Steve goes on an Adventure. He did not sign up for this, does not appreciate this, and just wants to go home and sleep, preferably forever.
Steve Harrington's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year (Stranger Things/AU/??)
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Ignition I.0
AN: Crossposted from SB (Alphard)
September 1, 1981. Saturday Morning
Steve Harrington woke up to a gentle warmth suffusing his body, a sensation that was both comforting and bewildering. Sunlight streamed through the curtains of his room, casting a golden hue over the familiar surroundings. The posters on his walls, the cluttered desk with schoolbooks and sports magazines, all seemed slightly more vivid, more alive.
Steve rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the strange feeling. It was the beginning of a new chapter in his life – his first year of high school. The air was filled with the promise of new friendships, challenges, and boring classes.
From downstairs, the smell of breakfast wafted through the house, mingling with the sound of his mother working in the kitchen. It was a typical Saturday morning in Hawkins, Indiana, but something felt different today, something Steve couldn't quite put his finger on.
He got up, stretched, and headed towards the bathroom to freshen up. The sensation of warmth persisted, making his limbs and chest feel weirdly heavy. Once in the bathroom, Steve walked over to the mirror, feeling an unusual compulsion to examine himself more closely. The warm sensation was starting to unsettle him, making him wonder if there was a visible sign to the weird, feverish feeling.
He peered into the mirror, scrutinizing his reflection closely. At first glance, everything seemed normal. His tousled hair, his sleepy eyes, the faint tan he had acquired over the summer – all appeared as they always had. But as he looked closer, he noticed a faint, almost imperceptible glow in his eyes. It was subtle, like a glimmer that vanished the moment he tried to focus on it.
He rubbed his cheeks, his skin feeling slightly warmer to the touch, although he did not seem flushed, like when he had that big fever when he was younger - the only time his parents seemed genuinely concerned for his well-being. Steve blinked and shook his head, trying to dismiss it as a trick of the morning light.
Feeling more confused than usual, he leaned back from the mirror. The warm sensation persisted, not uncomfortable but inexplicable. He shook his head and ran the tap, splashing some water on his face to properly wake up, before closing it off and quickly drying his face.
Taking a fortifying breath, he decided to head downstairs for breakfast. Despite the unsettling warmth and the oddities, he chose not to mention these to his mother. Their relationship had always been distant and strained, his academic struggles a persistent point of conflict and tension between them, and he didn't want her to think he was making something up, some weird illness – he thought that must probably be it – to avoid the first day of high school next Monday.
As he descended the stairs, the smell of bacon and eggs filled the air, serving to momentarily distract him from these strange sensations. Entering the kitchen, he found his mother, a stern woman with neatly styled brown hair, fair skin and an always cold expression on her face, preparing breakfast as usual. She glanced up briefly when he walked in but said nothing, her attention quickly returning to the stove and the pan on it.
Steve sat down at the kitchen table, the familiar creak of the wooden chair a small comfort in the otherwise tense atmosphere. The table was set with a typical breakfast spread: a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and a glass of orange juice.
He dug in, the warmth of the food mingling with the unusual warmth in his body. His mother moved efficiently around the kitchen, her presence more a formality than a source of comfort. She was always focused, always busy, leaving little room for casual conversation or anything else.
As he ate, Steve's mind was occupied once again by the warmth he'd been feeling all through his body since he woke up. The warmth, the glow in his eyes – it all felt very confusing and a little concerning to him. But here, in the normalcy of his kitchen, it seemed almost absurd to be so worried, when he didn't feel otherwise bad at all.
His mother finally broke the silence. "Don't forget you have Mr. Anderson coming over later," she said without looking at him while she took a seat as well, to start on her own breakfast. Her tone was matter of fact, a reminder rather than an invitation for discussion.
Steve nodded, suppressing a sigh. "Yeah, I remember."
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, the only thing breaking the stifling silence.
Intent of finishing his breakfast, he tried to suppress the pang of guilt that always came whenever he interacted with his mother. He had always felt he wasn't good enough in her eyes, especially when it came to school. The weight of disappointment was almost like a physical force, pressing down on his shoulder and chest relentlessly, a constant reminder of his shortcomings and the rift between them.
"Thanks for the breakfast, Mom" he said with voice barely above a whisper. She gave a perfunctory nod for the expression of gratitude – the least she usually expects, and the most she expects from him at this point – never once looking up from her own breakfast.
Standing from the table and washing his dishes in the sink as quickly as he can, he decided going for a walk in the nearby forest would be the best, before the math tutor, Mr. Anderson, arrives. Drying his hands, he makes his way out the back sliding door, going around the heated pool and into the forest. This area by their home had always been a place of solace for him, a retreat where he could escape the pressures and expectations he could never seem to live up to.
The path into the woods was familiar, lined with tall trees whose branches formed a canopy overhead. As he walked, the strange warmth in his body felt like it was writhing, heating and cooling and being very disconcerting, making his anxiety spike and his thoughts spiral – will he have to tell his mom he is sick? Was he sick? Would she even believe him? He never faked being ill before, even if he felt genuinely sick at the thought of attending school on test days, but the thought of talking to her about this and seeing the look of annoyance on her face – or worse, nothing at all – dissuaded him from trying to share this.
Frowning, he looked up, his legs having taken him to his usual spot, not far from their house but deep enough not to be able to see it from the trees – a small clearing, bathed in the early morning sunlight, the rays reflecting off the morning dew clinging to the grass and the leaves of the foliage, birds filling the silence with their waking songs. Off to the side and by one of the larger trees was his Thinking Throne – so sue him, he was six, okay? – a larger rock perfect for sitting, weirdly comfy despite being, well, a big rock. He made his way to it now and sat down, not bothered by the slightly cool surface and the mild dampness. Taking a deep breath of the cool morning air and closing his eyes, he tried to still his thoughts and just exist in the calm and the peace – even the warmth in him seemed to be writhing less, though Steve could hardly describe the sensation it was now starting to give him, except maybe green, which was dumb, it was a colour, not a sensation. Letting out an aggravated sigh, he tried to relax and simply not think, trying to obtain the calm he usually feels when coming here.
