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"Are you sure it's fine to smoke in here?"
Jonathan gives him an amused look, one of the ones where his eyes narrow and the left side of his mouth curls up. It makes Steve's chest do something that feels like a leap. "It's my apartment, I'm sure."
Steven hums. He watches Jonathan push the ground up weed into the splayed out paper, carefully arranging it. He's good at this, it's like watching Da Vinci paint the Mona Lisa. Was that Da Vinci? Steve isn't really the best at that classic art stuff.
"Won't the smell, like… smell?"
It makes Jonathan snort. "We'll crack a window."
"Cool, yeah, cool," Steve swallows. He doesn't know what he's being so fucking awkward for, it's not like he hasn't hung out with Jonathan like this before. Since he moved to New York, and more importantly, since they became true friends, Steve's found reasons and excuses to visit him fairly often. It's fun to get away from Hawkins for a bit, he likes the city, he likes the hustle-and-bustle. He likes being around Jonathan, truthfully, even if that's still intensely embarrassing for him to admit.
Jonathan's started inviting him over more, lately, too. Calling him, asking if he wants to spend the weekend— that's why Steve is here, in his pajamas, trying not to lose his damn mind in Jonathan Byers' kitchen.
Maybe it just feels different because they're the only two here. Usually, Will is around, and his presence helps keep Steve grounded in reality. Now though, it's just him and Jonathan, and somehow, it makes the apartment feel smaller.
Steve busies himself with glancing at the magnets on Jonathan's fridge. Every time Steven comes, he swears there's more; some of them are novelty, or based on various cities, but the majority are themed around movies. Steve hasn't seen most of them, and the one's he has, are films that Jonathan's put on for him and Steve has pretended to watch.
He does that a lot, pretends to watch the things Jonathan wants him too; what he does even more, though, is pretend not to watch Jonathan.
Like now— Jonathan has finished rolling the joint and he perches it between his lips as he opens his kitchen window. It has a defined windowsill, and Jonathan rests his foot on it to get better leverage. His jeans pull taut over his legs, and Steve's eyes drift to his ass, and he has to wrench his own eyes shut so he stops looking. Get it together, man, he tells himself. When he opens them again, it's because he hears the sound of a lighter.
Jonathan shields the flame with a cupped hand, white tendrils of smoke starting to drift from the end of the joint. He meets Steve's eyes, tossing his lighter back to his kitchen counter with a clatter. He passes the joint towards Steve with pinched fingers, "Wanna watch a movie?"
Steve takes a hit, holds it. He can feel the heat fill his lungs, and when he exhales, he watches it plume out the cracked window. "Sure, why not."
At least his couch is comfy, Steve thinks as he plops himself down in it. Jonathan is rambling about something a he peruses his VHS collection, Steve isn't really keeping up. He's a little busy observing the way Jonathan's hair curls around his ears, and how his eyebrows furrow when he's focused, and how the lean muscle of his biceps flexes when he moves his arms. Steve feels hungry in a way he's not really used to feeling, let alone for a boy. He takes another hit.
"Hey, are you gonna help me with this thing or what? It's like I'm smoking it by myself."
Jonathan huffs out a small laugh. He picks a movie, slides the tape in, and then sits next to him. He takes the joint and unceremoniously flicks the ash off— it lands somewhere on the floor, which Steve would find more egregious if he hadn't seen Jonathan vacuum like a million times when he's over.
"Would you really complain if you got the whole thing to yourself?" Jonathan muses. Steve rolls his eyes.
"I would," he says decisively. "What, are you trying to get me high or something, Byers?"
Jonathan smirks, blowing out a cloud of smoke and passing it back. "So what if I was?"
It… it feels flirty. Maybe Steve is just imagining it, but it's felt flirty lately. Somewhere between the biting banter they used to do when they were less than friends, and something entirely more affectionate. Steve swallows again— his throat is getting dry, and he doubts it's just the weed. "And why would you do that?"
A simple shrug. Jonathan looks as if he's considering, so Steve gives him a moment to do so while he drowns his complicated feelings in another drag.
