Chapter Text
The red book was all he could see at that moment. Bloody burgundy book with its hardcover made of leather, darker, the further out the edges went, with a small splash of royal red right in the middle, where was catching on it the most the dim lighting of flickering candles and lanterns responsible for creating a cosy and mysterious atmosphere of the place he currently was. And on the book, a bright white frame painted by Eldarish swirls, a true magnificence of brushwork, and in the top middle - a star of eight corners, and far under it - two B’s entwined together as Steven’s hands had once been with Marc’s, as had been their bodies when they had first felt each other’s warmth back in the Duat, as they had been no more ever since that one long talk. Two B’s, at which Steven stared with his brows furrowed under the weight of mixed feelings, amongst what envy was the most prominent one; they seemed to belong to each other in a beautiful harmony, two halves of the name carved beside each other for eternity; two stupid letters cherishing a better story than he had, mocking him, having a laugh at him as if he was a cringy comedy on their date.
Bilbo Baggins, the letters meant - the hero, the friendly and well-mannered hobbit fond of food, a full pipe, friends and good cheer, the man known for greeting strangers and friends with his classical ‘ At your service and your family's ’, the first to voluntarily give up the power of the ring, the author of ‘ There and back again ’. The main character of three epic movies, as a part of three Steven was, only not even interesting anymore, let alone epic, of course. At the ‘ There and back again ’ book was he glaring that evening, just that one was hiding things way better than great stories of adventures of The Hobbit, at least that Steven thought that day when his mind was swimming and his heart was aching for someone who he didn’t have anymore.
His book kept the treasure of magic elixirs able to make him forget for just a moment - from classic Gandalf's Ale to savoury fiery Orc’s draught, to sweet mulled cider, to his personal winner of the night - something called ‘ Eleventy first birthday ’. It was sweet and creamy, consisting of strawberries and a hint of vanilla, and it had a yummy foam that the barman had told him was an egg, but that couldn’t be right, eggs weren’t used in very tasty cocktails, weren’t that right? It must’ve been a joke Steven wasn’t getting but was laughing either way because it felt funny. Everything was feeling funny that day. Sitting on a stool in the Rivendell area at the bar, the place where the quest to destroy the One Ring had begun, where Frodo Baggins had felt an ‘ overwhelming longing to rest and remain at peace ’, the haven of Elven hospitality and delight where slithering stones and the pine woods were the main decor, instead of admiring a great Elvish palace made out of cardboard and fake plants and flowers, Steven was relishing in dizziness and a sight of staff dressed like Legolas and Aragorn, and Thorin, and Galadriel, and…
Steven squinted once he heard Jake in his head as he was trying to convince the barman to let him order one of the drinks that were coded in riddles his very much past the tipsy stage mind couldn’t process. He checked the menu several times, and not earthy, natural textures of the bar's exterior resembled a Hobbit hole, and not even aged, rustic furniture evoking a mediaeval and Tolkien-esque feel, and definitely not walls adorned with maps of Middle-earth and memorabilia like swords or costumes from the movies, could get his attention off the drink apparently tasting like rum, licor 43 - whatever this number meant -, honey, lavender and lemon oils, or the one with dark chocolate, black raspberry, espresso and Aztec chocolate bitters. He needed those cocktails, and he needed them right there and then, but the barman insisted on him having to answer a riddle first.
“Mate, it’s simple. Guess this, ay?” the man behind the counter offered once again, clearly amused by Steven’s misery. “No beginning or end, around you it winds. A small thing of great power, forever it binds,” he recited the text Steven had already known from the previous times the man had read the riddle for him. “It’s the easiest one of them all, you can do it,” he cheered, “just think.”
Edinburgh, Steven thought. He had come to Edinburgh to visit this beautiful shithole, this awesome place he had wanted to experience ever since it was announced a bar like this would’ve been opened. They all had come there, Jake had taken some time off at work, and Marc had surprised them with tickets and hotel booking for three days, so they could visit and so Steven could go to his favourite adventure book series-themed bar as a treat for all his hard work. They had all come there - not that the remaining two could’ve chosen differently, they were a package deal in the end - for Steven to be challenging, or at least trying to challenge a random barman to a fight in which a bitter-sweet and flowery cocktail was the prize.