And so, with the birds providing calming music, and faint breeze tousling his hair and with eyes closed. Steve Harrington sits, alone, the Forest slowly enveloping him in its essence, and embracing the spark of his being.
September 1, 1981. Saturday Morning
Steve Harrington woke up to a gentle warmth suffusing his body, a sensation that was both comforting and bewildering. Sunlight streamed through the curtains of his room, casting a golden hue over the familiar surroundings. The posters on his walls, the cluttered desk with schoolbooks and sports magazines, all seemed slightly more vivid, more alive.
Steve rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the strange feeling. It was the beginning of a new chapter in his life – his first year of high school. The air was filled with the promise of new friendships, challenges, and boring classes.
From downstairs, the smell of breakfast wafted through the house, mingling with the sound of his mother working in the kitchen. It was a typical Saturday morning in Hawkins, Indiana, but something felt different today, something Steve couldn't quite put his finger on.
He got up, stretched, and headed towards the bathroom to freshen up. The sensation of warmth persisted, making his limbs and chest feel weirdly heavy. Once in the bathroom, Steve walked over to the mirror, feeling an unusual compulsion to examine himself more closely. The warm sensation was starting to unsettle him, making him wonder if there was a visible sign to the weird, feverish feeling.
He peered into the mirror, scrutinizing his reflection closely. At first glance, everything seemed normal. His tousled hair, his sleepy eyes, the faint tan he had acquired over the summer – all appeared as they always had. But as he looked closer, he noticed a faint, almost imperceptible glow in his eyes. It was subtle, like a glimmer that vanished the moment he tried to focus on it.
He rubbed his cheeks, his skin feeling slightly warmer to the touch, although he did not seem flushed, like when he had that big fever when he was younger - the only time his parents seemed genuinely concerned for his well-being. Steve blinked and shook his head, trying to dismiss it as a trick of the morning light.
Feeling more confused than usual, he leaned back from the mirror. The warm sensation persisted, not uncomfortable but inexplicable. He shook his head and ran the tap, splashing some water on his face to properly wake up, before closing it off and quickly drying his face.
Taking a fortifying breath, he decided to head downstairs for breakfast. Despite the unsettling warmth and the oddities, he chose not to mention these to his mother. Their relationship had always been distant and strained, his academic struggles a persistent point of conflict and tension between them, and he didn't want her to think he was making something up, some weird illness – he thought that must probably be it – to avoid the first day of high school next Monday.
As he descended the stairs, the smell of bacon and eggs filled the air, serving to momentarily distract him from these strange sensations. Entering the kitchen, he found his mother, a stern woman with neatly styled brown hair, fair skin and an always cold expression on her face, preparing breakfast as usual. She glanced up briefly when he walked in but said nothing, her attention quickly returning to the stove and the pan on it.
Steve sat down at the kitchen table, the familiar creak of the wooden chair a small comfort in the otherwise tense atmosphere. The table was set with a typical breakfast spread: a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and a glass of orange juice.
He dug in, the warmth of the food mingling with the unusual warmth in his body. His mother moved efficiently around the kitchen, her presence more a formality than a source of comfort. She was always focused, always busy, leaving little room for casual conversation or anything else.
As he ate, Steve's mind was occupied once again by the warmth he'd been feeling all through his body since he woke up. The warmth, the glow in his eyes – it all felt very confusing and a little concerning to him. But here, in the normalcy of his kitchen, it seemed almost absurd to be so worried, when he didn't feel otherwise bad at all.
His mother finally broke the silence. "Don't forget you have Mr. Anderson coming over later," she said without looking at him while she took a seat as well, to start on her own breakfast. Her tone was matter of fact, a reminder rather than an invitation for discussion.
Steve nodded, suppressing a sigh. "Yeah, I remember."
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, the only thing breaking the stifling silence.
Intent of finishing his breakfast, he tried to suppress the pang of guilt that always came whenever he interacted with his mother. He had always felt he wasn't good enough in her eyes, especially when it came to school. The weight of disappointment was almost like a physical force, pressing down on his shoulder and chest relentlessly, a constant reminder of his shortcomings and the rift between them.
"Thanks for the breakfast, Mom" he said with voice barely above a whisper. She gave a perfunctory nod for the expression of gratitude – the least she usually expects, and the most she expects from him at this point – never once looking up from her own breakfast.
Standing from the table and washing his dishes in the sink as quickly as he can, he decided going for a walk in the nearby forest would be the best, before the math tutor, Mr. Anderson, arrives. Drying his hands, he makes his way out the back sliding door, going around the heated pool and into the forest. This area by their home had always been a place of solace for him, a retreat where he could escape the pressures and expectations he could never seem to live up to.
The path into the woods was familiar, lined with tall trees whose branches formed a canopy overhead. As he walked, the strange warmth in his body felt like it was writhing, heating and cooling and being very disconcerting, making his anxiety spike and his thoughts spiral – will he have to tell his mom he is sick? Was he sick? Would she even believe him? He never faked being ill before, even if he felt genuinely sick at the thought of attending school on test days, but the thought of talking to her about this and seeing the look of annoyance on her face – or worse, nothing at all – dissuaded him from trying to share this.
