bestfeature | open rp post.

[ Steve just stares at him in disbelief at first. like, really. is this really how it's going to be. ]

Dude, you were the one stomping around in my backyard. You lost your say.

[ Jesus. Steve used to be his bully and now he's just. This is something else. Concern. Still bossy as hell though. He's starting to get the feeling even if he could get to the phone, Steve wouldn't let him use the damn thing. He glances away, trying not to roll his eyes (and failing.)

This is... shitty. But he hates that look, so much. ]

Fine. But it's not a big deal.

[ And he sits down on the couch. He wasn't stomping. ]

I can call home and get our of your hair.

[ Once he's satisfied that Jonathan is going to sit down, he heads into the kitchen, grabbing a baggie and stuffing it full of ice before wrapping it in a kitchen towel. He steps back into the other room and grabs the phone from a side table nearby, dragging it over to the couch and plopping it down nearby, the cord tangling around the coffee table haphazardly. ]

You're not in my hair. [ He rolls his eyes back at him, nodding at his leg. ] Let's see it.

[ Glancing at the phone, Jonathan doesn't bother to make a reach for it because Steve's focused. This is... look. Jonathan doesn't like relying on other people. Letting other people lean on him, sure. So this doesn't sit well with him. It's doubly strange given who is trying to help him. His hesitance is clear in his posture, hands on his legs and sitting too upright on the couch.

But he'd caved so he'll deal. Like he always does.

Fingers curl in his pants leg and he pulls his jeans up to uncover his ankle. Not broken, not bleeding - well, okay there are a few scrapes, but - it's just swollen and bruised, mottled purple. ]

No big deal.

No big deal? What the hell, man?

[ With an annoyed grunt, Steve leans in to inspect his ankle. He frowns, looking back up at Jonathan. ]

It's a sprain, moron. Ever had one before?

[ As he speaks, he pulls back, picking up the makeshift ice pack and holding it out to him. ]

Yeah.

[ cross country, track, it's not like he's never been hurt doing that before and sprains were pretty normal - but he'll admit that he's never hurt his ankle this bad, no matter what he's claiming.

Grabbing the ice pack, Jonathan presses it against the side of his foot for a moment as he leans forward. ]

It could be worse.

Christ.

[ Steve shakes his head as he straightens up, dusting himself off. His gaze lingers on Jonathan's ankle for a moment before he glances back over at him. Concern mixes in with his annoyance; despite his words, his tone tells a different story, more jabbing lightly than actually coming at him. ]

Doesn't mean it's good. You remember Jimmy Fitzgerald? He was the center on the basketball team. "Was" — idiot pushed through a sprain and messed up his ankle real good. Colleges were scouting him, too.

[ He steps over to another couch in the room, grabbing a few pillows and brings them back over to plop them down next to Jonathan. ]

— elevate it. And don't even start with the "well I'm not playing basketball so it's not so bad" shit, you're not doing it any favors stumbling back in the dark.

[ Jonathan just sighs, shifting around on the couch so he can put his foot up on the pillows with the ice pack leaning against the ugly swelling. This isn't worth arguing over, he tells himself over and over. How did you know he wanted to say something about his non-existent chances at basketball? Besides, he's had worse injuries, so what if they were unrelated to sports. Hell, Steve did too.

He ends up half slouched there, still not reaching for the phone. ]

Compared to things, this isn't bad. Besides, you shouldn't talk.

Wow, Byers, it's like you're trying to be rude as hell.

[ He's not offended or anything, though, shrugging his shoulders as he sits down on the floor by the couch. ]

But you're right, this isn't bad compared to anything else. You're not concussed and trying to keep four preteens from getting themselves killed in death tunnels, so you can actually stop and take care of yourself.

[ He presses his lips together in a tight line, tilting his head to look down at his foot - and Steve. Annoying how he has a point, and he's snappy when he says it, and Jonathan hates how he doesn't have some smart comeback for it. ]

It's not-- I just, I could manage on my own with something like this.

Edited 2019-07-31 00:31 (UTC)

Okay, but— it doesn't have to be like that.

[ And he feels a bit hypocritical, after he dodged talking about everything not too long ago. But also, he can't leave this alone. Maybe a year or so ago he could, but that was then. ]

What, are you too good for my help or something?

[ Jonathan can feel his jaw tensing at the question. It's not like that at all. He's just gone so long with so little help - he had to be so much more than a kid. He was the one his family relied on. So dealing with stuff on his own was just something he was used to, and something he didn't expect from people.

He stays silent for a moment longer as he tries to come up some excuse that doesn't sound shitty. Except he can't. ]

It's not that. Trust me, it's not.

[ Steve eyes him warily, almost resigned at this point. It's hard, with all the history between them — with that and how desperately he wants to move past it. He should have known better; it would never be that easy.

Slowly, he shakes his head. ]

Yeah. Okay.

