Work Text:
"Why would you do that?" Jonathan asks, fighting to keep up while following the knight to the stables. Steve sighs, armor clattering as he attempted to afix it.
"It's Nancy," Steve says. And that's all the answer it requires. Jonathan would understand. Maybe he was the only person in the entire world who would understand.
There are questions Jonathan doesn't ask. He hasn't seen the knight in Hawkin's court for over a month and he shows up to contest some young buck wanting a kiss from the honorable lady Wheeler, looking like he crawled out of a dirt hole. But instead, Byers says-
"You're gonna get creamed out there."
Steve couldn't argue. He excelled at archery. In swordplay, William Hargrove was his equal. But in jousting... William would surely prevail.
"That worm can't fight for Nancy. He's everything she hates."
"Is he truly any different from you?"
Steve laughs, not offended at Jonathan's remark. He'd never given Jonathan a reason to like him. His overreaction to Jonathan's compromising painting of him and Nancy had to have started the rift between them, and the fight after couldn't have helped. He'd said awful things about his family that a patronage towards his studies still couldn't rectify. Beating the tar out of him might have been a close second to actual amends.
So it was a fair assumption. Maybe an even accurate one. But it was one Steve was committed to change it.
"He's a bully to your brother's friends. If that's a good enough reason for you."
Jonathan watched in trepidation, Steve struggling to armor his steed, before taking over the task for him. "Well. You'll need a squire.
To Harrington's credit, Jonathan had never watched a match where the loser remained atop the horse despite recieving contact for the whole duration of the match. The first rounds he wore Steve down by riding just out of range, striking Steve's lance with his own just for the fun of it. He goaded the crowd, waved to the section Nancy was seated, winding up Steve further. Toying with him. But in the final round, Sir Hargrove rode against the barrier, striking Steve with full force in a direct shot.
It should have sent him off through the force of the blow alone. If Steve had been smart, he would have let it, instead of letting a hole get punched through him.
Byer's eyes darted from the injured knight to the victor, running his victory round the pit. His worried gaze caught Nancy's. The brute had asked for a kiss and now, he would recieve it. Hargrove strode up to the booth, discarding his helmet and rolling his golden hair behind his head, outstretched his arm towards Nancy's section-
And slyly placing a kiss in Katherine Wheeler's hand. She in turn placed one in his.
Relief seemed to fill both Jonathan and Nancy, alongside a cringing discomfort watching the pair. "Oh. When he said Maiden Wheeler-"
"Yeah, Jonathan." Steve wheezed, his lungs still reeling from the impact as he limped to the stables. "I got it."
Jonathan's eyes met Nancy's in the crowd, now full of concern and worry as her gaze lingered after Steve.
Jonathan tended to the horse, stabling it and pulling off armor. The brays of distress gradually softened as Jonathan soothed it with a quiet mumble. Though he was several stalls away, he could hear Steve's angry clamoring of armor and a hissing resignation. Jonathan peeked around the corner, watching Steve's gauntlet rattle against the latches of his chestplate, grumbling when they wouldn't budge. He stepped closer, habitually silent from years of aloofness. The impact on Steve's side left a sizeable dent, but part of it looked as if it had punched through his side. Steve labored through breathing, palms slick as he finally removed the gauntlet.
"You're hurt," Jonathan says quietly. Steve looks away, hands shaking as he tried to pull them away from the injury.
"It's a scratch, see?" he says unconvincingly. He bites his lip, shamefully going back on his word as he curls in on himself.
"Here," Jonathan says, helping Steve unlatch and lift armor with the gentle hand he treated the horses with. It takes a precise angle to keep from catching on the wound but Jonathan manages it with a delicate finesse.
Steve freezes, eyes darting from Jonathan's hands to his mouth, lips pursed like they're about to start shushing him like the horse. It's endearing, if not a little demeaning. But the chunk of wood impailing the knight's side has Steve cursing as Jonathan brushes it, the knight's hands balling into fists and hissing through clenched teeth.