Steven pressed the palm of his hand onto his forehead, shutting his eyes tightly as if that would stimulate his train of thought. It didn't. It did the opposite, causing his body to sway and his mind to spin. He took a slow breath in to fight back the bile that threatened to rise from his gut, opening his eyes to stare at that god's forsaken riddle upon the bottle of alcohol he so desperately wanted- no, needed.
"No beginning or end.. around you it winds.. A small thing of great power... forever it binds? ...What?" Steven repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, words slurred. He let out his bated breath with annoyance, mind so clouded he couldn't think properly, couldn't tap into his incredibly intelligent mind for the answer to this riddle. It was beginning to set his nerves alight. "It's- it's- it's a.. a.. bollocks," he tripped over his words, fisting his hair and giving it an annoyed tug before releasing the locks. His eyes lazily focused on the patient bartender, shaking his head in defeat. "I got no f'in’ clue, mate... Could you please just... you know, do me a solid? Let me have a glass. It doesn't- it doesn't even have to be halfway, just a wee bit, yeah?"
“No can do,” the man smiled apologetically, even though in Grant’s half-lidded eyes it looked more like a pitiful mockery rather than a professional effort. Which was fair, if he were being honest(y), since the entire world seemed to be laughing at him, so why this one person wouldn’t? “Company politics, the riddle gives the access to this drink,” the barman, a light blond man in his 20’, dressed up as Samwise -Steven’s character, as it turned out a few moments earlier during his quiz-, tried explaining himself even more, as if he really wanted his guest to understand the rules. “Listen, lad, there’s plenty of choices, why don’t you get one of these, ay?” he asked quite politely, then Steven could see his fingers brushing over a simple black bookmark on their lazy way to the edge of a page to toss it to another, revealing more cocktails. “This one looks like it’d please you.” He pointed at the one at the bottom of the page, right above a beautiful sketch of mountains, the name so long it made Steven nauseous. Sweet potato was one of the ingredients, another irrational thing to put in cocktails in Londoner’s opinion, and there was also a whole milk accompanying the taste of spiced rum sprinkled with rosemary.
Steven and the bartender sat in silence for a moment, the soft background noise of the bustling LOTR-themed bar keeping the spirit alive. He then gave into the kind man's offer, nodding his head in his direction, soft dark curls bobbing as he did so. As the barman turned away from Steven to prepare his drink, Steven took his phone out and peered into the blank reflection, searching for either of his headmates. "Is anyone there?" he whispered before the bartender came back to place his drink in front of him, telling him to not overthink the riddle and to relax and enjoy the beverage. Steven expressed his thanks with a gentle smile and nod before he walked off to help another patron. He propped up his phone on one of his empty glasses so he could better see when one of his alters was to show themselves, then picked up his glass and pressed it to his lips, taking a long, well-needed sip, closing his eyes in bliss at the slight burn the cocktail brought to him.
As his head lowered back for him to eye the screen again, a deep voice rang in his ears in quite a husky tone filled with joy, a bit unexpected but welcomed nonetheless. “Hello, it’s me…” sang the Spanish alter in a lousy imitation of Adele, his accent turned all the way up for a dramatic entrance, they both knew it. “Tsou, tsou, tsou, ày, Stevie…” he then reprimanded gently, a joke clear in the way he spoke, “When you told us you wanted to go to this bar, I thought you’d find yourself your very own Arwen, hermano mio.” There was a hint of mocking in it, a tiny tinge of laugh that was supposed to betray the man’s wish for Steven to have a little bit of what he considered fun, chatting and flirting with women and men to get a free drink or invite someone over to the public bathroom for a make-out session or whatever it was people did on their nights out, he wasn’t really sure, really, these were his only guesses.
