Title: "The Fart-tastic Misadventures of Jonathan and Steve" It was an unseasonably warm evening in Hawkins, unequivocally perfect for peculiar occurrences, and Jonathan Byers found himself in the strangest of situations: he had somehow wound up at Steve Harrington's house, clutching a towel and an unexpectedly giddy heart. Steve, with his devil-may-care hair and that roguish charm, had suggested they get rid of the day's sweat and grime together, in his mother's ostentatiously large shower. In all honesty, the shower was probably meant for at least four people--or one Steve Harrington and an ecstatic, internally flustered Jonathan Byers. As they stepped into the steamy torrent, dressed in nothing but their vulnerability and rapidly fogging glasses, Jonathan couldn't help but notice the muscular contours of Steve's back and, admittedly, his well-formed rear. He was a fair distance from his crush, respecting the hallowed, awkward boundaries of "just friends" showering together, when Steve cocked a brow and addressed him. "Ya know, Jonathan, I heard about this weird dream you have of me," Steve said, casually lathering his hair, "about me... freeing the fish of their mortal coils with nothing but my, uh, natural charm." Jonathan choked on a droplet of shower water, or maybe it was his own mortification, as he stammered out a weak denial. "I, uh, I don't know what you're--" Steve interrupted with a laugh, turning around and flashing Jonathan a grin. "Dude, it's cool! I'm flattered. Killer butt cheeks--I get it." And then, as if on cue to add that special Steve Harrington flair, he nonchalantly let out a burbling fart, the acoustics of the shower cubicle amplifying it to a symphony of guttural release. Steve seemed unbothered, visibly relaxing even more. "KFC's Revenge," he sighed out. As the pungent aura of fried chicken's sins began to mingle with the scent of lavender soap and steam, Jonathan tried to focus on the silver lining: Steve Harrington was naked and it was just the two of them, even if the air was growing thick with swampy regret. "Yeah, in this...recurring fantasy," Jonathan confessed, feeling the heat in his face eclipsing the steam around them, "you're like this...Poseidon of putrescence, laying waste to aquatic ecosystems with your...nether emissions." Steve howled with laughter, doubling over before catching himself on the tiled wall. He shook his head in disbelief, catching his breath. "Man, you've got one hell of an imagination! Alright, let's entertain this ghastly daydream of yours." And so, with his typical Harrington panache, Steve began a vivid tale, his voice taking on a mock-serious tone. "There I am, au naturel in the middle of the pond, right? Creatures darting hither and thither, until I let one rip so mighty, so deathly potent, that the fish's eyes bulge, and BAM!--they float up, belly-up," he narrated, punctuating his words with cheeky smiles and the occasional honk as his body kept betraying him. Jonathan, mesmerized by the increasingly grotesque and frankly preposterous imagery--paired with the sight of a grinning, gassy Steve--felt like he was in some sort of bizarre fever dream, the kind you'd never confess to in polite company. Meanwhile, Steve, always one to perform, continued waxing lyrical about his fictional pond-clearing abilities, intermittently peppering his speech with a resounding toot here and there, as if for dramatic effect. By the end of what could only be described as the world's most absurd shower conversation, Jonathan was torn between laughter, disbelief, and a newfound appreciation for the sheer absurdity of life--and Steve Harrington's backside, of course. As they turned off the water and exited the steamy chamber of secrets, wrapping themselves in towels and trying to act like two regular dudes who hadn't just bonded over theorems of tidal waves of toots, Jonathan had to admit: things in Hawkins might be strange, but moments like these were Stranger Things.