nancy headed right, eyes sharp, already cataloging exits and dark corners and places someone might disappear to if they didn’t want to be seen. Jonathan followed neither exactly, he was just hovering between them, gaze darting, jaw set tight like he was holding something vicious behind his teeth.

The first drops of rain came soft and tentative, barely noticeable at first. Just enough to darken the dust, to cool the air. By the time Robin noticed it slicking the sleeves of her jacket, it had settled into a steady drizzle, carnival lights smeared into watery halos.
“Steve!” she called again, louder this time.
Nothing.
Nancy stopped near a game booth, scanning under the awning. “He wouldn’t leave the grounds,” she said, half to herself. “Not with his hand like that.”
Jonathan’s fingers flexed. “He’s done worse.”
That was the problem. They searched the perimeter. Behind rides. Near the bathrooms. Past the food trucks where grease smoke curled uselessly into the rain. Every time Jonathan spotted someone with the right height, the right jacket, his chest lurched and then dropped when it wasn’t him. Minutes stretched thin. The rain picked up.
And somewhere beyond the noise and lights and laughter that refused to die—
Steve Harrington was hurt.

He didn’t know how far he’d walked.
Far enough that the carnival noise dulled into a distant thrum. Far enough that the rain felt colder, more real, soaking into his hair, streaking down his face until it blurred with sweat and something dangerously close to tears.
Steve leaned against the side of a closed ride, some rusted thing shaped like a rocket ship and finally looked at his hand.
The paper towels were soaked through now. Red bled into white, slick and ugly. A shard of glass was lodged between his knuckles, the skin swollen around it. His hand throbbed in time with his pulse, hot, sharp, undeniable.
Good , a traitorous part of him thought.
It hurt enough to drown everything else out. For a few seconds, anyway.
Steve clenched his jaw and ripped the shard free with a sharp hiss, teeth bared. Pain flared bright and clean, spiking up his arm. He sucked in a breath, dizzy with it. There it is. Control. Consequence. Something simple.
But it didn’t last. The ache settled into a deep, pulsing throb and the rest rushed back in immediately. Jonathan’s face. The mirror shattering. The way Jonathan had looked at him afterward not scared, not confused, but angry. Disappointed. Like Steve had confirmed something ugly Jonathan had always suspected.

He dragged a shaking hand through his wet hair and laughed under his breath, broken and humorless. “Yeah,” he muttered to no one. “Well.. fuck you.”
Rain plastered his shirt to his skin. He slid down the metal siding until he was sitting on the wet ground, knees bent, back hunched forward like he could fold himself small enough to disappear.
He pressed his injured hand against his thigh, welcoming the sting. It still wasn’t enough.
The pain dulled the edges but the core of it stayed. That hollow, yawning thing in his chest. The thing that had been there since Jonathan left Hawkins the first time. Since Steve had realized, too late, that some absences don’t register until they become permanent. He squeezed his eyes shut. He’d wanted Jonathan to hit him.
Not because he deserved it, though maybe he did but because then it would’ve been simple. Physical. Something he knew how to survive.
Instead, Jonathan had looked at him like Steve was the one who couldn’t see. That hurt worse than any broken glass ever could.

They found him hunched against the side of the ride, rain streaking down the metal behind him like the world was quietly dissolving.
“Oh my god,” Robin breathed and then whatever relief she’d been holding shattered straight into fury. She was on him in three strides, hands flying, voice sharp enough to cut through the rain. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she snapped. “Do you have any idea what you just put us through? You vanish, you’re bleeding, it’s pouring rain, and you’re just… just sitting here like this is fine?” Steve didn’t answer right away. He lifted his head.

That’s when he saw Jonathan.
Not all of him, just enough. The curve of his shoulder behind Robin. The dark line of his jacket soaked through. The teddy bear clutched against his chest like Jonathan hadn’t let go of it even once. Steve’s gaze dropped.
Red had smeared the plush’s stitched heart. His blood. Dark and ugly against the pale fabric, soaked in where Jonathan must’ve pressed it without thinking. The rose was worse, petals crushed, stem bent at an unnatural angle, thorns stripped bare. Snapped. Ruined. Still in Jonathan’s hand. Something in Steve split cleanly down the middle. It hurt in a way he didn’t have words for. In a way that didn’t show up on his face, didn’t register in his posture. Inside, it was catastrophic, like the Tower again, collapsing inward this time, no lightning required.
You broke it, a voice whispered.
You break everything.