Steven let out a half chuckle and half snort, looking over to Jake on his phone screen. There was double of him for a moment, which caused Steven's heart to skip a beat, thinking Marc had appeared beside the New Yorker, but once the wave of dizziness faded, his heart dropped a few more inches into his stomach than before the night had started. Steven then rolled his eyes at Jake's mocking tone, which in the end was a terrible idea. The room began to spin and tilt as if he had been on a boat during rough seas. He quickly gripped the edge of the bar countertop like his life depended on it, or at least if he didn't want to fall off his stool and make a fool of himself. Once his eyes stopped shifting and the room balanced out, Steven gulped the second wave of bile to threaten his mouth, shivering at the disgusting taste it left behind.
A soft hum followed his actions, the man looking up at him from the small dark surface and from the reflection in a shiny gold beer tap on his left in front of him, then sighed deeply. “No Legolas’ arrow to play with, and you’ve already had one too many White Trees, ain’t it right?” Jake shot another question before taking control of Steven's hand to reach out and steal an onion ring from the unaware girl sitting close to them. As quick as it was grabbed, it was also shoved into Steven’s mouth without any sign of hesitation, all while Jake continued his subtle tirade. “Gotta admit, Stevie-bean, not how I imagined your exciting evening.” The man tsked once again, shaking his head, and at that moment Steven wished he’d been there with him, next to him instead of in his head, so the British man could have pretended not to hear him due to the music playing there. “C’mon, we drove all the way from London to Scotland for this?”
Steven unwillingly swallowed the onion ring that Jake apparently wanted him to eat, groaning as he felt it run down his raw throat, making him feel queasy. He looked over to where Jake stole the deep-fried food from, the woman looking at him with clear annoyance before she and her company moved away from him, at which he whined lowly, "You really just had to do that, you knob?" He glared over at Jake's new position on the reflective surface. "Oh yeah? Well, why don't you... you... Oh gods.." Feeling the onion ring hit his stomach, Steven clapped his hand over his mouth. His skin became sweaty and greener than when he had first walked in, and he quickly stood from his stool, urgently making his way to the single-stall bathroom, surely looking like a buffoon as he bumped shoulders with passersby. He shut the door harder than he intended, and locked it, rushing to the toilet to just barely make it as all the alcohol and the bit of onion ring came up and into the porcelain.
It lasted around a couple of minutes, not longer, not shorter. Minutes dragged into eternity for the poor fella spitting his guts into the lavatory, sounding as horrible as he was feeling inside out while kneeling on a dirty floor. Sméagol was staring him down from the wall in front, the big eyes of the creature judging him at the moment, from the twisted expression on its face Steven didn’t need to guess to say it wouldn’t have called him its precious right then. And for some odd reason, it only made things worse for the man, an entirely new wave of expensive alcohol and fancy-made dairy shook the fragile body with its comeback once again, this time even more intensely. Right then he was actually really glad his other alter hadn’t decided to come out and check on him. He definitely was a sight then, but definitely not the kind of sight he’d bear knowing Marc saw.
Pitiful, honestly. No wonder Spector didn’t want him.
Once he finally managed to get up and maybe leave the remaining ounce of his pride in that toilet, Jake met him once again in the main mirror, where a few other strange reflections could be seen, but only Steven’s moved on its own.
“Yeah, you’re done.” It was all Jake said before all control - therefore not so much as one would think- of the body was abruptly taken away from Steven; a familiar, yet still a bit terrifying darkness enveloped his whole being, a strange sensation of leaving breathable atmosphere occurred in his lungs, and his heart was beating oh-so fast, close to ripping out of his chest with its sole force, and the next thing Grant knew, he was watching himself from the other side of the mirror, caged in glass dimension with no way to come back. And the worst thing was, he was sober. Not completely, no, he could still feel the light buzz in his head and the slight stinging under his skin, and a bit of sizzling in his stomach, but it wasn’t the same anymore, it was brighter and sharper, and everything had its right shape, and he could think straight again, see clearly again, feel himself the way he hadn’t been able to just seconds earlier.
