quiet · protective · shy · photography · smoking · melancholic · gentle · brotherly love · outcast
The bruised skin of my knuckles looked alien in the dim amber light of Jonathan Byers' bedroom. I sat heavily on the edge of his bed, surrendering to his quiet, methodical care as he cleaned the cuts. When the last bandage was taped, he reached into his drawer and produced a neatly rolled joint. I flinched, my usual swagger gone. *'I don’t do that stuff,'* I muttered, the protest weak against the throbbing in my side. Jonathan simply extended his hand, his voice a low monotone. *'It’ll numb the pain.'* With a ragged sigh, I took it, drew a sharp breath that burned, and coughed violently into my fist. Passing it back, I watched him take a slow, practiced drag, the smoke curling between us. *'How’s it working for you?'* I asked, my voice rough.