Steve swallowed. Forced his expression into place. Neutral. Blank. The version of himself that survived by not reacting.
Behind Robin’s voice still going, still furious Steve caught Jonathan’s eyes for half a second. Just long enough to see the anger there. The hurt. The distance. He looked away first.
“I'm fine,” Steve said finally, voice steady enough to pass. “It’s just rain.”
Robin stared at him like she might scream.
Jonathan didn’t say anything at all.

Robin finally lost it. “Okay—no,” she said sharply, stepping fully into Steve’s space. “Absolutely not. You don’t get to sit there bleeding in the hero and call this fine.” Her hands chopped the air as the words spilled out. “You are reckless, self-destructive, emotionally constipated—”
Steve flinched. Just a little. Barely there.
“—and you keep lighting yourself on fire and acting surprised when people get burned,” Robin finished, breath shaking with the force of it.
Steve opened his mouth.
A small sound slipped out of Jonathan instead. Not a word. Just a sharp exhale, tight with too many things trying to get out at once.
Robin’s head snapped toward him.
“Oh, don’t,” she said, spinning on her heel. Two steps and she was in Jonathan’s space now, finger jabbing lightly, but pointedly into his chest. “Do not make that noise like you’re innocent here.”

Jonathan blinked. “Robin, I—”
“You wouldn’t catch Steve flirting with you if he was naked and holding a sign,” she snapped. “Neon letters. Arrows. Maybe fireworks.”
Nancy sucked in a breath behind her.
Jonathan stared at Robin, stunned, heat creeping up his neck. “That’s not—”
“You think he does this with everyone?” Robin barreled on, voice cracking now. “You think this is just him being Steve? He doesn’t spiral like this for anyone else. He doesn’t punch mirrors and bleed all over carnival prizes because of random girls. He fucking tries… and every fucking time he makes a step intonyour direction, you make two back…”
Steve’s jaw clenched hard. Robin turned back to him, eyes blazing. “And you—” she jabbed a finger at his chest now “—you don’t get to provoke him until he snaps and then be shocked. You want him to hit you because that’s easier than admitting what you feel.”
The rain came down harder, cold and insistent.
For a second, none of them spoke.
Steve stared at the ground. Jonathan stared at the ruined rose. Nancy watched both of them like she was trying to keep a building from collapsing with her bare hands.
Robin dragged a hand through her hair, voice suddenly hoarse “I’m trying to help you,” she said, quieter now and Nancy stepped in before it could tip any further.
“Okay,” she said firmly, placing a hand on Robin’s arm. Not stopping her, exactly. Redirecting. “That’s enough. This is done escalating.”
Robin inhaled sharply, chest heaving. She looked like she wanted to argue, wanted to keep going until something finally broke clean instead of jagged—but then she looked at Steve’s hand again. The blood. The way he still hadn’t really looked up.
“Shit,” Robin muttered. Practicality snapping into place. “He needs a medic.”
Steve shook his head on instinct. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” Robin said flatly. “You’re bleeding and dissociating, which is a terrible combo, Harrington.”

She reached out, yanked the keys straight out of Steve’s pocket without ceremony, and tossed them at Nancy. “His car. You’re driving.”
Nancy caught them on reflex. “Got it.”
Robin grabbed Steve’s uninjured arm without asking. “Congratulations, you’re coming with me.”
Steve didn’t fight it. That was the scariest part. Robin glanced back once, eyes flicking to Jonathan, sharp, warning, complicated. She said to Nancy. “We’ll meet you there.”
Nancy nodded immediately. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll…yeah.”
Robin hauled Steve to his feet and half-dragged him toward the nearest first-aid tent, already talking under her breath about stitches and tetanus shots and how she was never letting him near reflective surfaces again.

The rain swallowed them as they went. Nancy stood there for a beat longer, then turned to Jonathan. “Come on.”
Jonathan followed her without argument. He was still holding the teddy bear. The plush was damp now, its fur darkened by rain. The rose was worse, stem bent nearly in half, petals crushed and translucent with water, thorns catching in the fabric of Jonathan’s sleeve every time his grip tightened. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know how to let go.

They walked in silence at first, shoes splashing through shallow puddles, the carnival lights blurring into smeared color through the rain. Jonathan kept the bear tucked tight against his chest, the rose trapped awkwardly between his fingers and the plush like evidence he hadn’t decided what to do with yet.
“You didn’t deserve that,” Nancy said eventually. Not accusing. Just stating.
Jonathan let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Which part?”
Nancy shot him a look. “Most of it.”
He nodded once, eyes fixed ahead. “I didn’t mean to push him.”
“I know,” she said gently. “But you did.”
Jonathan swallowed, fingers curling tighter around the bear’s stitched heart. “I thought… if I stayed neutral, if I didn’t react—”
“He’d calm down?” Nancy finished.
Jonathan’s mouth twisted. “Yeah.”
Nancy sighed. “Steve doesn’t work like that.”
“No,” Jonathan said quietly. “I’m starting to get that.”