Frowning, he looked up, his legs having taken him to his usual spot, not far from their house but deep enough not to be able to see it from the trees – a small clearing, bathed in the early morning sunlight, the rays reflecting off the morning dew clinging to the grass and the leaves of the foliage, birds filling the silence with their waking songs. Off to the side and by one of the larger trees was his Thinking Throne – so sue him, he was six, okay? – a larger rock perfect for sitting, weirdly comfy despite being, well, a big rock. He made his way to it now and sat down, not bothered by the slightly cool surface and the mild dampness. Taking a deep breath of the cool morning air and closing his eyes, he tried to still his thoughts and just exist in the calm and the peace – even the warmth in him seemed to be writhing less, though Steve could hardly describe the sensation it was now starting to give him, except maybe green, which was dumb, it was a colour, not a sensation. Letting out an aggravated sigh, he tried to relax and simply not think, trying to obtain the calm he usually feels when coming here.
And so, with the birds providing calming music, and faint breeze tousling his hair and with eyes closed. Steve Harrington sits, alone, the Forest slowly enveloping him in its essence, and embracing the spark of his being.
Last edited:
Ignition I.a
September 1, 1981. Saturday, Late Morning
In the quiet, he was desperately trying not to think about the odd feelings coursing through him. He did not want to deal with weird stuff, especially at the start of high school, and so he did his best to put these out of his mind, focusing instead on being in the moment, seeking to claim the soothing calm he always felt when he came here after a bad day. Closing his eyes, he let the natural world wash over his senses – the gentle rustling of the leaves, the soothing breeze, the chirping of distant birds, and the occasional snap and crunch as some small woodland creatures scurried by.
For a while, he basked in this tranquillity, a sense of calm coming over him that he was hard pressed to find in his house. This forest had always been something of a refuge for him, ever since he was old enough to start exploring by himself, somewhere where he could escape the pressure and the weight of disappointment of his mother, which seemed to linger over him, a constant nagging in the back of his mind, an infection rooted in his subconscious.
Inevitably, his mind and thoughts began to wander - as they always do - to the looming first day of high school, which caused an unpleasant clench in his stomach. The only silver lining was that his friends, Tommy and Carol, would be attending with him, an island of familiarity in a new and daunting place. He was sure they would establish themselves quickly as they had in middle school, at the top of the teenage food chain, at least among their year-mates. This should have given him a measure of comfort, but for some reason, today, it just filled him with unease – the warmth pulsing more intensely for a split second, before subsiding.
The peace suddenly broken, he opened his eyes and let out an annoyed sigh, then a rueful laugh escaped him. What is he even doing? Almost freaking out just because he probably has an unusual fever and thinking his eyes were glimmering in the mirror? Quickly getting to his feet and pursing his lips, he begins to make his way back to the house, intent on ignoring stupid thoughts – but that's the thing, isn't it, all his thoughts are stupid, he is stu- and anyway, his mom would probably not appreciate if he made Mr. Anderson wait (a quick look at his watch that his dad gave him the last time he saw him last year showed that he was sitting and moping for almost an hour, what the hell), and so he quickened his pace a bit, and soon enough their house came into sight, and he went inside, to the living room, preparing all his things – notebooks, textbooks, a calculator, pencils, a lot of erasers – for the coming hour and a half of humiliation and torture.
Not even a few minutes later his mother made her way into the living room, eyes roaming until they fell on Steve, her face a mask of cold neutrality, so everything was as usual. Steve looked at her, his nerves coming back with a vengeance, and in a moment of naïve hope or intense stupidity, he decided to ask if she maybe knew something, that maybe this sudden warmth and shiny eyes were just things everyone went through as teens at some point and just no one talked about it. Licking his lips and swallowing, he nervously began, trying to affect a casual tone,
"Mom, I was wondering… do weird, uh, things ever happen when you're a teenager? Like, I dunno, strange feelings, and uh… stuff? That you can't really explain?"
His mother blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before frowning ever so slightly, giving him a look he was used to: like he failed all her expectations simply by being born. However, she still decided to answer,
"It is not unusual to feel out of sorts during your teenage years. Your body and mind are going through a lot of changes – hormones, growth spurts, emotional instability – it's all a natural consequence of growing older and developing."
He nodded, not really having received an answer, but his courage failed him at the thought of going into details regarding what me meant. He tried giving her a smile, though even he felt it was strained,
"Yeah… yeah, that's probably it. Thanks."
The frown deepened on his mom's face for a second as she scrutinized him, however before she could press further on whatever she noticed on his face, the doorbell rang. Like quicksilver, her expression changed back into the cold neutrality she so often wore, and she made her way to open the door.
Barely a few minutes later, in which Steve heard his mom and his tutor exchange the usual pleasantries, Mr. Anderson entered the living room. He was a middle-aged man, with short brown hair, grey eyes, a kind face, and a patient demeanour. Upon seeing Steve, he gave him a kind smile, as if he was his best pupil, and not a useless, dumb fai-
"Hello, Steve," he said warmly, interrupting his thoughts. "Ready to get started?"
Steve nodded, giving him a vaguely sickly smile. "Yeah… let's do this".
Thirty minutes later, they were both sitting at the table, his math textbook and notepad spread in front of him. Mr. Anderson was being nice and supportive as always, but that only made Steve feel worse. He knew what he must be thinking of him, that he was a completely lost cause, struggling with ideas and concepts that were easy for everyone else. Worse, the feeling of warmth in his body started mixing with his mounting anxiety, feeding into shame and guilt and self-loathing, a loop of amplifying negative emotions he couldn't break out of.
Mr. Anderson was explaining the same problem patiently for at least the dozenth time with a steady and calm voice, but each time Steve made yet another simple mistake, the emotions seemed to surge within him, ever more intense. He could feel his face growing hot with shame at further proof of his inadequacy.
