#*zoneral

[secondwlnd-a]

❛  you certainly can make an entrance   ❜

suffocation pit rattles with the sound of chaos, roar of creature that shakes faulty wooden structure as it slams against walls in frantic chase. firecrackers like gunshots fire off in a domino effect following the howl of hawkins’ monster, and steve stumbles through mineshaft window, casting an exhausted salute in the direction of battered dreamwalker in the lower pit. demo-dog will be busy for at least a few moments--he hopes. sunglasses lower as he bends, hands at knees and sputters smoke. “what’s up, smith?”

a moment of mild horror as he finally notices sparks lighting up his sleeve, and steve swiftly snuffs it out on jeans with a few smacks. he shifts on his heels, straightening and trying to resume any sort of dignified posture. “...yeah, you know. one of my many talents.” he holds out a hand, anchoring himself on creaky floor as he hauls quentin up to his side. “don’t thank me yet, i’m out of fireworks.” a loose gesture and the barest hint of a grin--that this had worked, that they might make it--scrabbling and clawing from the literal jaws of death. “so uh, lets make like a tree, or whatever.”

[secondwlnd-a]

“it might help if you just let it out, Steve.”

scissors and saws on shiny trays and needles in the neck–a metal confine hundreds of feet below ground. the very vision had dropped him in the trial, fingers clutching in matted hair as electricity pulsed on nerves and uprooted scream from the bottom of his lungs. vision of monsters, vision of nancy and jonathan and the blinking christmas lights in the byers’ house. he’d have let himself die in there if quentin hadn’t dragged him staggering from the trial. 

and now, at the campfire, he’s blinking back tremors, fingers curled in quentin’s jacket like surfacing from the heavy dark of a nightmare. he realizes what he’s doing, releasing the fabric in whitened knuckles. he laughs, oddly. “w-what? did he burn my eyebrows off or something?” words come out wobbly and joke unconvincing. quentin is stabilizing him at the shoulder, reassuring motion and concern in tired eyes. “i’m fine– man i’m. i’m f-fine. just… just need a second.” 

but his breathing shakes out of chattering teeth. panic this steep is unusual, carving out canyons in his chest cavity where he can’t breathe. he doesn’t know what to do with it, where to put it. i can’t. saltwater stings at his eyes but won’t shed, and he finds he can’t look at quentin now–dam weakened beyond salvaging. he was supposed to have their backs. he was supposed to protect them. 

“i miss–you know, man, i miss the stupid mall and the stupid kids i used to babysit, and when–” he gives a shuddering laugh, “–and when it was like, you know. beat the hell out of a couple monsters and fail a history paper, not, like, get chased down like animals every day of our lives. what the hell.” hysterical, he’s hemorrhaging a derailed train of thought. as he spews guts, catharsis begins to sink into numbed chest and he quiets in quentin’s leveling presence. “i just… i messed up. i messed up.” guilt and grief contained barely in his shoulders as he looks up, stiffens his back, his expression. “i’m sorry for back there, i’m sorry.”