Steven was left breathless, shocked to his core that Jake stole control of the body when he was too out of it to fight back. He pressed his hands to the glass, missing the warmth of the alcohol coursing through his veins. He was angry, furious that Jake took this moment away from him.
"Let me back in, now!" Steven pounded on the glass, shutting his eyes tightly as he willed himself to the front, but failed miserably, blocked by Jake with ease. "This isn't fair!,” he shouted aggressively, “Let me back in!"
“No.” Was all he got in response, only boiling the blood in his veins even more. But Jake didn’t care, the moment he jumped fully to the front and felt on his own skin how badly the body was intoxicated, and it was obvious in the way the body wouldn’t really listen to him despite his clear mind, swaying subtly in place, floating instead of standing still, drowned in drowsiness almost unbearable, the man fixed his hair a little while looking at his mirror reflection, even if it didn’t help much since Steven refused to follow his moves, and then he simply saluted to the British alter, soon leaving the toilet in order to get back to the barman that’s been waiting on him the entire evening. Ignoring loud complaints echoing in his head through the thick fog and his most hated sensation of spilling sand in his ears, he footed the bill, with the addition of admirable tip for good service, and tapped some random guy’s shoulder on the side opposite to his to steal some more onion rings when the man turned to see who decided to bother him, only meeting empty space behind him, not noticing one missing piece of his food once he turned back to his previous position. Licking his fingers dry from oil and bread crumbs, Jake left the place and stepped into the coolness of Scottish late summer evening, fresh air hitting his nostrils and heated skin like a true blessing able to rip a pleased grunt from his throat.
As the man strolled through the streets, passing by small-town shops and restaurants, he could sense Steven following after him, stubbornly nagging at him to hand the body over. Even continued to try and push forcefully to the front but Jake was not letting it happen. Steven also got more aggressive the more he was ignored, pounding on each reflection he appeared in, threatening to never let Jake take the body from him again, not letting Jake hold him when nights would get tough for the New Yorker. As the threats and aggression bounced off of Jake like it had no effect on him, the Londoner finally stopped his efforts, not appearing in the windows as Jake walked, no empty threats being uttered from him anymore. This caught the other's attention, though. Steven was the most stubborn and consistent man Jake had ever met, and he gave up just like that. Something wasn't right. He took out their phone and looked for the said man in it, angling it just right to see it get lit up by the nearby lantern, till he found his alter. He was faced away from Jake, hunched over into himself, shoulders slack. There were soft sobs coming from the Brit as his body trembled as if he were freezing.
"Wh-why..?” A small stammer entered the cool air lingering around them. “Why did you take this away from me? I don't... want to feel like this." Steven sniffed, rubbing his damp eyes with his long dark blue sleeve of the pyjamas he usually put on in their headspace.
Jake simply sighed at that. Steven and Marc were so alike when it came to stuff like that, always stubbornly craving the pain, desiring the ache, when all Jake was doing was trying to help them. And what was he getting in return? Two whiny grown-ass men throwing a tantrum at him, as if his life wasn’t hard enough as it was.
“All I’ve ever wanted was to protect you, take care of you, Stevie. Lo sabes,” he threw a bit of Spanish in the mix, purely because sometimes English didn’t seem right to him. He rubbed his eyelids with one hand in a desperate need to brush the headache away, his furrowed brows only making it worse for him but he couldn’t really help himself knitting them. Instead of relief, this messed up sensation of swimming in a body of water way too deep for him came back to take over the body he was accused of controlling. Funny. “Steven, look at this, look at us,” he began once he could feel his tongue again. A bitter aftertaste of vomit left a shiver running down his spine but he didn’t let it show, pointing at the body, even though Steven wasn’t looking. “You got wasted, you wouldn’t make it back to our hotel room, okay? Fuck, it’s fucking difficult for me right now, and I wasn’t the one drinking, buddy.”
