Jonathan Byers- Secret Winter

"Seriously, Byers, are you planning on wearing that same shirt until 1986?" Your voice was perfectly disguised and full of disgust, putting Jonathan Byers down like you did every day.. You didn't even stop walking, you strutted right past Jonathan, who stood hunched by his locker, fiddling with a camera lens cap. As you walked by, you slammed your shoulder into him. A secret code. Meet me later.

A few snickers bubbled up through the hall. Jonathan didn't flinch. He just gave you a slow, empty look, the kind he reserved for people he deemed irrelevant. It was a look that would make anyone else back down, but it only fueled your performance. You flashed a bright, careless smile at Carol and Tommy, who were already hanging on your every word.

"Don’t strain yourself thinking of a comeback, Byers. It's Friday. Go develop your weird photos of trees or whatever. Unless you got more girls undressing in that disgusting camera again?"

He waited until the bell rang and the hallway emptied. Then, he let out a low chuckle. Disgusting, you'd said. That's what you wanted everyone to think.

The icy Indiana winter was perfect for your arrangement. It was too cold for Castle Byers, so tonight was his house.

You drove your shiny car, parking three blocks away on a quiet residential street. The walk was miserable, the cold biting through your designer wool coat. You hated the cold. You hated the walk. But you loved the secrecy and you loved him.

You walked behind the house and tapped twice, then once, on the kitchen window. Jonathan opened the back door immediately, pulling you inside with a rough grip on your wrist. The kitchen was dark, smelling like burnt toast and something herbal.

"Took you long enough, Princess," he mumbled, kicking the door shut.

You shrugged off his touch, smoothing down your sweater. You told him not to be dramatic, that you had to ditch Nancy.

"Ah, yes. Nancy." He leaned against the counter, rolling his eyes "You were almost nice today. Five points for the shirt comment. It was original. For you, I guess."

You rolled your eyes back, but there was a flicker of genuine irritation in your voice, telling him that you were just "maintaining the narrative, Jonathan. We have rules."

"Rules are for other people." He closed the distance between you again, quickly, silencing you with a kiss that was nothing like the careful, slow, almost clumsy kisses of your ex-boyfriend. This was hard, fast, and demanding. His mouth was wet and hot and tasted strongly like smoke and mint.

The kiss broke your resistance immediately. You clawed at his worn flannel, pushing him back against the nearest wall, the facade of the ‘mean girl’ dissolving into something raw and desperate.

"You earned it, didn’t you?" he breathed into your mouth, pulling back just far enough to look at you. His dark eyes were locked onto you. "All that attitude out there. It’s a challenge. Yeah." He hooked a hand under your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You’re telling me you hate me. And then you show up here."

He didn’t wait for a response. He took your wrist and pulled you quickly down the dark hallway and into his room. The air was almost suffocating with his favorite strain of weed, and the faint, chemical scent of photo fixer from his makeshift darkroom in the closet. The room was messy, records scattered, books stacked on the floor. It was a chaotic haven.

You sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the sudden, intoxicating rush of being entirely out of bounds. "Look at me," he commanded as he lit a joint and you obeyed, a thrill of nervousness running through you. He put the joint to your lips after him. You hesitated for a second, then took a small, quick hit. You hated the taste and the smoke, but you knew what it meant: a truce, a descent, a shared secret. He never let you get away with saying no, anyway.

He handed you the joint, then reached for his camera, the old, heavy SLR he always had slung around his neck. He raised it quickly, focusing the lens on you.

Click. Whirrr.

The sound was loud in the small room. You blinked, barely guarding against the sudden flash. You started to protest, telling him not to take pictures of you. You always said it. He always did, anyway. Usually when you were undressed, sometimes when you were in a daze after he was done, but the protests never stopped him.

"Why not?" His voice was filled with amusement. "It's the only time you look… real." He lowered the camera and placed it on the bed near the pillows. Then, he was on you, his hands grabbing your waist, pulling you roughly off the mattress and into his lap. The flannel of his shirt was soft against your cheek.

"Tell me again what you said today," he whispered, nibbling at your ear. You repeated that his shirt was ugly and overworn. He gripped your hips tighter, almost painfully. "And why did you say that?"

You laughed softly, telling him that you meant it. He squeezed your hips harder, a warning. "Try again."

You melted into him, giving up the fight as his mouth found yours, smothering the rest of the lie. The meanness outside was just foreplay, a toxic ritual that proved to him that you needed this, that you needed him, far more than you needed the approval of your friends.

He loved that about you. You were desperate for his approval, secret or not. You kept coming back and you would always keep coming back. He leaned forward, pinning you down with his body as he started to pull your clothes off of you, leaving you holding the joint that you stuff in his ashtray at the last second before he pins your arms down, his entire body sliding up between your legs. He starts to nibble at your neck, not quite leaving a hickey but making you nervous that he might.

He sat up suddenly, reaching for the camera again after unbuttoning your top with his mouth. He didn't answer when you protested, just tilted the camera and adjusted the lens. The flash lit up the room again, capturing the soft, unguarded curve of your collarbone, the messy reality of your hair, the undeniable truth written on your face and your bare chest, pinned under him.

Click. Whirrr.

"That's my good girl.."