"You're sure your dad's okay with this?"

"I'm not sure if okay is the best word to describe it," I admit, squirming around just a bit until I can peer up at Jonathan from where I rest curled against his side, one hand held tightly in his own, "But I think he figured I'd just find a way of getting here anyway, so—"

"So he decided to bring you, himself."

"Something like that."

"Guess I should probably thank him at some point," Jonathan sighs, the resignation in his tone causing me to suppress a snort, though my best friend hardly misses it at all, "What? You don't think I should?"

"I didn't say anything like that."

"It was implied."

"Oh, well if that's the case," I murmur, rolling my eyes and savoring the soft sound of Jonathan's answering laugh, even though I know it will not last for very long. We'd been in his room for a few hours, at least, remaining mostly silent, and I hope with all I have that my inability to think of anything to say isn't just making things worse…

"Are you two—you know—okay?"

"What, me and my dad?"

"Yeah."

"I mean—it could be worse."

"No, I mean—with—with how this probably brings back what happened with Sara," Jonathan clarifies, the mention of my sister's name causing me to go rigid, even though I am well-aware he did not bring her up to cause any pain.

"Don't."

"Cami, I'm sorry, I just—I know you hate it when I bring her up, but—"

"It's not that," I assure, pushing myself up to sit, my hand freeing itself from Jonathan's so that I can run the fingers of both through slightly tousled hair, "You shouldn't be—you shouldn't be thinking about me at all right now."

"What if I told you I was using you as a distraction?"

"Oh, right, because you, Jonathan Byers, routinely go around using people for selfish reasons."

"You never know. I could," Jonathan quips, the attempt at a joke falling flat between us, though I do notice how his hand reaches for my own once again not long after, "So you not letting me do that, given the circumstances, is just—"

"Rude?"

"Totally."

"Okay. Fine. Use me as you will," I retort, wincing almost as soon as I realize the possible double-meaning behind the words, Jonathan's suddenly flabbergasted expression provoking a flush to land on my cheeks as I attempt to clarify, "That didn't—that did not come out how I wanted it to."

"I figured."

I slump back against the pillows, then, deciding that for Jonathan's sake, an honest evaluation of where my father and I stand might be something I cannot avoid. And although I truly don't quite know where to begin, I focus my attention on the ceiling of Jonathan's bedroom, my teeth digging into my lower lip for a moment before any attempt at a reply.

"We're—it's hard."

"Explains why your dad is still out there trying to talk my mom off the ledge," Jonathan surmises, scooting over so that I can flop over onto my back, though he is still close enough that our shoulders brush together when either one of us takes a breath, "Better him than me, I guess."

"Jonathan—you're trying your best. Your mom, she—I think she knows that."

"No, that's not—that's not what I mean."

Turning my head to get a better look at Jonathan, my brow furrows almost immediately, the fact that he is struggling with whatever it is he is about to say next hitting me like a ton of bricks. But before I can make any sort of attempt at asking him what is going through his mind myself, Jonathan is leaning up to rest his weight on both elbows, giving me another look as though he wonders if he should even say anything at all before he speaks.

"She thinks Will was—speaking to her. Through the—through the lights."

"What?"

"I know. It's insane," Jonathan says, flopping back onto the bed, and scrubbing both hands across his face to muffle a groan of exasperation, "She thinks he's still alive."

"She—she does?"

"Yeah. So your dad's probably got his hands full right now, and I just—it sucks but I can't—"

"Jonathan, stop. Stop guilting yourself about something that's—normal," I cut in, aware of how my best friend is deliberately refusing to look me in the eye, and releasing a frustrated sigh before reaching over to hook my finger beneath his chin, tilting his head in my direction and ignoring the grumbled protest he makes in response, "My dad's helping your mom. She's not alone."

"I should be out there with her."

"Sometimes forcing yourself to be someone's anchor can do more harm than good."

I frown as soon as the words come out because I could have predicted the shift in Jonathan's expression, concern rapidly overtaking the guilt that had been so apparent before.

"Is that what happened? With—with you and your dad?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"Cami—"

"Seriously, Jonathan."

"Okay," My friend concedes, holding both hands up in a show of surrender, his brow wrinkling for a moment before he shifts the conversation back to its initial direction with one more slightly apprehensive glance my way, "So—I'm not an ass, then?"

"Nope."

"Even with the—other thing?"

"What other thing?" I ask, turning back to the task of looking at the bedroom ceiling as though it has suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.

"The—picture thing."

"Oh. That."

I know that Jonathan is likely taking my two-worded acknowledgement as censure. That he thinks I am judging him for something that he truly didn't mean in any sort of negative light at all. And I'm not. Not really, even though I know that, generally speaking, taking pictures of people without their knowledge or consent is probably not something that should be admired.

