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On November 6th, 1987, Dustin Henderson has the best shower of his life.
Layers of thick grime and sweat run off his body, blood crusted under his nose finally loosening in the steam. For a while he just stands, eyes closed, letting the heat pour over him and the sound of running water drown out all the noise in his brain. It makes him think of El, and he lets out a shuddering breath.
Then, he gets to scrubbing. With a palmful of Fabergé Organics shampoo, Dustin digs his fingers into his hair, working away at the sticky mess. He moves down, lathering every inch of skin with soap until all he can smell is wheat germ oil and honey and he still doesn’t feel clean enough. It takes three rounds of scrubbing until he’s satisfied.
Stepping out of the shower, Dustin finds his way into a soft towel, folded up on the corner of the bathroom counter. He wraps it around himself, holding it tightly over his shoulders before drying off his body. The air is thick with steam. He catches his reflection in the condensation covered mirror, and goes to swipe away the droplets with his hand. A pair of blue, sorrowful eyes stare back at him, bloodshot and tired with deep purple bruises settling underneath from his fight in the cemetery, which seems like lifetimes ago. He closes his eyes again, feeling his heart pumping, adrenaline spreading through his limbs like shockwaves and throbbing in his eardrums and fingertips. A deep breath fills his lungs painfully, then slowly seeps out through pursed lips. He’s okay. He’s okay.
It doesn’t feel real. None of it. The lab, the abyss, the monsters, Steve almost plummeting to his death (not once, but twice today), El… El disappearing from the other side of the gate before it closed. He can’t feel it, not really. Not fully. Maybe he just doesn’t want to.
He clutches the countertop in front of him, lets the water from his hair drip down his face into the sink below. An array of lotions and colognes are lined up on the counter, and in the corner of his vision he sees a smiling face with bouncy blonde curls on a bottle of hairspray. He can’t help but smile back, cheeks lifting for the first time in days.
“You do four puffs of the Farrah Fawcett spray.”
“Farrah Fawcett spray?”
“Yeah, Farrah Fawcett. You tell anyone I just told you that and your ass is grass, you’re dead, Henderson. Do you understand?”
The memory fills him with warmth. Almost exactly three years ago, Dustin and Steve became friends, scattering chunks of meat across train tracks with bright yellow plastic gloves. And now, here he is, half naked in Steve Harrington’s bathroom after saving the world.
They never spent much time here, in the Harrington house. Steve had told him once it felt too big without his parents, too quiet. And Steve’s parents hadn’t lived here in a long time. They were always extending work trips or vacations out of town, leaving Steve alone for weeks or months. And when they found out about the “earthquake” they had decided it was best not to return at all. They offered Steve to join them wherever it was they happened to be, told him they could arrange his flight out of Hawkins and that he should go somewhere safe. They couldn’t understand why on Earth it was that Steve wanted to stay, and Steve couldn’t really tell them. The rift between them that had been growing for years became a canyon that neither party cared to traverse.
So the Harrington house was left mostly abandoned. Steve slept there, reluctantly, if there was nowhere else to go, but didn’t hang around much otherwise. He spent his days at the Squawk, or Hopper’s cabin, or really anywhere else but home. It was, however, pretty convenient to have for times like these, with its 3.5 bathrooms, linen closets full of towels, extra bedrooms, and privacy from the prying eyes of parents who know nothing of the Upside Down. So, Dustin, Robin and Vickie all followed Steve to his place for some much needed respite.
Of course, Dustin called his mom as soon as he could, told her he’d be staying the night at Steve’s. He didn’t lie to her (he tries not to when he can help it), but there’s a lot he can never say. He doesn’t want her to have to know about all the horrors in Hawkins. He wants her to feel safe here despite the freak accidents (chemical leaks, missing kids, the mall fire, the earthquake). He wants her to believe they really were freak accidents. They’ve talked about some of it. First Will, then Eddie. She got the boilerplate version of events: Will got lost in the woods, Eddie died in the Earthquake. She knows they were close, Dustin and Eddie, and that they were together when he died, but none of the real details. She saw him fall apart, lose himself in grief, and she did her best to comfort him. But it had been a hard year. He wanted to talk to her about it, but he just couldn’t.