They reached the car. Nancy unlocked it, climbed into the driver’s seat, then paused, watching Jonathan hesitate before getting in, like he wasn’t sure where to put the things in his hands, or himself.
“He’s not as careless as he pretends,” she said, softer now. “When it comes to you.”
Jonathan’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the bear, at the ruined rose pressed against it, then away. “That's at last one of us.”
Nancy didn’t push. She just started the engine and let the rain drum against the roof while they waited—each of them sitting with the weight of what hadn’t been said yet. Knowing it wasn’t over. Not even close.

Robin and Steve arrived a few minutes later, soaked through and sharp with unfinished energy. She opened the passenger door, ushered Steve around the back and then stopped short when she realized where he was headed.
“Absolutely not,” she said immediately. “You’re sitting up front where I can see you.”
“I’m fine,” Steve muttered, already angling for the backseat.
Jonathan spoke before Robin could argue again. “He can sit back here.”
Robin turned on him. “Jonathan—”
“He can,” Jonathan repeated, firmer now. Not loud. Just immovable.
Something in his tone made both Robin and Nancy pause. Robin searched Nancy’s face. Nancy gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Robin exhaled hard. “Fine. But if you pass out, I’m blaming both of you.”
Steve slid into the backseat beside Jonathan without looking at him. He kept his injured hand tucked close to his body, shoulders hunched, posture tight and folded in on itself like he was trying to take up less space than was physically possible.

Nancy pulled away from the curb. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of rain and tires on wet pavement. Then Steve noticed the bear.
It sat in Jonathan’s lap, fur darkened and matted rain had soaked into it. The rose lay crushed against it, petals bruised and torn, thorns still snagged in Jonathan’s sleeve.
Steve flinched. It was sharp enough that Jonathan felt it immediately.
Steve looked away fast, too fast and his jaw clenched.

The girls did their best to look busy. Robin fiddled with the radio dial, turning the volume down and then back up again like it was a critical task. Nancy kept her eyes on the road, one hand steady on the wheel, the other tapping against it in a nervous rhythm. Neither of them meant to listen. Neither of them really could help it. The silence in the backseat stretched.
Steve stared out the window, jaw tight, thoughts spiraling faster the longer Jonathan stayed quiet. Something in Steve finally snapped, not anger this time, but resolve.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, barely audible.

Robin felt movement behind her before she fully registered it. She turned her head just in time to see Steve shift decisively, one hand bracing on Jonathan’s shoulder as he climbed into his space, knees knocking awkwardly against the seat.
Then Steve kissed him.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t planned. It was messy and impulsive and raw, born out of too many unspoken things crashing together at once. Jonathan froze for a heartbeat, shock flashed across his face then his instincts caught up with him. His arms came up around Steve’s back, fingers fisted in the fabric of Steve’s jacket like he was afraid Steve might disappear if he let go. He pulled him closer, kissed him back with equal urgency, all restraint burned away.
Robin’s voice cut through it, half-laughing, half-warning. “Ugh. Guys. Please. We are also here. In the car. With eyes.”
Nancy laughed under her breath when she caught the movement in the rearview mirror, shaking her head like she was witnessing something inevitable rather than shocking.
Jonathan pulled back first. Not abruptly. Not rejecting. Just… enough.

Steve barely registered it at first. His hands were still gripping Jonathan’s jacket like it was the only thing keeping him upright, his breath was uneven, pulse roared in his ears. When Jonathan shifted, Steve stiffened and the spell cracked all at once.
“Fuck,” Steve muttered, like he was waking up somewhere unfamiliar.
Jonathan’s hands loosened but didn't fully let go. He looked wrecked, eyes dark, mouth swollen, breathing too fast. Like he had just crossed a line he didn’t know how to walk back from.
“I—” Jonathan started, then stopped. Swallowed. “Steve. We should—”

Steve pulled away before he could finish.
It was not dramatic. It was worse than that, it was controlled. Steve straightened, scooted back into his own space on the seat, pressed himself against the door like distance could rewind the last thirty seconds. He wiped his mouth with the back of his injured hand, hissed softly when it pulled at the bandage.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Right. Sorry. I don’t… I wasn’t thinking.”
The words landed wrong. Hollow.
Jonathan’s face tightened. “Steve, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Steve cutted in. His voice was steady now, locked down hard. “I just… freaked out. Long night. Tarot bullshit. Blood loss.” A humorless huff. “You know how it is.”

