Hey y'all. Sorry for the slow update. Going through finals week right now, and then my birthday's on Sunday, so it's going to be a slow update schedule, especially considering that the next few chapters after this one aren't completely finished yet. Sorry for the delay!

Thanks for the reviews, follows, and favs!

In the end, the police come.

It's the last thing that Steve wants, but it wasn't as if he had much choice in the matter. Hopper, who must've been a hawk in a past life from the way he patrols the town, swoops in during the aftermath on orders to drag both him and Billy to the police station. Billy is the one who earns the privilege of riding with the chief of police; "If Harrington gets in this car with me, there ain't going to be nothing in the world that'll stop me from ripping him to fucking shreds," Billy snarls, his black eye now turning a sickly shade of green that reminds Steve of a rotten apple.

"Mhm. I'm going to assume that you've forgotten who you were talking to for a moment," Hopper says icily. "Now get in the goddamn car."

However, his grip on Billy's forearm does noticeably tighten after the remark. Billy Hargrove, stubborn to the end, grunts at the added pressure but doesn't grace Hopper with a reaction.

There's a huge crowd now: mostly high schoolers with some middle schoolers and even a teacher or two. No one dares to come within five feet of Steve, Hopper, and Billy. It all melts into oblivion, anyway. Steve stands there in the center of the circle, panting. Billy's blood dots his jeans like the first raindrops of a summer thunderstorm. His fist is under his nose and his bleeding hand is pressed to his lips. He finds himself trying to catch his breath, though he isn't sure why he is winded. Each scab on his knuckles smells like asphalt and cheap collogue. Tastes like salt and iron. Burns like fire.

There is a deep, resonating fury that still lingers in the heat of his hands, and it makes Steve long to indulge Billy by hopping in the back seat so he could start pounding the living shit out of him all over again. All it takes is one look from Hopper to make him freeze. Far from the laidback, if not worn-out dude that offered him cigarettes and life advice, the guy's expression is downright murderous. There's disappointment there too. Steve isn't sure which makes him more uneasy.

Hopper nods to someone in the crowd. "Take Harrington to the station, now," he growls, opening the door for Billy and shoving him into the backseat. The doors slam, the engine rumbles, and the van roars back to life and peels out of the parking lot. The thunder of the engine and the scratching of the tires echoes in Steve's head long after the car has vanished from view.

Steve's still so far gone, woozy and drunk on his own victory that he allows his mystery escort to grab him by the shoulders and lead him away. The walk across the parking lot takes no time at all, it seems. He's coaxed into the shotgun seat and the door shuts next to him. Under his feet, the engine rumbles. And then they're off, heading downtown.

Steve doesn't say anything until a pair of fingers snaps under his nose and he's literally snapped out of his trance. "Earth to Steve Harrington," a tired voice that he recognizes all too well yells at him.

Steve turns to Jonathan, blinking slowly. "What…Jesus Christ. Damn." He pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

"You okay?" Jonathan sounds more concerned over his safety than Steve every thought he could be. There was a time where Jonathan Byers wanted him dead, after all. He's got the scars and the memories to prove it.

Steve runs his other hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good. I think." He leans back. "God, my parents are going to kill me."

Jonathan, opposing the rattled look he wears, shrugs nonchalantly. "I mean, it sure looks like you got provoked," he offers. "You should ride that as your defense."

"My only defense is that I was doing exactly what Hopper told me to do," Steve half-jokes, massaging his aching knuckles.

"Hopper did not ask you to beat the snot out of Billy," Jonathan reminds him, "That, I'm sure of."

"Hey, he told me to stand up for myself. He's sharing a chunk of the blame here, as far as I'm concerned."

Jonathan snickers, but there's no strength behind it. A silence that's both uneasy and comfortable falls across the two, just like old times. The trees roll on past, and for just a moment, the stinging in Steve's hand ceases and his mind stops whirling around at a hundred miles an hour and he just…stays still. The only thing he focuses on is his breathing. How steady it comes in and out. Each breath he takes, and each one that slips past his lips, leaving them cold, barren.