Blinking the wetness out of his eyes, he noticed Mr. Anderson pointing at a different problem on the page. "Let's try this one instead, Steve. Take your time and think it through, and if you have any questions, feel free to ask."
He stared at the problem and the numbers, his brain a jumbled mess. He felt trapped in a cycle of failure, the numbers swimming on the page, and he couldn't put them in a proper order no matter how hard he tried. His hand trembled slightly as he clenched the pencil, a sense of futility taking over him. His emotions kept spiking erratically along with that horrible warmth, and he couldn't focus on anything but trying not to humiliate himself – and his mom – by crying like a little child.
Mr. Anderson, of course, noticed his distress, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It's okay to struggle, Steve, everyone does so sometimes. We can go over it again from the top, there is no rush."
But the kind words failed to make him feel better, only feeding into his frustrations. He didn't want to be coddled, he wanted to be competent, or at least normal, so he wouldn't feel like a burden. He grits his teeth, glaring down at the equation on the page. Mr. Anderson futilely spent the past two years trying to force at least a little bit of knowledge into Steve's brain with little success – they barely made any progress, the only reason he managed to scrape by the big tests was because of dumb luck and the considerable donations his mom made to the school district.
This last thought was the final straw, the heady cocktail of emotions churning in him reaching a boiling point, making him feel as if he was about to explode or scream; and then, with a final flare that eclipsed all others before, the warmth in his body seemed to consolidate and transform – between one blink and the next, he went from being completely overwhelmed by his emotions, on the verge of a panic attack, to a cold, crystal clarity he never in his life experienced before. It's as if a veil has been lifted from his eyes, turning the world into a landscape of logic and rationality previously concealed from him.
The math problem he was glaring at, once seeming so insurmountable, the numbers dancing on the page as if mocking him, now seemed trivial, making perfect sense to him, the solution almost unfolding without any thinking. His hands moved, the pencil gliding across the page of his notebook, solving the problem with precision and ease.
Mr. Anderson could only watch in astonishment as Steve started breezing through one problem after another without stopping. "Excellent work, Steve!' he said with voice full of admiration and something else – a teacher who felt validated when his efforts with his student paid off. "You're doing very, very well. What changed?"
Steve wasn't entirely certain himself. The sudden clarity was both exhilarating and bewildering; he felt a sense of control and certainty entirely new to him, the math problems simple puzzles, and he had all the solutions already memorized. For a moment he considered sharing what he felt, but he dissuaded himself just as quickly – he didn't understand what the hell happened, and he didn't want to sound crazy. Instead, he smiled slightly, a feeling of alien pride growing in place of the constant shame.
"Uh, I guess it just… clicked," Steve said, hoping that non-answer sounded at least a bit plausible.
Mr. Anderson nodded, pleased, "Sometimes, that's all it takes. Do keep going, you are doing great!"
Steve continued, a tiny smile making its way onto his face, progressing through the textbook at an almost blistering pace. The strange warmth had also receded, slipping from his awareness, for the moment, leaving behind a feeling of invincibility.
In the quiet, he was desperately trying not to think about the odd feelings coursing through him. He did not want to deal with weird stuff, especially at the start of high school, and so he did his best to put these out of his mind, focusing instead on being in the moment, seeking to claim the soothing calm he always felt when he came here after a bad day. Closing his eyes, he let the natural world wash over his senses – the gentle rustling of the leaves, the soothing breeze, the chirping of distant birds, and the occasional snap and crunch as some small woodland creatures scurried by.
For a while, he basked in this tranquillity, a sense of calm coming over him that he was hard pressed to find in his house. This forest had always been something of a refuge for him, ever since he was old enough to start exploring by himself, somewhere where he could escape the pressure and the weight of disappointment of his mother, which seemed to linger over him, a constant nagging in the back of his mind, an infection rooted in his subconscious.
Inevitably, his mind and thoughts began to wander - as they always do - to the looming first day of high school, which caused an unpleasant clench in his stomach. The only silver lining was that his friends, Tommy and Carol, would be attending with him, an island of familiarity in a new and daunting place. He was sure they would establish themselves quickly as they had in middle school, at the top of the teenage food chain, at least among their year-mates. This should have given him a measure of comfort, but for some reason, today, it just filled him with unease – the warmth pulsing more intensely for a split second, before subsiding.
The peace suddenly broken, he opened his eyes and let out an annoyed sigh, then a rueful laugh escaped him. What is he even doing? Almost freaking out just because he probably has an unusual fever and thinking his eyes were glimmering in the mirror? Quickly getting to his feet and pursing his lips, he begins to make his way back to the house, intent on ignoring stupid thoughts – but that's the thing, isn't it, all his thoughts are stupid, he is stu- and anyway, his mom would probably not appreciate if he made Mr. Anderson wait (a quick look at his watch that his dad gave him the last time he saw him last year showed that he was sitting and moping for almost an hour, what the hell), and so he quickened his pace a bit, and soon enough their house came into sight, and he went inside, to the living room, preparing all his things – notebooks, textbooks, a calculator, pencils, a lot of erasers – for the coming hour and a half of humiliation and torture.
Not even a few minutes later his mother made her way into the living room, eyes roaming until they fell on Steve, her face a mask of cold neutrality, so everything was as usual. Steve looked at her, his nerves coming back with a vengeance, and in a moment of naïve hope or intense stupidity, he decided to ask if she maybe knew something, that maybe this sudden warmth and shiny eyes were just things everyone went through as teens at some point and just no one talked about it. Licking his lips and swallowing, he nervously began, trying to affect a casual tone,
"Mom, I was wondering… do weird, uh, things ever happen when you're a teenager? Like, I dunno, strange feelings, and uh… stuff? That you can't really explain?"
