Disclaimer: I don't own Stranger Things, Lord of the Rings, or The Hobbit. Please don't sue me.
Several things:
1. I am terrified of posting this fic for several reasons, and one of them is that I'm not sure if we're allowed to have characters talk about a book published in real life. I am not copying anything from a work not in the public domain, which according to the Guidelines is the only thing that's forbidden, but I'm still worried. If someone knows for sure, please tell me!
2. This fic contains spoilers for Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. Not many and not in great detail, but y'know.
3. There are descriptions of symptoms and consequences of trauma. Chapter 1 is probably the worst, but if things like that trigger you, please beware.
The meatloaf is the greatest thing Steve's tasted in ages. He's eaten about a half of his slice by now and he still finds it hard to take his eyes off the plate. He swallows the bit he's been chewing and stabs another morsel with his fork, and then –
He frowns.
There's an unidentified object that doesn't belong on his perfect slice of meatloaf, and Steve squints at it, trying to discern its origin.
Oh. Right.
Steve glances at Mrs. Henderson; she isn't looking at him. He discretely removes the cat hair from his plate and throws it to the side of his chair.
Satisfied, he reverts his attention back to the food, but out of the corner of his eye, he realizes that Dustin is giving him a look.
It's a look that Steve recognizes well. He gave it often himself, back in the day of high school glory, but hasn't been on the receiving end many times before. Before he started hanging out with the kids, that is.
It's the 'stop being so uncool' look.
How is this his life.
Steve gives Dustin a small glare.
"This is a really great meatloaf, Mrs. Henderson," he says honestly.
"Thank you, Stevie," she says, beaming. "It's Dusty's favorite. The trick is in the seasoning. I can write down the recipe if your mother wants to–"
But her voice is cut by a loud bang from the living room.
Steve jumps from his chair, toppling it over. His eyes fixate on the direction of the noise. His hands grab the knife and fork and his heart starts thundering, fear rising from somewhere in the bottom of his spine up to his neck. He can hear Dustin's terrified breathing next to him and he wonders briefly whether he could call Chief Hopper or should they just run – but shit there probably isn't enough time for them to even get to the car, but maybe Dustin and Mrs. Henderson can if Steve keeps the monsters busy –
Before anyone could say anything, Mrs. Henderson gets up and leaves in the direction of the noise.
"Mom, wait –" Dustin begins, but she's already disappeared through the door, and Steve braces himself for the sounds –
There's a gasp.
"Tews! Bad kitty!"
Steve holds his breath and doesn't move.
"Did you knock over the lamp again? We've talked about this," Mrs. Henderson says in pretend-strict tones. After a few moments, she returns to the dining room, alive and unscathed with the Siamese nestled innocently in her arms, a vaguely mischievous look on its face.
"It was just the light bulb," she says, smiling reassuringly. "What am I going to do with you?" she coos, waving a finger in front of the cat's face. Tews grabs at it playfully.
It was the stupid cat…
Steve closes his eyes and exhales. He picks up his chair and sits back down. He can barely feel his legs. The knife and fork drop from his shaking hand and he clenches and unclenches his fingers; they seem to have stopped working.
Mrs. Henderson sits, all of her attention on the cat, and Steve gives Dustin a sideways glance. The kid looks back and takes a deep, quiet breath, shaking his head slowly with mutual, weary relief.
Only Steve's heart won't stop ramming against his chest, and his hands are shaking, and his fingers are going numb.
There should be relief, but he doesn't feel it.
"Could you excuse me for a minute?" he mutters.
Not waiting for a response, he gets up and leaves the dining room.
He has no idea where he's going and his heart is pounding faster and faster but if he can just have a minute of peace and quiet somewhere alone, it'll be fine. It'll have to be fine.
Somehow he stumbles into Dustin's room. The chaos hitting his eyes makes him stop for a second – there's too much stuff, why is there so much stuff here – then he goes to the window and puts his hands on the sill.
He closes his eyes and tries to breathe.
It was the cat. It was just the cat. Everything's fine.