[ There's a bit of disbelief in his voice as he pushes himself up off the floor. ]

Phone's there.

[ God, he hates the change in tone, but Jonathan doesn't - or rather, can't, say anything right away. His muscles and his feelings are too tightly wound and he hates that, too. But he remembers the talk they'd had a few days ago and he knows Steve deserves more than just leaving at that. He's offering just like Jonathan had the other day and this time, Jonathan's being the stupid one for not taking him up on it.

Steve gets up and Jonathan chews the inside of his lip, debating. ]

It's... it's not because of you.

[ The words are mumbled, stumbling out in that awkward way Jonathan has sometimes. It's not because of who they both used to be and how their relationship had been.

His hands rub his legs over his jeans and he's found a really interesting spot on the floor to stare at. ]

— huh?

[ He stops where he stands, turning back over to Jonathan. It's not often that Steve finds himself caught off guard — well, excluding anything Nancy or Dustin would have had a hand in one way or another, anyway — but that's exactly what happens as he furrows his brows. ]

I said it's not you.

[ He manages to lift his eyes from the floor but he still doesn't look at Steve. Steve doesn't know the details and, as usual, Jonathan is more than a little reticent on talking about them. It's one thing to talk about the demogorgon, the demodogs, Eleven, and all that, but the other stuff? Stuff that's been a burden his entire life? He knows exactly why he's holding back, and no matter how good it had been to let some of that go in the past - it's still hard.

Another pause. ]

It's not your help that I have a problem with.

[ His hands curl into fists on his pants, bitten nails pressing into his palms. ]

Edited 2019-07-31 21:56 (UTC)

[ Steve eyes him for a long moment, gaze drifting down to his hands — his fists — and it hits him, quietly.

Oh.

Shit. Here he was, making it about himself again, when it didn't have anything to do with him at all, not really. It had never been about him at all. Jonathan's always been a little — okay, well, a lot — different from everyone else, but Steve had never really considered what that meant. Then again, with how many walls he himself had thrown up the other day, maybe they weren't as different as he'd thought.

There's a long, quiet moment as Steve considers this, tipping his head to the side, his expression softening slightly. ]

. . . Okay. [ A beat. ] So, like, if I get you something to drink, are you going to be cool or are you going to spill it all over yourself and my couch because your wrists are banged up too or something?

[ He's thankful that Steve doesn't press it, so much so that his hands relax slightly against his legs, fists not curled nearly so tight. He'll take even a shred of understanding - it's more than he can ask for, given that he's not quite ready to spill his guts about his whole life, and his dad. ]

Uh, yeah. I'll be cool.

[ Finally he looks up at Steve, face still tight, but it's better than it was. ]

Wrists are fine.

[ to prove his point, he uncurls his right hand and tests his wrist out. Just fine. ]

Cool.

[ He flashes him a grin before turning and walking back towards the kitchen. He makes a point of going about it a bit more slowly than he normally would, to give Jonathan an opportunity to use the phone and unwind or something. Whatever.

Then again, when he'd do this for friends before ("friends"), it was always an easy matter of popping open the fridge, grabbing a couple of beers, and heading back out. This time, he opens up a cabinet and takes out a glass, filling it up with ice and water, and then brings it back out. ]

What'd you do, anyway? Trip or something?

[ He could call, but he's still too mired in his own thoughts. He needs that time to chill, just a little. Besides, by car, he's like 5 minutes away. Mom can get here in no time. Or he could just walk, he tells himself. Like a liar - even with the ice, it stings like hell, and an experimental rotation of his ankle doesn't give him much faith that he'd make it back any time soon.

Not to mention, Steve probably wouldn't let him even try it, with the way he's acting today.

Jonathan puts his camera on the end table nearest the couch, only looking up when Steve returns with the glass. ]

Uh, yeah. Everything's so overgrown. So, it happens. My own fault.

Some coordination.

[ He's not wrong, though. The woods in their area have always been kind of rough, and no one's really wanted to go out there to, well, clean things up after everything that's happened. Besides, it's the woods. That's how they are. Whatever.

Steve settles back in on the floor by the couch, leaning against it with his hands flat on the floor. He briefly glances over at his beef can at the other end of the table — half-empty, probably — from where he'd discarded it when he'd heard noises. ]

Should've been using the flashlight.

[ He admits it, because it's true, he's an idiot. His coordination isn't usually that bad that he'd fall the way he did. ]

Camera's okay though.

[ Clearly that's what matters??? ]

Wait. Wait, you had a flashlight on you?

[ Oh yeah, didn't he say something like that before? About not needing it until— ]

Dude. Come on.

I needed both hands for the camera.

[ This should be obvious. Also, obvious that the photos would be his priority. He makes another experimental stretch of his ankle. ]

Dude.

[ He sounds so disappointed. ]

You need, like, light and stuff to see and use the damn camera.

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