His mother blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before frowning ever so slightly, giving him a look he was used to: like he failed all her expectations simply by being born. However, she still decided to answer,
"It is not unusual to feel out of sorts during your teenage years. Your body and mind are going through a lot of changes – hormones, growth spurts, emotional instability – it's all a natural consequence of growing older and developing."
He nodded, not really having received an answer, but his courage failed him at the thought of going into details regarding what me meant. He tried giving her a smile, though even he felt it was strained,
"Yeah… yeah, that's probably it. Thanks."
The frown deepened on his mom's face for a second as she scrutinized him, however before she could press further on whatever she noticed on his face, the doorbell rang. Like quicksilver, her expression changed back into the cold neutrality she so often wore, and she made her way to open the door.
Barely a few minutes later, in which Steve heard his mom and his tutor exchange the usual pleasantries, Mr. Anderson entered the living room. He was a middle-aged man, with short brown hair, grey eyes, a kind face, and a patient demeanour. Upon seeing Steve, he gave him a kind smile, as if he was his best pupil, and not a useless, dumb fai-
"Hello, Steve," he said warmly, interrupting his thoughts. "Ready to get started?"
Steve nodded, giving him a vaguely sickly smile. "Yeah… let's do this".
Thirty minutes later, they were both sitting at the table, his math textbook and notepad spread in front of him. Mr. Anderson was being nice and supportive as always, but that only made Steve feel worse. He knew what he must be thinking of him, that he was a completely lost cause, struggling with ideas and concepts that were easy for everyone else. Worse, the feeling of warmth in his body started mixing with his mounting anxiety, feeding into shame and guilt and self-loathing, a loop of amplifying negative emotions he couldn't break out of.
Mr. Anderson was explaining the same problem patiently for at least the dozenth time with a steady and calm voice, but each time Steve made yet another simple mistake, the emotions seemed to surge within him, ever more intense. He could feel his face growing hot with shame at further proof of his inadequacy.
Blinking the wetness out of his eyes, he noticed Mr. Anderson pointing at a different problem on the page. "Let's try this one instead, Steve. Take your time and think it through, and if you have any questions, feel free to ask."
He stared at the problem and the numbers, his brain a jumbled mess. He felt trapped in a cycle of failure, the numbers swimming on the page, and he couldn't put them in a proper order no matter how hard he tried. His hand trembled slightly as he clenched the pencil, a sense of futility taking over him. His emotions kept spiking erratically along with that horrible warmth, and he couldn't focus on anything but trying not to humiliate himself – and his mom – by crying like a little child.
Mr. Anderson, of course, noticed his distress, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It's okay to struggle, Steve, everyone does so sometimes. We can go over it again from the top, there is no rush."
But the kind words failed to make him feel better, only feeding into his frustrations. He didn't want to be coddled, he wanted to be competent, or at least normal, so he wouldn't feel like a burden. He grits his teeth, glaring down at the equation on the page. Mr. Anderson futilely spent the past two years trying to force at least a little bit of knowledge into Steve's brain with little success – they barely made any progress, the only reason he managed to scrape by the big tests was because of dumb luck and the considerable donations his mom made to the school district.
This last thought was the final straw, the heady cocktail of emotions churning in him reaching a boiling point, making him feel as if he was about to explode or scream; and then, with a final flare that eclipsed all others before, the warmth in his body seemed to consolidate and transform – between one blink and the next, he went from being completely overwhelmed by his emotions, on the verge of a panic attack, to a cold, crystal clarity he never in his life experienced before. It's as if a veil has been lifted from his eyes, turning the world into a landscape of logic and rationality previously concealed from him.
The math problem he was glaring at, once seeming so insurmountable, the numbers dancing on the page as if mocking him, now seemed trivial, making perfect sense to him, the solution almost unfolding without any thinking. His hands moved, the pencil gliding across the page of his notebook, solving the problem with precision and ease.
Mr. Anderson could only watch in astonishment as Steve started breezing through one problem after another without stopping. "Excellent work, Steve!' he said with voice full of admiration and something else – a teacher who felt validated when his efforts with his student paid off. "You're doing very, very well. What changed?"
Steve wasn't entirely certain himself. The sudden clarity was both exhilarating and bewildering; he felt a sense of control and certainty entirely new to him, the math problems simple puzzles, and he had all the solutions already memorized. For a moment he considered sharing what he felt, but he dissuaded himself just as quickly – he didn't understand what the hell happened, and he didn't want to sound crazy. Instead, he smiled slightly, a feeling of alien pride growing in place of the constant shame.
"Uh, I guess it just… clicked," Steve said, hoping that non-answer sounded at least a bit plausible.
Mr. Anderson nodded, pleased, "Sometimes, that's all it takes. Do keep going, you are doing great!"
Steve continued, a tiny smile making its way onto his face, progressing through the textbook at an almost blistering pace. The strange warmth had also receded, slipping from his awareness, for the moment, leaving behind a feeling of invincibility.
Ignition I.b
AN: I want to thank everyone reading this, and those who decided to watch as this story unfolds - I really appreciate it! I understand Stranger Things is probably not the usual fandom being peddled here - especially with me focusing more on the angst and less on the eldritch magic bullshit for the moment. Anyway, again I just wanted to express my thanks, and hope someone will find some enjoyment or inspiration in this.
September 1, 1981. Saturday, Late Morning / Late Evening
With the newfound passion of someone who finally understood something they've been struggling with for years, Steve was entirely focused on the problems, his hands struggling to keep up with the speed of his mind; each solution came with barely any effort, the numbers almost eagerly arranging themselves in the correct configurations for his sole convenience. Mr Anderson's encouragement faded into the background, but nevertheless served to further embolden Steve, making him feel like bursting with joy.