"You're more honest when you're high."
Steve's blood runs cold.
He knows exactly what Jonathan is talking about. The last time they smoked together like this, about a month and a half ago— Steve got lost in the moment. Will had gone to bed, and him and Jonathan went on a bit of a walk, and between hits, Steve had looks Jonathan in the eyes and said, "You're pretty, you know."
He'd said it so earnestly he couldn't even play it off as a joke. All he could do was move on, and hope Jonathan wouldn't question it, and hopefully it would never be brought up again. Unfortunately, he wasn't so lucky.
Steve passes the joint back. He smooths his palms over his pants, fingers twitching against his knees. "Do you…like when I'm honest?"
Jonathan looks at him— why does he keep looking at him like that..? There's something in his eyes that Steven can't fucking decipher, something sweet and sticky that feels thicker than molasses. It's heavy. It's real.
"I do. I think you should do it more— with me, I mean," Jonathan leans forward and snubs the joint out in the ash tray on the coffee table. Then, he leans back against the couch, gives Steve another one of those damn, unexplainable looks. "Can you be honest with me, Steve Harrington?"
Steve's heart is going a mile a minute. "Yeah," he answers, too quickly, too eager. "With, um, with what exactly?"
Jonathan tilts his head slightly, chuckles under his breath. "You're hopeless."
Steve frowns. "What? I'm not hopeless, I'm-"
Oh. Steve can't finish his thought— there's fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt and a mouth on his own. Jonathan's mouth. On his own. Their lips are touching. He's kissing Jonathan Byers.
Steve's entire body tenses, and Jonathan pulls back, and it's over too soon. Steve wilts, moving back forward, chasing him— "Wait, I-"
"What?" Jonathan interrupts. He's still holding onto Steve's shirt, and his lips are still curled into a coy smile. "What do you want, Steve? You gotta say it."
"You," Steven mutters, but it's too much, too soon. His mouth snap shut for about two seconds before he's rushing to explain himself. "I—I want to kiss you again, if that's something you also want."
Jonathan laughs again, that same easy, somewhat fond laugh that makes Steve's chest flip. "There you go."
This time, when their lips meet, Steve is more prepared. He relaxes into it, lets his mouth part, surrenders himself to the fact that yes, this is happening, he is in fact kissing Jonathan Byers, and he did in fact want this to happen.
It's slow, steady. Jonathan doesn't give him too much at once; he merely brushes the tip of his tongue along Steve's bottom lip and Steve is shuddering.
"C'mere," Jonathan mutters into his mouth, and Steve doesn't really know what he means but he still tries to listen. He presses closer. It must not be enough though, because one of Jonathan's hands is dropping to his thigh, curling around the back and tugging his leg up and over him and then— and then Steve is in his lap. He's straddling him, Jonathan's fingers pressing into the meat of his thigh, other hand curling around his waist. What the fuck.
He's never been on this side of things before— usually, when he's making out with someone like this, it's him pulling a girl into his lap, sliding his hands up her waist, usually, he's in control. It doesn't feel like that here.
A hand sneaks down to Steve's ass and squeezes and it makes him gasp sharply; it's like it was deliberate, because then Jonathan is pushing his tongue into his mouth and deepening the kiss. He tastes like smoke and the off-brand soda he keeps stocked in his fridge and Steve feels dizzy from it, he can't recall ever being so affected by just a kiss.
He doesn't even feel that high, they smoked barely half the joint, and yet his fingertips are buzzing and his head feels murky just from the experience of kissing Jonathan. The heat, the taste, the weight of his hands on Steve's body. He gets lost in it— he doesn't even notice he's hard, and he certainly doesn't process the fact that he's moving until his hips push forward, right against Jonathan's crotch.
"Oh my god," Steve mutters. He breaks the kiss, his lips wet from Jonathan's tongue. He feels breathless. "Sorry, I.."