But I can't tell him the real reason the mention of the incident has my heart sinking like a stone in my chest. I can't tell him it's because he's inadvertently given me direct proof that whatever Steve and I had over the summer is gone.

I can't bring myself to tell Jonathan any of that and so I settle for doing what I do best, instead.

Glossing over the subject, entirely.

"You're not an ass, Jonathan. Even for the picture thing."

"I'd understand, though. If it creeped you out," Jonathan persists, clearly intent on some sort of mission to give me a way out. A way to feel no shame whatsoever for treating him just like everyone else has in the past.

Which is ridiculous, since he should know better than anyone that I am far too stubborn for my own good.

"It's only going to creep me out if you do it again."

"Trust me, I won't. But even if I wanted to, it's going to be kind of hard to do without a camera."

"Wait—what?"

"My camera. It's—it's toast, so I won't be able to photograph anything until I get enough money to replace it."

"When did that happen?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does. When did it happen?" I repeat, once again moving to push myself upright, and shifting until I can sit cross-legged on the bed, my hand reaching out so that I can jab a finger against Jonathan's ribs as he makes another pointed effort to look away, "Spill."

"After you left the dark room, Nicole showed up. She saw some of the—the photos before I had a chance to put them away."

"Nicole broke your camera?"

"No. No, Steve did that," Jonathan corrects, once again seeming to register how I tense on instinct, a look that is not all that far from understanding crossing his face, and forcing me to look away, my fingers picking at a loose thread on the blanket beneath me while he goes on, "In the parking lot after school."

"I should've been there."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?" I demand, astonishment coloring my tone as I regard my best friend as though he has suddenly grown an extra pair of limbs, "I could have—"

"You could've what? Gone up against Steve and Tommy?"

"You of all people know my dad taught me how to throw a punch, Jonathan."

"So you would've punched them, and wound up suspended. Or worse," Jonathan states, clearly ignoring my skeptically raised brow in favor of continuing, "And then your dad would've killed me, and everything would just be a mess."

"As opposed to now, when you've lost your camera, and—"

"And Will is—"

Neither of us seem able to say the word, and I bite into my lower lip as fiercely as I can to ward off the sting of oncoming tears. My hand finds Jonathan's again, and I give a reflexive squeeze, the two of us seemingly frozen in a moment we do not want to accept.

A moment we can't accept, because I know the idea of Will actually being gone is something that is just as terrifying for Jonathan as it is for me.

"Mom said she saw something coming from the walls," Jonathan says then, the words forcing me to snap my gaze back to his, a peculiar pit of dread curling in my stomach as I wait for him to go on, "She said it—had long arms and no—no face."

The pit of dread turns to a gaping chasm, and suddenly I cannot breathe…

I recognize the description even though I shouldn't because it is the exact same thing I saw in the woods when Jonathan and I had gone looking for Will. I have been carefully shoving the memory to the back of my mind as often as I can, not wanting to acknowledge that it could even be real.

With what Jonathan says Joyce insisted upon seeing, though, I am now all but certain that denial is no longer going to be something I can rely upon to keep any thought of that—thing—I had seen in the woods from my mind.

"Cami?"

"I—it was coming from the wall?"

"You almost sound as if you believe her," Jonathan muses, concern once again making its way back into his expression, and causing me to shake myself so that I can have a semi-decent chance of talking my way out of this. Because I know, somehow, that what Joyce saw is what took Will. It all goes back to the figurine Eleven had slammed on the back of Mike Wheeler's game board…

Demogorgon. That's what Dustin had called it.

And now it could move through the walls?

"Do you? Believe her?"

"Of course not," I manage, they response lacking any sort of vehemence that I hoped for, though in spite of that, I still force myself to look Jonathan in the eye, "She's just—she's grieving."

"And hallucinating, apparently."

"My dad saw Sara. After she—after she died."

Jonathan freezes in response to my hurried declaration, and I take advantage of that pause in hopes of keeping him off his guard. He knows I don't talk about Sara. Not if I can help it. And so, I ignore the twisting sensation in my chest that the thought of her always brings to the surface, instead choosing to bulldoze my way forward with little to no thought of the consequences.

Just like always.

"I don't think he realized I knew, but—yeah. He saw her. For quite a while, actually. Hence the drinking. The drugs. All of it."

"Cami—"

"And I would—I would wake up sometimes, and feel her shoving at my—at my shoulder, because she was bored on her own, and wanted to play, but when I opened my eyes, she—she wasn't there."

"You don't have to relive that," Jonathan interjects, shifting just a bit to regain the ability to look me in the eye, whether I truly want him to or not, "Not for me."

"Isn't that what friends are—what friends are for?"