However, as usual, all good things must come to an end eventually. Slowly, like a sluggishly receding tide, the crystal clarity began to first dampen, then fade – a subtle and nigh imperceptible withdrawal, a dulling of the mind. The precision that seemed to possess his hands, writing the answers in neat rows and columns, and arranging his thoughts into order, slipped away – in its wake the muddled confusion that so often plagued him when it came to learning maths.
He tried to hold on to the feeling with the desperation of a man stranded in a desert having his last drops of water snatched away by the cruel rays of the Sun, with the same measure of success. The equations that seemed so trivial a moment ago once more became daunting, a mess of letters and numbers that hid their answers behind an impenetrable veil. Having reached the more advanced parts of the textbook that he never dreamed laying his eyes on, he was at a total loss – while a vague understanding remained from whatever that was, it wasn't nearly enough to tackle these problems in any way.
Noticing Steve's sudden pause and sensing the slow shift in his demeanour – confidence melting away, panic bubbling to the surface – Mr. Anderson put a gentle hand on Steve's shoulder. "It's all right, Steve – you made amazing progress today!" he smiled encouragingly, "Let's work through the rest of these problems together, shall we?"
Steve could only nod mutely, suppressing his disappointment. His insides churned with a cavalcade of emotions: a measure of pride, for having briefly understood so much, yet even more frustration at losing such clarity of thought. The strange warmth settled within him once more, no longer providing the sharp focus he yearned for in this moment.
And while his surge of confidence has taken a definitive blow, as they started working through the problems together, he felt a spark of it lingering – and enkindling a small ember of hope that one day, this unpassable rift in knowledge could one day be bridged.
They spent a while more chewing through the textbook; however, Mr. Anderson – noticing Steve's mood shifting to something less productive, and perhaps wishing to end things on a high note for his student – decided to wrap up this session a little earlier than usual. With yet another smile at Steve, eyes containing a hint of pride, he said, "You've done exceptionally well today, Steve, I knew you had it in you!", then his look turned slightly knowing. "How about we stop here for today? We can pick up again next time."
Feeling a small knot of tension releasing, Steve nodded, giving his teacher a grateful look. Mr. Anderson quickly packed up his things, efficiently putting them in his worn, leather case and walked towards the entrance, Steve close behind – his mother coming out of the living room, with a slightly raised eyebrow after looking at the clock.
"How did it go?" and while her tone was neutral, her look at Steve was anything but, twisting his guts into a familiar, unpleasant shape.
Mr. Anderson, to Steve's eternal gratitude, simply gave a kindly smile. "Your son did exceptionally well today! He managed to grasp several of the more challenging concepts, even, so it was a great success."
Steve shuffled a little, feeling weirdly embarrassed; his teacher was exaggerating things, considering the last half of their lesson was filled with battling with numbers, but he appreciated the kind words, even if they probably meant nothing.
The brief look of shock flitting across his mother's face, though, cut through any good feelings he might have had – even though it quickly slipped back to her usual mask of cold neutrality. Truthfully, Steve couldn't recall the last time he has seen his mother smile or express herself in any way. He supposed it was just a natural consequence having to bear with a useless son like him.
"That's good to hear."
The momentary silence after felt suffocating, and Steve made his escape with a mumbled goodbye, slipping past his mom, his head tilted down, gaze fixed on the floor ahead. He made his way quickly to his room, his shoulder's losing some of their tension when he entered and closed the door softly behind himself.
After taking a moment to simply breathe, with quick steps he was by his bed – and then collapsed onto it, bouncing slightly then wriggling into his soft sheets and pillows, letting out a sigh; the events of the past few hours weighed heavily on his mind. What even happened? One moment, it was the usual struggle, next – the weird warm feeling flared and he suddenly knew things. Is this some weird brain illness? Do I have some brain tumour? With a shiver, Steve hoped not – he could already imagine how annoyed his mom would be, having to deal with yet another problem he caused.
As he lay there, sunk into blissful softness and a still fresh, lavender smell, despite his mind churning with clamorous thoughts, his eyelids drooped ever lower, as if dragged by lead weights, and soon enough his breathing evened out, slower and deeper.
Steve was talking to someone, desperately confiding about everything to them, the warmth, his fears, his mom, dad – a larger shape, with face smudged, what did he look like why don't I know – and then he was in school, but it was strange, it looked like his middle school but bigger and weird and with a mass of shapeless faceless people, all surrounding him, and he was talking to them – god Steve can't you solve your own problems for once in-, and they were all pointing at him and whispering, and Steve knew, just knew they thought he was crazy, and they knew all his failures and it didn't matter how he pretended- and then Carol and Tommy were there, and Tommy was giving him the same mean smirk he always did when he was about to put one of the losers he hated down – and Steve was quiet, it was okay, he wasn't doing it, he didn't feel bad, they deserved it anyway, they were his best friends so it was okay-, and it seemed the world was shaking with ever louder laughter and jeers and mockery, and Steve was crouching, head held in his hands, rocking slightly back and forth, tears streaming down his face, wishing it. Would. Just. End. (that he would just end).
Slowly, his heavy breathing and pitiful sobs were the only noise around, the clamour quieting, the chaos dissipating, replaced by silence and calm. Still shaking, and sucking in a tremulous breath, Steve stiffly uncurled from his crouch, and slowly stood, looking around in bewilderment – and belatedly, wonder. Washed in moonlight, the glade he was now in was ethereal – white, red, black and blue fragrant flowers blooming wildly, the grass a vivid green, all of them showered in silvery glow. Lifting his gaze further, past the enormous trees, the likes of which he had never seen before - the night sky had a depth that beggared belief, the light of the universe captivating.