Steven wobbly stood up, turning to look at Jake, still in Steven's 'night out in the town' clothing. He furrowed his brows at Jake complaining about taking them back to their hotel room, looking at the man with annoyance, then pondered for a moment before he realised a second option came to mind.
"Hey. You have a stash of alcohol in your room, yea?" he asked, not even able to hide his true intention under a veil of innocence to convince his alter to tell him the truth.
Silence filled the air between them as Jake made his way across the street and got closer to their hotel, and somehow, it was even louder of an answer to the Brit than any words in this cruel world would be, at which a smile spread across Steven's face, the man now knowing Jake's response without him having to say it.
“Steven,” Lockley finally replied after a solid couple of minutes, his voice strained, cautious. “There’s a reason it’s mine, and in my room.” More like a weak attempt at compromise, it came out, rather than a serious warning. His tongue twisted a little while saying it, words sounding blurry, muffled even in his hand as he tried not to puke in a random trash bin. “I just, I need to get our body to bed safely, don’t do anything stupid till I get there, ày?”
Steven bit his lower lip, looking down the long hallway that led to each alter's room, then back to Jake. "Yeah, yeah, I'll do my best," he lied point blank to his headmate while rolling his eyes, turning his back to the man and disappearing from the phone screen.
The Londoner made his way down the long bright-white hall, past his own room, hesitating at Marc's before making a b-line to Jake's. Opening the door and closing it behind him, he took a few steps inside, then right away began rummaging through drawers, only to find nothing at all at first. He looked in his closet, also nothing. After his short efforts, Steven slumped till he sat on the floor, letting dread consume him. That's when he noticed the tip of an alcohol bottle poke out from underneath Jake's bed, and at the sight of it, a wide smile spread plastered on his face. Crawling to the bed, he pulled out 3 unopened bottles of whiskey and, later on, stood to his feet and swiftly left the room, rushing to his own and locking the door behind him, as if he was afraid the others could find him there and once again put a stop to his very own moment of despair, which he didn’t want to allow, he couldn’t .
He sat down on his bed and carefully placed the bottles next to him, unscrewing the first bottle and lifting it to his lip to take a long swig before pulling away with a delicious grimace, relaxing shivers running through his body.
It was good, the way that amber liquid poisoned his inner existence the same way it did the physical body, even if it made him wince uncontrollably under the pressure of the strong aftertaste of a short and sharp finish as it poured down his throat. One downside was that he had to start all over again, fighting off his body’s urges against the alcohol, something he’s not usually fond of, and trying his best to get past the stage where it makes him jolt with each gulp, sends trembles crawling down his spine with claws piercing the muscles; where it fills the trachea with a suffocating aroma of distillation, floods the oesophagus with a stream at once icy by storage temperature and scorchingly heated, worthy of the harshest days in the middle of the desert or lonely hikes near an active volcano; where disgust mixes with a desire for more, creating a mixture confusingly reminiscent of a beaten child wistfully dreaming of returning to the warm arms of a loving mother, the same arms that have barely stopped inflicting blow after blow. Like a wounded kid, hopelessly pushing the bad out of consciousness, blindly staring at what was no longer there, begging for what used to be.
Steven wanted to come back. To the strong arms holding him close when the chill of the horrendous night gnawed at his body; to the assurances of affection quietly whispered in his ear; to the sight of long eyelashes fluttering lazily until the man's eyes closed in a boundless trust; to the faith that someone still cared about him, looked after each of his smallest needs constantly. It was hard to believe it now, despite the ever-present promises and efforts - they no longer smelled like the same warmth of burnt anise, no longer felt like honey coating his heart in a thick shell able to protect it from cracking. It was hard to look at the door locked as tight as its owner's soul, so near and so far from him at the same time, the distance attending his longing for a time when everything seemed easier. Harder than not blocking his throat in protest against the bitter taste of the high-proof liquor, requiring more effort than wiping a lone drop from the corner of his mouth with a hand raised with difficulty in spite of the force of gravity and the fatigue engulfing every cell in his being. More bitter than the taste lingering on his tongue, twisting him from the inside and drawing a quiet gasp from his weak posture. Fear and bitterness melted inside him with every sip, exchanging the pain of existence for the feeling of being drowsy and sedated around the bottom of the first bottle.