And then Jonathan is really, actually, mumbling at him like he does with the horses, a murmured apology and soothing tut as he wrenches the piece free.
It hurts, and Steve chokes on his spit as the pain spikes through him. He tries to put up a cool front, to hold back any other noise, and the only reprieve is Jonathan's firm pressure against the wound. Steve gasps in air, leaning into the only relief he has, chin hooking over Jonathan's shoulder as if having him physically closer will help the pressure on his abdomen and take the pain away.
Jonathan seems to understand, pinning Steve in place on the wall. It's exactly what he needs, to be gripped and viced for the pain to stop. But the tournament was supposed to fix that. If anything it had made things worse, and the guilt in his soul tore open again at having been seen embarrassing himself.
"Sss...sorry."
"What?" Jonathan asks, the word too quiet for even him to hear.
"I'm sorry I was a dick," Steve grunts out, close to heaving from the pain. In his woozy state he feels like if he says all he can before he passes out that it might fix something in his fucked up life. He just needed the right combination of words that would fix everything like they did in Nancy's recountings of Chaucer. "About the painting. Picking a fight. And Nancy. And for ever looking down on stablehands. And the fucking.... eunich thing. I genuinely thought because of your hair, but that's not your fault, that's probably still a really fucked up thing to say-"
"Steve, you're not making any sense. Just breathe for a second, okay?"
Steve does, a deep inhale and then an exhale that probably sounds weird muffled into Jonathan's shirt, and he feels his head falling limp on Jonathan's shoulder. "Sorry," he says again, and Jonathan smiles like he can't help it. The way that Nancy smiles that makes Steve tingle in a not-so blood loss kind of way. "You're... really good though."
"Yeah, calming horses so they don't punch a hole through you is pretty good practice."
"N' so many other things. You're good for her. You make Nancy so happy-"
"Steve, we don't have to-"
"Have you kissed her? Tell me you have."
Jonathan's feels uncomfortably stuck to Steve's linen shirt, but he can't deny what he is sure Steve has seen himself. He hangs his head.
"....yes." He admits it with a quiet nod.
Steve's eyes widened minutely before they seem to glaze over again, staring at Jonathan's lips. Or rather, through them. Though Steve fought for her honor he'd be lying if he hadn't wanted to be so bold as William and ask for more. He wants fiercely to see if he can taste her on the stablehand still. His legs nearly give out at the thought, and not at all from the flaring pain of Jonathan readjusting his hands to grab a linen rag and flask.
"How?"
Jonathan isn't sure how to answer that, and for a moment he wonders if he should take offense. "Are you calling me a eunich again?"
"No," Steve says, entirely serious. His hand grips the tunic on Jonathan's other shoulder, before his fingers can find the back of the stablehand's head to make him hold their gaze. "In what manner have you kissed her?"
"...in the manner that... I should not confess in my station."
Steve laughs, eyes crinkling and head rolling like it was weighed down.
"You and I both, now."
Jonathan was lost, searching in the knight's unfocused gaze for a joke, a lie, or concession. But Steve turned away first, biting his lip to reign in any strong reaction. "My father has an annulment from the church. For infidelity."
Jonathan was sure he'd stopped breathing for a second. "So that means you're..."
He wasn't sure how to finish the question, but Steve supplied the answer with a wry smile. "A bastard, Jonathan."
Unworded questions came too fast for his mouth to word them, but Steve waited, letting Jonathan find them. "Can they...take away your knighthood?"
"Already have. Lineage was the only claim I had. I've been gone a while, but I thought it was stupid too. And if Williams puts me in my place... that's life."
Jonathan squinted like he was discerning values in a painting, as if the dark and light of Steve's face would reveal a deeper motive.
"So if you'd beaten Hargrove today, that would have changed things?"