"It's okay," Jonathan assures. He's moving his touch up and under Steve's shirt, fingers grazing purposefully up his spine. His eyes are dark like this, illuminated only in the dim lamplight, and he's peering at Steve with a small, gentle smile. "Do you like this? Do you want me to get you off?"
Steve sputters— he's so matter of fact about it, like what he's offering isn't borderline fucking earth shattering. "Yes," Steve responds anyway, and it's honest— he wants so badly for it to keep going, for Jonathan to kiss him again, for his hands to stay where they are on his bare skin. "Fuck, yeah, I do.."
Jonathan kisses him again. It's less slow, with more intent, and Steve can't even stop the helpless noise that slips from his throat. It sounds like a whine, and he hardly cares, not when Jonathan is pulling him closer and guiding his hips back down.
The friction is great, a welcome oasis from the tightness that's been growing in his pants. It feels good, the persistent grind, the way Jonathan scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip, the way he holds onto Steve's body like he knows exactly the way to touch him.
Steve's never felt like this, so content to just be lead. Jonathan sets the pace and all Steve does is follow, and accept, and enjoy. Jonathan breaks the kiss to instead mouth down the side of his neck. His teeth catch, and Steven shudders, tipping his head back as his hips kick forward. "Y—You can—please-"
Luckily, Jonathan seems to know exactly what he wants. He guides Steve's hips down rougher and sinks his teeth into the base of his throat, tongue laving over the indents left by his bite. Steve fails to swallow down the moan it pulls from him, it all just overwhelms him. He wants more. Steve loops his arms around Jonathan's shoulders and tangles a hand in his hair— he doesn't pull, he just rests it there, fingers threaded in the long strands.
"Oh my god," Steve repeats, "Jesus, I'm gonna-"
Jonathan bites him again and sucks a mark onto his skin, grinding his his up until Steve's orgasm is hitting him like a truck. He makes more embarrassing noises, and he rides out his high even as an uncomfortable wet spot forms on the front of his pants. He thinks Jonathan finishes too, because his entire body stiffens under Steve and then he groans into the skin of his neck, fingers grasping him so tightly that it almost starts to hurt. Almost.
What the fuck.
Steve's brain is just that, over and over again, what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. Jonathan leans back after a minute or two of regaining his breath. His eyelids look heavy, and his skin is flushed, and he's somehow still smiling. "I have some sweats you could borrow."
"Huh?" Steve blinks, and then remembers the mess he's made of his pants and he feels his face get warmer. "Right—uh, thanks.."
If there's a graceful way to climb out of someone's lap, whatever Steve does is not it. He stumbles, and nearly falls, and Jonathan catches and stabilizes him with a hand around his forearm. He laughs gently, and brushes his thumb over Steve's wrist in a way that he can only describe as tender.
They don't really talk about it, after, and Steve is okay with that. He figures they will, at some point, but for now he's content to just continue hanging out instead of discussing what they just did and why they did it. Jonathan gives him new pants, and changes his own as well. They never finish the movie, but they do finish the joint, and then they giggle their way through attempting to make dinner (and ultimately deciding to just order pizza instead).
They talk about other things, and there's this tension that hangs around them now— it's not uncomfortable, nor is it burdensome. It's not something that Steve feels like he has to run away from, and it's nothing it feels like he needs to rush. It just is.
Usually, when Steve crashes here, he stays on the couch. Jonathan had offered him to steal Will's bed this weekend now that his brother is elsewhere, but when Steve yawns, Jonathan offers something else.
"If you want, we can share my bed," and then, for the first time tonight, Jonathan looks a little nervous. He rubs at the back of his neck and shrugs. His voice comes out just a slight bit more timid. "You don't have to."
"No, it's.." Steve waves a hand in the air. Smiles. "I mean, yeah, I will."
Steve kisses him in bed. Long, languid, deep. In the morning, Jonathan wakes him up with another kiss, and Steve sticks a hand down his pants, and he accepts that maybe this is just how it is now. Whatever it is he and Jonathan are doing, he likes it a lot. He decides to just accept it for what it is.