But there's a misplaced horror around his chest that doesn't want to listen to reason. It's constricting his entire body and there's ice in his throat and around his mind and the breathing isn't working no matter how hard he tries. The air feels like shards of glass in his throat and there isn't enough space in his lungs for the little he manages to inhale and he wonders if he's having a heart attack because it hurts, and the ringing in his ears is drowning out the silence of the room and even if something does happen now he won't be able to hear it, a monster will come up to him and he'll have no idea until it attacks –
this is not happening to me, this is not a part of my life
– but apparently this is his life now, along with the nightmares and the nail-studded bat under his bed, and the ringing that's growing and growing as if it's about to swallow him up.
"Steve?"
The hesitant word breaks through the noise and a part of Steve screams PROTECT and another part says there's no danger you idiot, it's all in your head, but the thought rushes away before he can focus, the world shimmers around the edges and the kid is going to freak out and all Steve can do is try to breathe and fail. Dustin says nothing else, or perhaps Steve has gone deaf, the ringing is too loud and beyond that there's nothing and behind him Dustin is worried and Steve knows he can't deal with this anymore –
"Which Lord of the Rings characters would you say we are?"
Through the panic, Steve is sure he hasn't heard well. "What?" he manages.
"We-we were just talking about it the other day, the guys I mean," Dustin says tentatively. "We can't come to an agreement, but maybe you can help. I think my idea's the best, but you can judge for yourself."
Steve can barely discern the words from the sound of his own breathing and the noise in his mind but what the hell is this kid talking about –
"It's like this," Dustin begins. "Mike and Lucas have always been fighting about which one of them is Aragorn, and now Mike says he's Aragorn because he wants El to be Arwen, which is just gross. I mean it sort of fits since Chief Hopper doesn't her see Mike, but seriously, she needs a character with a bigger role, Arwen isn't even in the books. Me, I'm Gimli, 'cause I was a dwarf in a lot of our campaigns so I already know a lot of dwarf stuff. Then Lucas can be Legolas because he has his wrist rocket and that's a bit like a bow and arrows. Will's the wizard, so he's Gandalf. It all fits."
It all fits, Steve's mind repeats absurdly, and he has no idea how Dustin isn't freaking out because he feels and sounds like he's dying.
"But now, there's you guys, and we don't know where to fit you, and that's a problem."
What a problem, Steve thinks, it's the worst problem he's ever heard of, he has no idea how the world keeps turning –
"So I had this idea," Dustin continues. "If we're going to fit you all in, let's say – just for the sake of being realistic – that Mike, Will, Lucas and me are hobbits. That's great because the rest of you can be other characters, but it brings us to a whole other set of problems," he says. His voice gets steady and strong and Steve latches onto the only sound that makes sense.
"Here's my theory. First of all, Will is Frodo. I mean, come on. The Ringwraiths and Sauron and the ring that takes him to a different realm? The Upside Down and the Mind Flayer? Hello? Then obviously, Mike would be Sam, 'cause he was really there for Will when Will was going through all that shit. Now, Mike hates this, because he's stupid – Sam's like the coolest character, he's brave and loyal and the best friend ever, there's no way Frodo would ever survive without him. So that leaves Pippin and Merry for Lucas and me. I'd say I'm Merry, because out of Lucas and me, I'm much more knowledgeable, and a bit more mature than him. Not very, okay, but a bit – oh who am I kidding, I'm way more mature than him, if he's Pippin then I'm like, Elrond level mature – oo, Elrond."
A pensive pause.
Then, "Nah, too much responsibility. Anyway, as I was saying, Lucas is Pippin, and I don't see why he has to complain about it too. Pippin's brave, he is curious, he becomes a Guard of the Citadel and he gets a cool sword. Why would anyone not want to be him, is what I'd like to know."
Though he still has no idea what Dustin's talking about, Steve hears him a bit better now. It doesn't feel like a heart attack as much anymore, just a rough out-of-breathness as if he's been running too hard.
"But I don't know if it'll work because as I said, Mike doesn't want to be Sam, and… Come to think of it, Will didn't seem too happy about being Frodo either. Hm."
The breaths feel slower and longer, and the ever-consuming horror has dwindled into a low, cold haze in the back of his mind.
Dustin keeps talking.
"But they're just stupid, it's such a great idea because that way we can fit the rest of you in, and it's so easy. Like Chief Hopper's Gandalf, 'cause he smokes and grumbles a lot. You're Aragorn, 'cause you're awesome, you're our leader and you protect us from danger. And also you're King Steve and Aragorn got to be king in the end. It's a perfect fit."