Steve smiled, minutely dissapointed that Jonathan had to ask. "I don't care that he's better than me, Jonathan. They can take away my title. But I would have fought for Nancy's honor if I were half the leach I'm about to be. Or...am, I guess."
Jonathan laughed, awkward and sympathetically, and Steve gave half of one before he realized that was a bad idea and cut himself off early. With his only free hand, Jonathan passed Steve the linen rag and flask, the former knight staring back blankly.
"It's wine."
"Oh thanks, you shouldn't have."
"Its far too strong for drinking. Soak the rag with some of it. It's for the wound."
Steve looked sickly, but did as Jonathan asked, trying not to get the rag dirty as he soaked it and saving a small swig for himself. Steve gave a surprised grunt at the hairy aftertaste, far stronger than he'd imagined it being. "Christ, that's a taste."
"You're insane," Jonathan said flatly, taking the rag back from Steve and finally letting some pressure off the slow-bleeding wound. Jonathan tugged off Steve's soiled linen shirt for him, looking only at the wound as respectfully as Jonathan could manage. But the odd feeling twisting inside him said it might be more for his own sake than for Harrington's. He grabbed the vial, only about a quarter full now."This might, uh. Sting a bit."
"Hit me, Byers. I can take it."
As it turned out and had repeatedly been the case, Steve had been overly sure of his capacity to take it. If he'd learned anything from the joust, he was not a fan of being on the receiving end of whatever it was.
"Oh, that burns like hell-"
"Hold on," Jonathan said quietly, upending the remaining bit of wine into the gash and making sure the entirety of the wound was cleaned.
"Jonathan. Jon. Jonathan. I can't- fuck, I think I'm gonna... hah!"
His hands grasped at Jonathan's sleeve to beg for slack, but reprieve did not come.
His legs gave out, and finally, blessedly, Jonathan pulled away the source of pain. Mostly so he could bare the full weight of Stephen Harrington.
"Steve, are you with me? Steve?"
Absently, Steve could feel the wine accumulating in a stain on his breeches. Or it might have been the blood. He wasn't sure. What he did know is his fists were holding Jonathan in place against him and that he had to peel himself away before his side got any more grime inside it. He didn't want to do that a second time. He weakly managed to pull his linen shirt off with the arm on his good side, careful not to strain his injured tissue.
"I just need to wipe the outside of it now, alright?"
"Hah. Yeah. Yes. I can... I can handle that."
Steve regained his stance as well as he could, but he was relying heavily on Byers as a crutch. To the stablehand's credit, he worked quickly at wiping off the excess blood.
"I can stitch you up too, now-"
"Oh, could you?" Steve said, seething with sarcasm. He felt guilty immediately, steadying himself as he apologized for the outburst. "You're right, I should. Let's get it over with. ....and thank you."
Jonathan let him slide onto the floor, and Steve was particularly thankful because it felt like all the strength in his legs had gone. It was somehow more difficult to not feel self pity with a needle inside him, but Steve focused on emptying his mind of any thought with every shallow breath.
"Earlier," Jonathan whispered, breaking the air. "You said a guy like Williams... Maybe I don't know him that well. But is he really that bad?"
"Fuck, you don't know? I'd have thought little Will Byers would have told you."
Jonathan bristled at the mention of his brother, but steadied his hand so as not to take it out on Steve.
"His friend Maxine. It's her brother. She... she's a good kid. She doesn't deserve what he puts her through. None of them do."
The way he says it makes Jonathan feel sick. That someone could have been giving his brother or any of his friends grief, and him not know about it? How poor of a brother must he have been...
"Then I'm glad you did it. Not just for Nancy's honor, but... my family's as well. Thank you."
The sincerity hit Steve like a punch to the gut, and he was quickly becoming an expert on that particular sensation.