The clean and crisp air cleansing his soul with every draw of breath, Steve pulled his gaze back down – and in the middle of it all, there was a large pond, it's crystalline and perfectly still surface reflecting the galaxies above, and dots of warm, orange light danced around its' shores, weaving an intricate pattern into reality.
He moved closer to the water's edge, his legs moving on their own, and soon he was kneeling by it, looking down – but instead of his reflection, he simply saw – an endless depth, with no ground in evidence past the reflections of the stars.
His heart thrummed with steady beat, his thoughts were calm and distant, and he felt at… peace; and the thought came to him – is this what coming home feels like? – and the familiarity of this place – that he never even could have imagined – was overwhelming.
Steve had no idea how long he knelt there, staring into the water, his mind a million miles away – but some deep instinct had him look up and, at the edge of the treeline, half hidden by shadows was standing a small child. They had a buzzcut, a face that seemed unaccustomed to smiling, and were wearing very strange, form-fitting white clothes that evoked the impression of some kind of straitjacket.
If Steve was surprised, it had nothing on the emotions playing across this child's face – a look of confusion, fear, bewilderment, wide eyes darting around as they hunched in on themselves slightly, as if preparing for some unseen blow.
Steve stood, and immediately those dark eyes were fixed on him, the child now completely still – making Steve think of a baby deer, preparing to flee.
"Hey", he called out softly, doing his best to sound unthreatening, "Are you okay?"
There was no response for a moment, but with a strange flicker on their face and a tilt of their head, as if listening to something, they reluctantly took a few steps forward, closer to Steve, gaze wandering around the glade, drinking the sight in as if they never saw anything like it.
Trying to keep up the tone, and to keep a confused frown off his face, he tried again, "Who are you? Do you need, uh, help?".
In a small and trembling voice, the child – the girl – spoke, "What is this place."
While understanding it was a question, the lack of intonation was very strange; however, Steve thought it perhaps wasn't the time to point such things out. "It's okay, I think this is just my dream – you're safe" he added with a small smile.
Some tension leaving the corner of her eyes, but not her form, she asked quietly, her voice no longer holding a slight tremble, "Who are you?"
"I'm Steve – and you?"
She opened her mouth as if to answer, before closing it and opening it once again. Furtively looking around, her gaze eventually settled back on Steve, and barely audibly, whispered, "Eleven".
Steve couldn't keep his frown back this time – what kind of name was Eleven? – but as he opened his mouth to question that oddity, the dreamscape seemed to waver, and with startling suddenness dispersed – and Steve was abruptly awake, faint evening light streaming through his window. Blinking rapidly, he slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes, his throat feeling parched, the details of the strange dream already becoming faint and hard to grasp – but with a strange inner calm now settled in his soul for the moment.
September 1, 1981. Saturday, Late Morning / Late Evening
With the newfound passion of someone who finally understood something they've been struggling with for years, Steve was entirely focused on the problems, his hands struggling to keep up with the speed of his mind; each solution came with barely any effort, the numbers almost eagerly arranging themselves in the correct configurations for his sole convenience. Mr Anderson's encouragement faded into the background, but nevertheless served to further embolden Steve, making him feel like bursting with joy.
However, as usual, all good things must come to an end eventually. Slowly, like a sluggishly receding tide, the crystal clarity began to first dampen, then fade – a subtle and nigh imperceptible withdrawal, a dulling of the mind. The precision that seemed to possess his hands, writing the answers in neat rows and columns, and arranging his thoughts into order, slipped away – in its wake the muddled confusion that so often plagued him when it came to learning maths.
He tried to hold on to the feeling with the desperation of a man stranded in a desert having his last drops of water snatched away by the cruel rays of the Sun, with the same measure of success. The equations that seemed so trivial a moment ago once more became daunting, a mess of letters and numbers that hid their answers behind an impenetrable veil. Having reached the more advanced parts of the textbook that he never dreamed laying his eyes on, he was at a total loss – while a vague understanding remained from whatever that was, it wasn't nearly enough to tackle these problems in any way.
Noticing Steve's sudden pause and sensing the slow shift in his demeanour – confidence melting away, panic bubbling to the surface – Mr. Anderson put a gentle hand on Steve's shoulder. "It's all right, Steve – you made amazing progress today!" he smiled encouragingly, "Let's work through the rest of these problems together, shall we?"
Steve could only nod mutely, suppressing his disappointment. His insides churned with a cavalcade of emotions: a measure of pride, for having briefly understood so much, yet even more frustration at losing such clarity of thought. The strange warmth settled within him once more, no longer providing the sharp focus he yearned for in this moment.
And while his surge of confidence has taken a definitive blow, as they started working through the problems together, he felt a spark of it lingering – and enkindling a small ember of hope that one day, this unpassable rift in knowledge could one day be bridged.
They spent a while more chewing through the textbook; however, Mr. Anderson – noticing Steve's mood shifting to something less productive, and perhaps wishing to end things on a high note for his student – decided to wrap up this session a little earlier than usual. With yet another smile at Steve, eyes containing a hint of pride, he said, "You've done exceptionally well today, Steve, I knew you had it in you!", then his look turned slightly knowing. "How about we stop here for today? We can pick up again next time."
Feeling a small knot of tension releasing, Steve nodded, giving his teacher a grateful look. Mr. Anderson quickly packed up his things, efficiently putting them in his worn, leather case and walked towards the entrance, Steve close behind – his mother coming out of the living room, with a slightly raised eyebrow after looking at the clock.
"How did it go?" and while her tone was neutral, her look at Steve was anything but, twisting his guts into a familiar, unpleasant shape.
Mr. Anderson, to Steve's eternal gratitude, simply gave a kindly smile. "Your son did exceptionally well today! He managed to grasp several of the more challenging concepts, even, so it was a great success."
