"I... I still can't believe he's home."

Snow's falling outside Jon's window, and maybe last week you would've dragged him and Will out into the cold and made snow angels all night... but this past week's resembled one of Will's D&D campaigns more than something from one of your favorite coming-of-age films.

Jonathan's voice is barely audible over the sound of his boombox, some Psychedelic Furs song rumbling softly from the speakers atop his dresser. "All of this feels like my fault," he murmurs, fingers curled into his old comforter, "I should've been there for him. I was supposed to be there."

He was supposed to be. A week ago, you and Jonathan had worked a double at The Hawk Theater, getting home to your respective houses and not realizing Will never made it back on his own. Fast forward to now— he's asleep in the next room over, you, Jonathan, and Nancy Wheeler have matching scars spanning your palms, and you're all forever changed. No government lab NDAs could ever make you forget what real monsters looked like; either unsightly creatures or arrogant men.

"Shit!" Jonathan jolts in place when the boombox starts skipping, and he's quick to thump on top of it to get the tape playing smoothly again. It's an older model, sure, but even you were startled by the warped noises that'd once been Richard Butler's singing. Neither of you says the sound's reminiscent of the Demogorgon that fell through the ceiling a few days ago, but it's implied by the silence and the faraway look in both of your eyes.

"Stay the night." Jonathan's plea is quiet, so much so that you almost don't catch it, but it hits your ears nonetheless and makes you wince. "… Please."

He doesn't ask for help— neither do you— and while you know it's an eldest child habit meant to take stress off his mother, the sheer defeatism in his voice only proves just how much he needs support.

His hand rests atop yours, matching bandages on your palms in view. It'll be like old times… only less fun and more guilt-ridden.