A knock on the door pulls Dustin back into the moment, at least enough to remember what’s going on and where he is. Still, none of it feels real.
“Hey, buddy, everything okay?” Steve asks from the other side of the door.
“Yeah, I’m just…I’ll be out in a minute,” Dustin responds, voice croaky and tired.
“Okay, man. I’ll just be in the kitchen.”
He slowly pulls on clean clothes: a Hawkins High hoodie and some of Steve’s old sweatpants which bunch up around his ankles. Scrunching the towel into his hair one last time before leaving it hung up on the wall, he makes his way downstairs.
Steve in the kitchen, as promised, rummaging through the pantry.
“Hey man, there’s not a lot here, but I found some stale poptarts,” Steve says with his mouth full, tossing Dustin the box.
“Are you eating these untoasted?” he scoffs.
“...Yeah.”
Dustin shrugs, thinks about waiting a minute for a toasted Pop Tart, and then shoves one in his mouth unceremoniously straight from the package. “Oh my god,” he blurts out, “this is literally the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Right?” Steve chuckles in response.
“Robin and Vickie?” Dustin questions between chews.
“Upstairs. I went to check on them earlier, and I think they just want some time alone to talk things over. I’m sure Vickie has a lot of questions.”
“Yeah…fuck.”
Dustin lets himself fall into a bar stool, leans over the counter and runs his hands through his still damp hair, letting out a deep sigh. He wants to relax. Everything is calm here, quiet. But his mind is pulsing, running through the battle over and over. The radio tower, the monster, the fire, the kids, the military, El. He vaguely feels the pressure of a hand on his back, but far away like it’s happening to someone else. Like it’s not real. His heart pounds in his chest, his jaw clenches.
“Hey,” Steve offers because there’s simultaneously way too much and nothing at all to say.
Dustin lifts his head up, facing Steve. His best friend of three years. His brother. Tears well in his eyes and he goes to speak, but his voice barely comes through, throat tight with emotion. “I’m…” he takes a sharp breath, “I’m really glad you’re not dead.”
And suddenly he’s crying, full on sobbing in the kitchen. He watches Steve register this, and move towards him in a second, bringing his arms around the younger boy. Dustin chokes on tears, letting himself feel utterly and completely for the first time in a long time because it’s finally over. It’s over and he doesn’t have to be strong anymore because the Upside Down is gone, and Vecna’s gone, and they’re not in danger. He lets himself be a scared kid. Scared and sad and so fucking tired. He clutches the back of Steve’s shirt in tight fists, holding his friend like a lifeline, body wracked with sobs. He feels everything. Steve is warm and sturdy, and hugs him tightly, rubbing Dustin’s back with soothing circles and whispering assurances.
“It’s okay buddy, you can cry, it’s okay” he murmurs, slow and solid.
They stay there for a while, locked in an embrace, letting the weight of everything crash down on them. Holding each other because they’re alive. They’re both alive.
“I’m really glad you’re not dead, too,” Steve whispers through quiet tears, “really, really glad.”
Dustin tries to laugh, but somewhere in his throat it turns into another sob. He leans further into Steve, pressing his ear into his chest and savouring the sound of his heart beating.
Hours pass, or maybe just minutes, and the sky slowly lightens in Hawkins. At some point they find their way to the couch, becoming a pile of tangled blankets and limbs. Sleep comes easily. They’re so exhausted from the past couple days it only takes a minute before they’re snoring, mouths open and dead to the waking world. They breathe in tandem, hearts beating steadily like rainfall on concrete, or waves crashing lazily onto shore. Alive, alive, alive.