"No, don't... look. Maybe it was... a little selfish." Steve hissed minutely at the needle piercing his skin, recovering his breath as Jonathan continued throwing a suture. "Hargrove had it coming, pestered me over... I didn't like him before I knew about everything else. So maybe I wasn't in the right heads pace from the beginning. Not like you, Jonathan."
"Like me?" Jonathan closed the final loop, but couldn't bring himself to cut the thread, to part just yet.
"When you fought me, it was for your mother's name. Not your own pride. And at least you had the sense to win your own battle."
Jonathan's chest twinges in discomfort. It had still been pride, hadn't it? The fight had felt so long ago any righteousness had fled his memory. Steve's heavy attention flitted across his face and Jonathan had to look away, the natural shame that seemed to follow him everywhere making itself comfortable in its home once again. "I don't think either of us had a choice. It turned out alright."
"Well. Aside from the impailment everything's golden. But fighting for Nancy's honor only to find there was nothing but my own on the line... I feel like even more of a jerk. And an idiot."
Jonathan's brow furrowed in exaggerated skepticism.
"I'm capable of self-reflection. You wound me-" Steve sighed.
"Well, as I recall, sir William actually-" Jonathan laughed for the both of them, but Steve rolled his eyes and smiled at the jab. "Would a consolation prize sooth your ego?"
"Hmm, like a kiss? I have some tact, good Byers. Your station aside." His eyes darted only momentarily to the stablehand's lips, damn him, damn him, damn him.
"O-oh? ...oh. You mean between Nancy and I- right. Right."
There had been a flash of recognition in his eyes Steve had thought, and it frightened him. In equal parts excited him. He was brushing against a force unpredictable and unknown.
All the more a reason to seek it out.
"It's chivalry, too. To ask a kiss of someone of such high station? Williams crossed a line."
"Touché?"
"...Touché. No, the chivalrous thing is to ask for a handkerchief, a rose, something that has kissed a lady's lips but never her own."
A candle sparks alight in Jonathan's eyes. "Is that... is that all you want? You're sure?"
Steve nods, sure of it. He'll likely never send another moment in her presence, not after the fight. But a token to remember Nancy by might be all he needed for the rest of his days.
And then Jonathan has his lips pressed against Steve's own. A dignified knight would accept the closed mouth of obliged courtesy, but Steve has lost his dignity along with his family name. Jonathan's gentle entreatment is drowned in Steve's desperate and starved affection, and Jonathan can't help but to match it. Where Jonathan breathes out Steve draws in for more, as if behind that exhale he'll find a taste of what Nancy has left behind. He tries and halfway convinces himself that his continued siege is in pursuit of the Lady Wheeler. Not that he's found something beside itself in value.
Jonathan's breathing comes in a steady rhythm, like all his focus is on making each kiss deliberate, weakening the knight like the punches the stablehand laid upon him. Steve recalls Jonathan beating him against the ground in one of their their last meetings and how he can't think of the labored breath that pinned him to the floor in the context it once held. He decides that underneath Byers is a place he wouldn't mind humbling himself to in the future if the outcome was as pleasant. He says something, what might have been a word but is as senseless as the prayers of a man who's never wanted for anything.
Byers pulls away, startled, like a very deliberate action hadn't been his own. Like his body had betrayed him more suddenly than Steve's.
"I didn't mean to-"
"Like hell," Steve said with a smile despite the bullshit.
"You're the one who kept staring at my mouth, you prig."
"Prig? I'll have you know something else, you cur," Steve says, holding a finger up to Jonathan's mouth to get all of his words in. "You painted my ass."
Jonathan flushes, words unable to form, but it feels like he should apologize again because he'd never really taken Steve's feelings about the painting into consideration. "Yeah. Yeah, that was fucked up, I'm sorry-"
That finger Steve kept trying to shush Jonathan with unsteadily grabs at Jonathan's chin and pulls the stablehand into another kiss, and finally, finally, Steve has gotten all his words in.
Well. All except for-
"And you can tell Nancy that that one's for her."