Work Text:
When he wakes up in the dark motel room, there’s an arm draped over his waist and breath evenly whistling in his ear. Lithe fingers rest naturally on the gentle curve of his belly, right over his gem, only a thin layer of cloth away from brushing against the facets, a-and piercing those knife-like points through soft flesh at its perimeter, digging inwards, gripping tight—
Running on sheer instinct he kicks and thrashes his way free from his captor, though he’s weaker in his reaction than usual, his mind and body still thoroughly entangled within the grip of drowsy early-morning confusion. Still sprawled across the bedspread behind him, the other figure gives a shallow gasp and (blessedly) strips their arm away, letting him go. But it’s not enough, he’s not safe, his heart’s pounding, h-he can’t see anything, he can’t—
Steven yelps in surprise as— in his struggle to establish a safe perimeter between him and the unknown presence— he accidentally rolls straight off the bed in a tangle of limbs and blankets. He hits the floor elbow first. A shock of static runs all the way up his arm in response, but beyond that he doesn’t think he’s hurt. By the time he snaps upright, breathing heavy as he mentally prepares to meet this new danger, that nauseating pink glow he’s grown so intimately familiar with over the months has already enveloped him. And even though it’s obvious now that this glow stems from a place of internal conflict and lack of clarity, externally it acts in the opposite manner and serves to illuminate his surroundings.
Metaphorically and literally.
Unable to so much as produce a sound in his disorientation and shame, his mouth repeatedly bobs open and shut as he stares at the girl he now clearly remembers giving an open invitation to his motel bed, should she need the comfort. Entranced, he watches his pink light bounce off the whites of Connie’s eyes as she leans up on her arm to meet his gaze head on, stray hairs falling in front of her face. Instinctively, he begins to scour his immediate surroundings for details of interest, sensory distractions.
(The carpet is scratchy, it smells like smoke, there’s... I think there’s a stray sock on the floor that I forgot to slip back in my bag—)
“Steven?” her voice whispers in concern, and as if he’s a dog trained to the ring of a bell he’s immediately flooded with a surge of guilt at hearing that tone laced through her words, guilt that festers within his very flesh like a terminal disease. His chest heaves in and out as his gaze darts all about the room, searching for anchors, for a lifeline...
(The walls are striped, the wallpaper’s old, so old it’s tearing at the edges—)
“You’re safe. The door’s locked, I promise. It’s only us.”
(Connie... Connie’s hair is tousled and unruly, just barely draping over her shoulders, eyes exhausted yet alert... How is she always so beautiful?—)
Stars, he feels like a damn goldfish, stupidly gaping at her in this way. He hates needlessly worrying people. It only results in making his insides feel all twisted up. He doesn’t crave anyone’s pity for the traumatic experiences he lived through, and he certainly doesn’t dream of dumping all his internal problems on someone else’s shoulders. (Goodness knows he’s already subjected Connie to enough.) And yeah, sure, whatever, so his therapist keeps hounding on him that he’s “no less deserving of support and care than his family and friends,” and that “accepting help doesn’t make him a burden,” but old mindsets die hard, and at this precise moment in existence Steven would rather sink through the knotty carpet than provide his best friend a detailed excuse as to why he reacted like that.
But of course, like a fool he’s underestimating her powers of perception. She was there. She already knows why.
(Cars... Every once in a while, a few cars cruise by on the road just outside our door...)
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get handsy,” she says, wiping the sleep from the corners of her eyes. “I, um...” Suddenly, her expression swims with shame of her own, the teen wringing her fingers together as she deftly evades his glance. “I kept waking up. Bad dreams, y’know? So I crawled in with you. It’s silly, but... I just knew that if I couldn’t feel your heartbeat I couldn’t sleep.”
His breath stills upon her admission, the glow slowly fading from his skin, the room plunging into darkness. Connie gently calls for him again, asking if he’s okay, if he needs anything. A glass of water, an extra pillow to hug, his phone...
Steven quietly murmurs no, he’s fine. And for once, it’s not exactly a lie. He stopped glowing! His limbs don’t feel locked in shock anymore, his mind’s less cloudy. It’s been slow work, but he likes to think he’s genuinely getting better at managing his reactions to most of his triggers. And yet he can’t help the way his heart still pounds, or the hyper-vigilance that now commands his every nerve and sense as he crawls his way back onto the mattress, taking note of every new creak and groan as the boxsprings adjust to his weight again.
Working together, they pull the sheets and covers back on the bed, wrapping themselves up in their warmth. This time, he knows she’s curled up next to him. This time, if he wakes up with arms innocently wrapped around his torso, unconsciously seeking out a familiar heartbeat in an unfamiliar place, he knows he’s safe.
Reverently, he presses a chaste kiss to her forehead. “Love you,” he whispers, lips briefly lingering against her skin.