"I'm sorry," Steve blurts out before he can stop himself. His hands knead themselves through his hair, the bottom of his palms digging into his eyebrows.

Jonathan Byers stares at him like he's grown a second head. "What for?" he finally manages, looking positively baffled.

"Just…" Steve loses track of his words briefly, and then they all tumble out of his mouth. Every last regret, because damn, he sure has a lot of them, apparently, "…for everything! For getting you wrapped up in all this. For spray-painting all that shit on the movie theater. For thinking you were cheating on Nancy. Oh, and for breaking your camera—did I ever apologize for breaking your camera? Oh fuck, man, I'm so sorry about that. I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. Oh, Jesus, oh fuck."

Jonathan stays quiet as Steve pours out all his remorse on the floor of his car as if he's in a confessional. His expression transcends bafflement and goes straight into mild panic. "Steve, breathe," he says slowly, reaching out with one hand. "Breathe, man."

Steve's so disoriented that it's all he can do to listen to the other teen. He inhales through his nose.

"Now out."

He lets the air cascade from his mouth. It meets his lips, and the icy feeling makes them sting.

"Listen, man," Jonathan's voice is soft on Steve's ears, which is a bit of a welcoming sound. There's no accusation, no pity, no contempt. It's just plain old Jonathan, who still speaks like he's in a room full of sleeping babies. "What on earth are you talking about? My camera? Who cares about my camera?"

"I care about your camera," Steve says stubbornly before he can think better of it.

Jonathan shoots him a dubious expression, so Steve backtracks, "Well, I mean, I care about that stuff now," he argues, latching his fingers onto his hair. "You know, now that we're, like, friends and shit?"

For a moment, the only sound comes from the wheels of the car on the road and the sound of something—the Ramones, maybe—playing on cassette over Jonathan's speaker. Steve leans back into the worn fabric and finally tells himself to release his hair before he tears it all out. The trees have melted away into the stone and brick of downtown Hawkins.

Jonathan rolls his thumb over the leather of the steering wheel as he pulls to a stop at a red light. "You know," he starts. His voice is clear as water, emotionless in a good way, "my mom's having this, um, sorta dinner party. Will's inviting Dustin and Lucas. Nancy'll be coming with Mike. And we think Max might be stopping by too." He breaks off for a moment. "Dustin's told you about this, right? He invited you?"

Yeah, a week or so ago. Steve nods.

"Well, we still haven't heard if you're coming or not," Jonathan says slowly, "You in?"

Inhale, exhale.

"Duh," Steve says, grinning. "I mean, who's going to watch those kids while you and Nancy are off doing whatever it is you crazy lovebirds do?"

Jonathan's face goes red so fast that he's looking closer to a tomato than a human. Steve immediately wonders if he's crossed a line, panic rising in his chest. He starts stammering over his words, trying to sense what was wrong, trying to sense why something always went wrong. "Look man, I…I-I didn't mean—"

"Steve," Jonathan's voice breaks through Steve's faltering attempt at making amends, cool and calm, just like it always is. "Stop apologizing."

Steve blinks. His mouth is hanging open like a fool. The sound of his friend's voice is like being dunked into cold water.

"You've got nothing to apologize for. You never have."

And just like that, the remainder of his apology dies on his cold, barren lips.

For once in his life, he's at a loss for words. He closes his mouth and faces forward instead. But hey, he's seen stranger things in his lifetime before. Steve's not going to lie, he's surprised that it was Jonathan Byers of all people to finally get him to shut up. What's one more?

The car turns onto Main Street, so they're close to the station by now. Steve continues to stare out the window, wrapped up in breathing steadily, and Jonathan continues driving. "By the way," Jonathan pipes up as they turn their last corner, "can I ask you something?"

"Sure, shoot."

"Who hit harder?" there's the ghost of a smile on Jonathan's face now, "Me or Billy?"

And, for the first time in a series of weeks that have felt like a year, Steve laughs.

"Oh, you," Steve says, shaking his head and relishing the grin that has found its way back to his face. "Definitely you."

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