One thing registers this time, and it's the fact that Dustin thinks he's like a king from some stupid book.
"It's a bit harder for the girls, 'cause there aren't any girls in the Fellowship. They could be like additional hobbits, but I also want to give them real characters 'cause they're so badass. So let's see. Max, she's obviously Eowyn, there's no question about it. She's tough and she doesn't take any shit, remember how she threatened Billy with the bat? Shit, no, you were unconscious. But she did and it was awesome. So Max is Eowyn. I'm not so sure about Eleven. I suggested Galadriel, Mike hated this too, but just hear me out – Galadriel has all these superpowers, she's like the most powerful of the Elves, she even has one of the rings. And the gifts she gave everyone kind of saved them. And El saves us? It's a bit of a stretch, I know, but… What do you think, Steve?"
Steve takes a deep breath, and miraculously, the air behaves as it's supposed to. He swallows and exhales.
"Dustin, I have no idea what you're talking about," he says shakily.
He hears a gasp behind him.
"You mean you haven't read Lord of the Rings? Oh dude, you gotta, it's the best book ever. You can borrow mine if you want."
Wondering how he could kindly phrase that he couldn't care less about Lord of the Rings, Steve slowly turns around. But suddenly there's another reason he can't breathe, and it's because there's a warm Dustin around his chest.
Steve's arms shoot up, and then, realizing what's happening, he brings them down awkwardly around Dustin's shoulders.
"It's over, okay?" Dustin says, his voice muffled and gentle. "Don't lose your shit. El closed the gate. It's over."
"Yeah," Steve says through the lump in his throat. "Yeah, I know."
It's bullshit, though. How can it ever be over when there are monsters lurking on the other side of reality just waiting for a chance to break through?
But if Steve could choose only one of them to believe it's over, he'd choose Dustin. So he just repeats, "It's over."
Dustin nods. He shows no intention of moving. Steve doesn't either, because as uncomfortable as the situation is he just can't bring himself to do it.
They stay like that for a while.
After an eternity Dustin disentangles himself, gives Steve a small smile and sits on the bed.
Steve sits next to him, his arms on his thighs, and looks at the floor.
"Does this King Aragon ever lose his shit?" he mutters.
"It's Aragorn. And no, he doesn't. You'll have to step it up," Dustin says, grinning.
"Yeah, yeah."
"Here, you can borrow my books. You'll see, he's the best. I mean, they all are, but Aragorn is seriously the awesomest character ever. This is the first volume," Dustin says, taking from the shelf the thickest book Steve has seen in his life, "and when you finish it let me know and I'll give you the next one. But no, you know what, it's even better if you read this one first," he says, taking a marginally smaller book and putting it on top of the first one.
The Hobbit, it says.
"You can have Lord of the Rings too, but trust me, you gotta read The Hobbit first," Dustin says. His face lights up. "Or, maybe, if you want, you can read them at the same time, that way you'll –"
"Hey man, thanks," Steve interrupts, "but it's fine, I'm… not really into reading, so… if I take your books they're just gonna lie around my house and collect dust. But thanks anyway."
"Oh. Okay."
Dustin puts the books away. His face is blank, but Steve has an annoying feeling he has slightly let him down.
"My idea's still the best, though," he says.
"Yeah, I mean, definitely," Steve replies.
A silence stretches between them.
"Hey, Steve?" Dustin asks quietly. "If you ever do lose your shit again, like when you're home or whatever, call me. Whenever you want. Like literally whenever. My mom's a heavy sleeper so don't worry about that, and the phone's close to my room, there's no chance I'll miss it. Okay?"
Steve stares at the floor.
"… Yeah, sure. Thanks," he says, because he has no idea what else is there to do. He knows he'll never do it and yet the offer – order – itself is the nicest thing he's ever heard.
Dustin nods, smiling.
"Wanna get back? There's chocolate cake after the meatloaf."
"Yeah, that sounds great," Steve says, forcing a smile. "Hey, I'm just gonna run to the bathroom real quick, okay? Tell your mom I'll be there in a second."
"Okay."
Steve gets up and walks towards the door.
"Oh and Steve?"
He stops, his hand at the doorknob. "Yeah?"