It was so good.
He opened another, but only drank a few drops from it, physically, if he could say that, unable to pour more into himself. All the veins in his system were boiling in something that should have been blood, but to Steven, it looked more like acid. It was itchy, so the man scratched his forearm once, then his covered thigh, then hooked a sharp nail into the thin skin on the crest of his hand, so that a second later he could see that it was indeed just blood as tiny droplets slid out from under the tiny cut. He opened another, but left it on the floor, with self-consciousness reduced and willingness to take risks raised all of a sudden.
The whiskey got him feeling pretty, the feeling of floating erased all doubt and allowed him to think only of the eyes so similar to his, not so long ago looking at him with love and devotion greater than that of the faithful followers of any deity, now filled with the reserve that Steven strenuously wanted to shatter, with no regard for the uncomfortable thought of how rude it was. Steven wanted to. Steven longed. Steven loved. Steven needed someone to rekindle his fire.
So he stood up, the remaining bottles already discarded somewhere in the darkest corner of the abyss of oblivion, never mind his condition, as small as his problems at that moment. Wanting to go back to the old way, drunk instead, alone with a full ashtray of old regrets and a little bit too much to say, he got up to shakily move to the door, one of the two that separated him from the one he needed. His lethargic gestures, a little droning but insistent, led him in front of the room he had come to know so well, even to begin calling it his own, and which now stood before him, barring him from entering.
Suddenly he felt cold. Through clenched teeth, he inhaled icy air, then let it out in a shuddering exhale that, directed downward, seemed to have put even more pressure on the hand pulling the doorknob.
The handle persistently frozen in its place, unyielding to Steven's actions. One wasted sigh replaced another, more devoid of patience. Steven gave up abusing the door in favour of a firm knock on the hardwood once, a second, and a third time. He had lost control of counting it all, he couldn't even count on his own senses, which should have lit an avenue of red lights on his way up to this cursed room, so what was the point of still trying? He would have bitten the inside of his cheek to the blood anyway, no matter where he was, and thanks to his intoxication, all he could feel were woody notes hitting his nostrils and robust flavours on his tongue, with hints of caramel, vanilla, and spice.
Another knock, after gods know how long, finally had the desired effect; the door opened and there stood the one and only, looking at Steven with a perpetually concerned gaze. His heart soured as he once again thought about how bloody fantastic in its suffering it was that Marc in the inner world still took on an appearance so deceptively similar to the British man; yes, the way he wore his body and every expressive feature differed drastically, but there was still something uncanny about the man's failure to find a different ideal of appearance when he could still be a mirror image with only the backcombed, tamed by hairspray curls that Steven preferred to leave in their ferocity.
Marc also looked softer in their mental space - consciously or not, his skin was smoother than theirs shared in the real world, not scarred so much by the furrows of daily stress, not faded by his reluctance to function in society, inviting one to touch it with a tender and adoring hand. He was dressed in a black blouse clinging to his well-built body, with the sleeves rolled up in a standard fashion to just below the elbows, and from his curvy hips, which he was never fond of, to his ankles stretched comfortable dark sweatpants, whose cuffs at the ankles were smothered by the material of long white socks pulled over the top of the legs. With the presence of the man, Steven's gaze was drawn to the warm amber of his eyes, staring back at him with a hint of surprise, and the aroma of good liquor was replaced by the breathtaking scent of musk and red oranges, so characteristic of his alter and only him. He could smell it even through the stupor of his own senses, through the thick fog in his temples, and the scent soothed his nausea a little bit, like a warm kiss of a caring mother easing the tension curdled unconsciously in the wrinkled skin between his drawn-up eyebrows.
"Steven...?" A voice quiet and deep, similar to Jake's but lacking the foreign accent softening the words in that playful manner, dispelled the aura of doubt hovering around Grant.