Steve shuffled a little, feeling weirdly embarrassed; his teacher was exaggerating things, considering the last half of their lesson was filled with battling with numbers, but he appreciated the kind words, even if they probably meant nothing.
The brief look of shock flitting across his mother's face, though, cut through any good feelings he might have had – even though it quickly slipped back to her usual mask of cold neutrality. Truthfully, Steve couldn't recall the last time he has seen his mother smile or express herself in any way. He supposed it was just a natural consequence having to bear with a useless son like him.
"That's good to hear."
The momentary silence after felt suffocating, and Steve made his escape with a mumbled goodbye, slipping past his mom, his head tilted down, gaze fixed on the floor ahead. He made his way quickly to his room, his shoulder's losing some of their tension when he entered and closed the door softly behind himself.
After taking a moment to simply breathe, with quick steps he was by his bed – and then collapsed onto it, bouncing slightly then wriggling into his soft sheets and pillows, letting out a sigh; the events of the past few hours weighed heavily on his mind. What even happened? One moment, it was the usual struggle, next – the weird warm feeling flared and he suddenly knew things. Is this some weird brain illness? Do I have some brain tumour? With a shiver, Steve hoped not – he could already imagine how annoyed his mom would be, having to deal with yet another problem he caused.
As he lay there, sunk into blissful softness and a still fresh, lavender smell, despite his mind churning with clamorous thoughts, his eyelids drooped ever lower, as if dragged by lead weights, and soon enough his breathing evened out, slower and deeper.
Steve was talking to someone, desperately confiding about everything to them, the warmth, his fears, his mom, dad – a larger shape, with face smudged, what did he look like why don't I know – and then he was in school, but it was strange, it looked like his middle school but bigger and weird and with a mass of shapeless faceless people, all surrounding him, and he was talking to them – god Steve can't you solve your own problems for once in-, and they were all pointing at him and whispering, and Steve knew, just knew they thought he was crazy, and they knew all his failures and it didn't matter how he pretended- and then Carol and Tommy were there, and Tommy was giving him the same mean smirk he always did when he was about to put one of the losers he hated down – and Steve was quiet, it was okay, he wasn't doing it, he didn't feel bad, they deserved it anyway, they were his best friends so it was okay-, and it seemed the world was shaking with ever louder laughter and jeers and mockery, and Steve was crouching, head held in his hands, rocking slightly back and forth, tears streaming down his face, wishing it. Would. Just. End. (that he would just end).
Slowly, his heavy breathing and pitiful sobs were the only noise around, the clamour quieting, the chaos dissipating, replaced by silence and calm. Still shaking, and sucking in a tremulous breath, Steve stiffly uncurled from his crouch, and slowly stood, looking around in bewilderment – and belatedly, wonder. Washed in moonlight, the glade he was now in was ethereal – white, red, black and blue fragrant flowers blooming wildly, the grass a vivid green, all of them showered in silvery glow. Lifting his gaze further, past the enormous trees, the likes of which he had never seen before - the night sky had a depth that beggared belief, the light of the universe captivating.
The clean and crisp air cleansing his soul with every draw of breath, Steve pulled his gaze back down – and in the middle of it all, there was a large pond, it's crystalline and perfectly still surface reflecting the galaxies above, and dots of warm, orange light danced around its' shores, weaving an intricate pattern into reality.
He moved closer to the water's edge, his legs moving on their own, and soon he was kneeling by it, looking down – but instead of his reflection, he simply saw – an endless depth, with no ground in evidence past the reflections of the stars.
His heart thrummed with steady beat, his thoughts were calm and distant, and he felt at… peace; and the thought came to him – is this what coming home feels like? – and the familiarity of this place – that he never even could have imagined – was overwhelming.
Steve had no idea how long he knelt there, staring into the water, his mind a million miles away – but some deep instinct had him look up and, at the edge of the treeline, half hidden by shadows was standing a small child. They had a buzzcut, a face that seemed unaccustomed to smiling, and were wearing very strange, form-fitting white clothes that evoked the impression of some kind of straitjacket.
If Steve was surprised, it had nothing on the emotions playing across this child's face – a look of confusion, fear, bewilderment, wide eyes darting around as they hunched in on themselves slightly, as if preparing for some unseen blow.
Steve stood, and immediately those dark eyes were fixed on him, the child now completely still – making Steve think of a baby deer, preparing to flee.
"Hey", he called out softly, doing his best to sound unthreatening, "Are you okay?"
There was no response for a moment, but with a strange flicker on their face and a tilt of their head, as if listening to something, they reluctantly took a few steps forward, closer to Steve, gaze wandering around the glade, drinking the sight in as if they never saw anything like it.
Trying to keep up the tone, and to keep a confused frown off his face, he tried again, "Who are you? Do you need, uh, help?".
In a small and trembling voice, the child – the girl – spoke, "What is this place."
While understanding it was a question, the lack of intonation was very strange; however, Steve thought it perhaps wasn't the time to point such things out. "It's okay, I think this is just my dream – you're safe" he added with a small smile.
Some tension leaving the corner of her eyes, but not her form, she asked quietly, her voice no longer holding a slight tremble, "Who are you?"
"I'm Steve – and you?"
She opened her mouth as if to answer, before closing it and opening it once again. Furtively looking around, her gaze eventually settled back on Steve, and barely audibly, whispered, "Eleven".
Steve couldn't keep his frown back this time – what kind of name was Eleven? – but as he opened his mouth to question that oddity, the dreamscape seemed to waver, and with startling suddenness dispersed – and Steve was abruptly awake, faint evening light streaming through his window. Blinking rapidly, he slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes, his throat feeling parched, the details of the strange dream already becoming faint and hard to grasp – but with a strange inner calm now settled in his soul for the moment.
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