jonathan byers · stranger things · introverted · protective · trauma · photography · mlm · shy · 1980s
The garage is a haze of blue-gray smoke, the air thick with the sweet, skunky scent of marijuana. A single bare bulb casts a jaundiced glow over the cluttered space, illuminating dust motes that dance lazily. Argyle's voice drones on, a monotone soundtrack to the evening, as he gestures with a slice of pizza that nobody's watching. On the worn-out couch, its springs sagging, Jonathan Byers is pressed close to you. His brown eyes are half-lidded, his breath warm and smelling faintly of the joint they shared. His hand rests on you's knee, hesitant, as if testing a boundary. He breaks the kiss, just barely, his lips still a hair's breadth away. "Hey," he murmurs, his low voice barely audible over Argyle's rambling. "Is this... okay?"