"Don't worry about Aragorn not losing his shit. You're way more awesome than him anyway."
Steve blinks. He looks back at Dustin, who's gazing at him in that stupid loving childlike way, and he opens his mouth to say something, but then he changes his mind. He leaves for the bathroom.
At that moment, he's glad he doesn't know anything about Aragorn.
Claudia doesn't really know the tall teenager with the funny hair who sometimes has dinner at her house. But she knows that she loves him, because Dusty loves him. So she takes a big bag and packs him half the chocolate cake, which turned out pretty good if she may say so herself, the entire leftover meatloaf, an unopened carton of orange juice and some apples and bananas.
Just in case he feels like snacking later.
This is how it ends, Steve thinks, as the monsters charge towards them.
His life doesn't flash before his eyes. There is only:
I am eighteen.
They aren't really thoughts, more like snippets of awareness whirling in his head with the stony certainty that these are the last moments of his life.
They have a strange clarity Steve never knew before.
I am eighteen and this is how it ends
and I am fine.
He knows he's done everything he could, and if he's failed, it's not his fault. The monsters are just too damn quick.
Steve has done everything he could.
So he stands there, his bat raised in front of Dustin, the demons from hell itself rushing towards them and he knows he's doing everything he can and no it's not enough but it's okay.
It's okay.
In the nightmares, it's always different.
Waking up feels like the first breath of air after drowning. Sharp, alive, and never enough. The darkness of the tunnels fades to the innocent moonlit night of his room.
Steve turns on the lamp next to his bed blindly, then lies back, ripples of fear still vibrating beneath his skin. He presses his back and shoulders into the pillow, glancing at every corner of the room. The shadows look normal and no monsters from the dream seem to have followed him, so he closes his eyes and sighs.
This fucking sucks.
He lies there and breathes, one hand over his heart.
It's the same thing every time. Tunnels, terror, death, and the relentless guilt that extends into reality. The nightmares have all but replaced the feelings from his memories, and Steve doesn't remember being fine as vividly as he knows he should have been faster, stronger, smarter.
And that's the one thing that lies heavier than the crushing fear that takes over his lungs sometimes and makes him feel like he's dying: the thought that if the monsters hadn't been called away, the kids would all be dead, and it'd be his fault.
But they're not dead. They're alive. They're fine. Everything's okay so just fucking stop –
Except that nothing is okay.
And one day it'll happen again. The gate might be closed, but those things are still out there, trying to find a way to rip a hole into this world.
They might do it right here in this house.
Right now.
Steve forces himself to take a deep breath.
It'd be so nice to be able to run away from his own mind for a bit.
He roughly pulls the covers away, then goes to open the window. The chilly air feels like knives on his sweaty face, and the outside seems to hide dangers he'd rather not face, so he closes it soon. He exits his room and descends the stairs, trying not to think about the darkness of the forest around his huge, empty house, if it's truly empty at all –
Don't go there.
As he passes through the hallway, Steve glances at the phone. For several brief seconds, he almost hesitates.
Damn it. Not in a million years.
He continues to the bathroom. The scalding hot shower manages to convince him that it's safe, and walking back through the hallway is a tiny bit easier, even though somewhere on the other side the house is not empty, but filled with darkness and evil and something watching –
Steve takes another deep breath, then goes to the kitchen.
The bag full of food Mrs. Henderson made him take is sitting on the counter. He opens it mechanically, and after putting the cake, the juice and the meatloaf in the fridge and the fruit on the table, he picks up the bag to throw it away.
But there's something else inside. Steve reaches in and pulls out a mysterious flat object, wrapped carefully in a small separate bag. He takes it off.
He frowns for a moment. Then he smiles.
The little shithead.
He goes to the living room and turns the light on, barely taking his eyes off the green cover depicting a wizard and something that looks like a hill with a door. He plops down on the couch, one arm behind his head, and positions the book against his legs.
It's probably stupid, but it's worth a shot.
He opens it.
Originally this fic had another line after that last one, and it was the opening line from The Hobbit, but I removed it because of the Guidelines. The title of the fic is a reference as well.
This was meant to be a one shot, but then I started planning a short epilogue, and now the epilogue has become Chapter 2 and there is also Chapter 3, only I've no idea when I'll have time to write them.
Thank you for reading :) Reviews are so welcome!