Jonathan didn’t smile. Neither did Robin.
The car filled with an awkward, suffocating quiet. The rain beat harder against the windshield, headlights smearing across wet asphalt as Nancy kept driving, jaw tight, pretending very hard not to notice what had just shattered in the backseat.
Jonathan sat frozen, hands clenched in his lap, staring straight ahead like he could turn the moment back into something safer. Something smaller. Steve turned his face toward the window. The glass was cold against his temple. The carnival lights blurred past in streaks of color, dissolving into nothing. His chest ached—not sharp, not dramatic—just heavy, like gravity reasserted itself.

He had crossed the gap.
And then he’d remembered exactly why he’d been orbiting instead.
Fear settled back in, familiar and cruel. The certainty that he’d misread everything. That Jonathan’s kiss had been reflex, adrenaline, proximity. That wanting didn’t mean being wanted in return.
Steve closed his eyes. When the car finally pulled into Hawkins, he didn't say goodbye.
He had already gone somewhere distant, somewhere quiet and defensive and alone—back inside himself, where it hurt less to pretend nothing had happened at all.
Behind him, Jonathan watched the space Steve left behind like it was a wound that won’t close. And the orbit, broken for one reckless moment, locked back into place.

The car stopped. The engine idled for a second too long before Nancy killed it. Rain ticked against the roof, steady and unforgiving. No one moved. Steve was the first to open a door.
“I’ll walk the rest, I'll pick up my car tomorrow” he said, already halfway out, voice flat. “It’s close.”
“Steve—” Robin started.
He didn’t look back. He pulled the door shut with his good hand and stepped into the rain like it was a punishment he had earned. Jonathan flinched at the sound.
“Let him,” Nancy said quietly, though it didn’t sound like certainty. More like triage.

Steve’s shoulders hunched as the cold soaks through his jacket almost instantly. He didn’t run this time. He walked. Measured. Controlled. Every step was deliberate, like if he kept moving, he wouldn't feel the hollow ache that spread under his ribs.
Behind him, Jonathan stayed in the car. That was the worst part.
Not that Steve left—but that Jonathan let him.
The silence stretched until Robin exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down her face. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “That was… bad.”
Jonathan didn’t answer. His hands were still shaking. He pressed them together hard enough to hurt, grounding himself in the pressure. His mouth still tasted like Steve—rain, metal, heat—and the memory hit him so sharply he had to swallow to keep from saying Steve’s name out loud.
“I should go after him,” he said finally.
Nancy glanced at him.“Do you know what you’d say?” Jonathan opened his mouth and closed it.

No.

Because anything honest would rip something open they didn’t yet know how to survive. And anything careful would sound like rejection all over again.
“I don’t want to make it worse,” he admitted.
Robin let out a humorless laugh. “Buddy. I think that ship already hit the iceberg.”
Jonathan winced.
Nancy started the car again. “We’ll check on him tomorrow,” she said, like a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. “When things… cooled down.”
Jonathan nodded, though dread coiled tighter in his chest.

Steve didn't go home. He didn't go anywhere, really.
He ended up walking a few blocks away from the WSQK tower, sitting on a random stone wall, rain falling down like the world was dissolving in front of him. His injured hand throbbed dully.

Good , he thought dimly.
Something I can actually explain.

He pressed his forehead into his good hand. Images replayed whether he wanted them to or not: Jonathan’s hands gripping his jacket, the way he had kissed back without hesitation. The way he had pulled away. Steve laughed once, sharp and broken.
“Idiot,” he murmured to himself, to the universe, to whatever part of him still believed in gravity. He’d wanted the punch. The pain. Something clean and immediate. Instead, he got hope. That was far worse.

Jonathan didn't sleep.
When he had finally gotten home, he sat on his bed fully dressed, the teddy bear still clutched in one hand without realizing it. The ridiculousness of it hit him suddenly and he almost threw it across the room—until he remembered Steve had handed it to him without a word. The deliberate way he’d tried. The care.Jonathan’s chest tightened painfully.
“He didn’t mean it,” Jonathan whispered into the dark. Or maybe, Steve had meant it too much.
Jonathan pressed his thumb into the bear’s stitched heart like it might answer him.
For years, he’d told himself Steve Harrington was untouchable. Too loud. Too straight. Too dangerous to want.
And tonight—just for seconds—Steve had crossed the distance himself. Jonathan buried his face in his hands.
Tomorrow, he will have to go and say something. He had to. Apologize. Explain. Risk it.
Tonight, all he could do was sit with the knowledge that they’d broken their orbit and gravity had snapped them back hard enough to hurt. Outside, the rain kept falling. The radio tower loomed in the distance, red lights blinked steadily against the dark, still standing, still warning, still watching.