"I thought it was to take away each other's pain, not cause more of it."

"Oh. That sounds better," I tease, somehow managing a watery laugh, and lifting a hand to wipe beneath my eyes in order to ward off lingering tears. Jonathan is sitting up next to me not long after, and I almost automatically lean over to rest my head on his shoulder, needing the comfort even though I would never admit to such a thing out loud.

"So I'm not an ass."

"Nope."

"And my mom isn't insane," Jonathan continues, clearly sensing my need to redirect our conversation yet again, and moving to do so as best he can, a faint, albeit sad little grin tugging at one corner of his mouth as he waits on my reply.

"Nope. Not even close."

"So what does that make the two of us?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

Jonathan snorts out a laugh and I follow suit, even in spite of the dull ache in my chest that the guilt over being able to show amusement at all brings about. And I lean back to follow his lead as he reclines on the bed once again, only to catch myself jumping as the door to his bedroom swings open, and my father appears on the other side.

"Gonna need you two to uh—hop in the car. Joyce is ready to go see Will."

And just like that, reality comes soaring back in, and I don't have to look at Jonathan's face to know that any trace of amusement he may have felt is now gone.

Apparently, whatever relief we found was never going to last.

Guess I should have known.

…

"Let him go, kid."

I surprise myself at how easily I give in to the low words. With how I don't even attempt to shrug my father's grasp on my shoulder away with everything I have. Instead, I simply stare after Jonathan as he stalks away, shoulders slumped in defeat, the words he and his mother had shared—their argument—echoing over and over in my mind, even now.

I wanted to step in so badly. To side with Joyce, even if it meant Jonathan thought I had gone insane. But I hadn't. I hadn't said a word, because my dad was right there beside me, and I couldn't risk betraying Eleven and the boys, and now?

Now I am left with nothing but the sinking sensation that I have unwittingly allowed everything to go from bad, to worse.

"C'mon. Let's uh—let's get you home."

"Actually, can—can you take me to school?"

"What?"

"Yeah, I—I can get catch up homework for Jonathan, since he—since he'll be missing the day," I explain, aware of my dad's almost immediate narrowed eyes, and clearing my throat before correcting myself so that he doesn't have the chance to do so, himself, "And—and mine. Obviously."

"You sure about this? 'Cause this morning you made it sound like school was the very last place you wanted to be."

"I'm sure."

I can tell he isn't entirely sure he wants to believe me, but my dad uses a hand against my shoulder to steer me back to his truck, regardless, And I hurry to clamber into the passenger seat as quickly as I can, buckling the seatbelt, and staring out the window in hopes that the ride back to school will be a quick one…

Thankfully, it is.

Once we reach the school, I barely give my dad time to throw the vehicle in park before I am hopping out of the passenger side, and giving him a faint wave, my steps picking up speed even though I know I will likely only earn more questions from him later on over why I am in such a rush. But I don't care about that, right now, my sole focus not set upon venturing off after the homework, like I had promised my dad when he agreed to bring me back to the school in the first place.

Instead, I veer over toward where I have already noticed Steve Harrington standing with Nancy between the main building and the gym, the two of them clearly locked in their own personal bubble, and completely oblivious to my approach.

A part of me knows I should rethink this. That I am only making more trouble for myself, when the wisest course would be to simply turn away. But I can feel the anger coursing through my veins, threatening to consume me entirely. Anger over what happened to Will. Over being unable to help Jonathan like he helped me.

Anger at my best friend for getting himself into a situation where anyone would even dream of destroying his camera, and anger at Steve for being the type of person to act first, and ask questions later. To judge a book by its cover, rather than trying for a genuine attempt to get to know the person underneath.

I make it to the entrance of the little space between brick buildings before either Steve or Nancy even notice I am there, my anger propelling me forward in spite of the comprehension that dawns in Nancy's eyes. In spite of her small step forward to try and slow me down.

She doesn't move quite fast enough, though, and I am aware of two things in rapid succession as I turn from her entirely, in favor of facing Steve, instead…

The satisfaction I feel over his yelp of indignation and surprise, and the sudden throbbing pain in the knuckles of my right hand not long after they collide with his jaw.

…

So…Camille kind of went rogue on me, if you couldn't tell, and I fully blame my wayward muses for letting any of the events in this chapter happen in the first place. It was definitely one of those scenarios where I thought I had a plan for how the chapter would go, but then said muses stepped in and stole the show. So hopefully none of you mind where this chapter ended up?

As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to each and every one of you that has taken the time to read, follow, favorite and review this story so far! Special thanks to Crystal-Wolf-Guardain-967 for the review! I truly do appreciate the support, and I can only hope everyone continues to enjoy where the story goes from here!

Until next time, angels…

MOMM