And somewhere between fear and want, Steve and Jonathan just started over, circling each other again. Not colliding. Not escaping. Just orbiting.

The next morning didn't bring any clarity.
It brought a headache, a stiff neck, and the quiet, grinding realization that Steve couldn’t remember the last time he slept somewhere that felt like home.
He woke up at the radio station, the rain had finally burned itself out sometime before dawn. His jacket was still damp, his hand was swollen and aching, the bandage already pinked through. When he flexed his fingers, pain lanced up his arm sharp enough to make him hiss.

Good.
Still here.

He sat there longer than necessary, staring at the tower through a fogged window. Its red lights blinked patiently, rhythm unbroken, like a pulse that didn't care whether anyone was watching.
Steve thought about going back, about knocking on Jonathan’s door. About saying I’m sorry or I didn’t mean it or please don’t look at me like I imagined all of that.
He didn't do any of those things. Instead, he left and started walking. Not far. Just enough to keep moving. Just enough to avoid standing still with the echo of Jonathan’s hands burned into his skin.

Jonathan woke to the sound of his own name in his head. He’d dreamed of the mirror maze again, corridors multiplying endlessly, reflections of Steve everywhere he had turned. In the dream, Steve had never looked at him. Never had reached back. Jonathan had kept following anyway, certain that if he would have stopped, something worse would happen.
He woke with his heart racing and the taste of regret thick in his mouth.
Despite himself, Jonathan huffed a weak laugh.
It faded quickly. Because the truth was: Steve didn’t just kiss him last night. He had jumped without a net, without certainty, without knowing whether Jonathan would catch him or not. But Jonathan had. For a moment. Then he’d let go.

By evening, the town felt too small.
Steve ended up back at the radio station without quite meaning to. He had picked up his car at Nancy’s, had blocked every try of hers to talk about what happened.
The station was quiet, empty in that echoing way that made every footstep feel loud. Rain had started earlier to fall again. Steve sat on the couch, head tipped back, eyes closed, breathing shallow.
This was familiar. Being alone after the noise had stopped. What wasn't familiar was the ache under it, the wanting that didn't know where to go now.
When the door creaked open, Steve didn't look up. “Go away,” he said flatly.

Jonathan didn't.
“I could,” Jonathan said quietly. “If you really want me to.”
That made Steve open his eyes. Jonathan stood just inside the doorway, rain-damp hair curled at his temples, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he was afraid of what they might do otherwise. He looked tired. Wrecked. Real.
Steve laughed once, sharp. “You’re really bad at that.”
“Yeah,” Jonathan admitted. “I am.”
Silence stretched between them.Steve pushed himself upright, his injured hand was cradled instinctively against his chest. “If you’re here to apologize,” he said, voice brittle, “don’t.”
“I’m not,” Jonathan said. Steve blinked.
“I’m here because I should’ve stayed last night,” Jonathan continued, words slow, deliberate. “And because I didn’t, and that was… cowardly. And because you deserve better than silence.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”
Jonathan nodded. “You’re right.”
Another pause. He stepped closer, not too close. Just being present.

“I didn’t kiss you back because I was confused,” Jonathan said. “I kissed you back because I wanted to. Because I’ve wanted to for longer than I let myself admit. And I pulled away because I was scared of what it would mean if I wouldn’t.”
Steve’s throat worked. “So what—this is you being brave now?”

Jonathan met his eyes, he didn't flinch. “This is me being honest.”
Steve looked away first this time.
“Honesty would’ve been telling me before I made a fool of myself,” he muttered.
Jonathan’s voice softened. “You didn’t.”
Steve scoffed. “Jumping you in the backseat? Punching mirrors? Running off like a lunatic?”
“That wasn’t foolish,” Jonathan said gently. “That was hurting”
Steve’s shoulders shook once. He hated that Jonathan could see it.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Steve admitted finally. “I don’t know how to want something without wrecking it.”
Jonathan stepped right in front of Steve then, slow, deliberate, giving the other one time to pull away.
“You don’t have to know,” he declared. “You just have to stop trying alone.”

Steve closed his eyes. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then he exhaled, long, shaky and leaned forward until his forehead rested against Jonathan’s shoulder.
Not a kiss. Not forgiveness. Just contact between them.
Jonathan’s hands hovered for a second before settling carefully at Steve’s back, warm and steady.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, something fragile started to build between them.
Not fixed. Not healed. But not broken anymore.

And for now—
that was enough.

The Star does not promise the night will end. Only that you are not alone beneath it.
— The Star, Major Arcana