Work Text:
The wind howls as it thrashes against the side of the nearby cliff. Admittedly, that, and the precipitation angrily colliding against the windows in thick sheets are somewhat nerve-wracking, causing his muscles to seize tight as if suffering under the effect of a destabilizer at every stilted groan and creak of this house. He never did like thunderstorms. That’s okay, though. Really, it is! He just has to push down his fear and try and think logically. And logically, he knows he’ll be safe and dry in here, huddled on the couch with his dad near the fireplace. This late summer storm pelting the ocean’s restless surface with torrents of rainfall may show no sign of lightening up any time soon, but they have no plans on venturing outside into the heart of the tempest this afternoon.
Instead, they have a cheesy sci-fi B movie running— Galaxy Crusaders 4, one of their old favorites— and a half empty bowl of greasy buttered popcorn nestled between them. When the time comes for dinner, he’ll probably attempt to muster up the energy to cook some canned soup. Maybe that hearty wild rice and vegetables one. Goodness knows they need to start working through their reserves instead of ordering takeout every other night. Plus, it’d probably be healthier, too. Self care, and all that therapy jazz, right?
Steven grabs a fistful of kernels and focuses his scattered attention back on the current events of the film, familiar scenes he’s probably watched dozens of times in his early childhood. The band of heroes are trapped on a badly damaged ship, their nemesis Lord Xander quick in route. They have no chance of barring him from boarding their craft, minimal firepower, and no known means of resisting Xander’s powerful dark cosmic influences. The situation truly appears hopeless. And yet despite all that, the leader of their band of mismatched rebels stands confident, strong, masking any external signs of despair. Somehow, she’s got a plan.
“Good. Let him come,” the teen silently mouths right alongside main character Jarynn, stalwart galactic warrior.
Stars, it’s been ages since he and his dad have watched this together, huh? Let alone any other movie. Heh, he’s kinda impressed he remembers any dialogue to begin with. In all seriousness, though... reinstating periodical movie nights was his dad’s idea, and probably a beneficial one. Long before he started therapy with Dr. Flowers— before, uh... The Incident that alerted his family to the fact that he needed any extra care to begin with— he’d been so bogged down with acting as prime ambassador to Homeworld, or running Little Homeschool, or distracting himself from the unbearable void of purposelessness invading his life that he barely made room in his schedule for bonding time with his dad at all. Perhaps if he had, his battered mental state would’ve been identified far earlier. And with that extra early support, perhaps then he would’ve never—
A mighty ream of thunder claps directly above the peninsula, causing both him and his dad to flinch. His breath hitching on automatic, he clutches his arms around his chest, instinctively feeling for the rough scar tissue situated at the back of his elbows, something constant and grounding.
“Wow, that’s quite a storm we got overhead, huh?” Dad murmurs conversationally over the low din of the movie, grabbing another bountiful handful of popcorn.
“Y-yeah,” he says with a tight smile, working to obscure the tremble of his voice in fake cheeriness. “It sure is!” Internally though, he wants to smack himself.
Push down your fear, you dummy- remember?
His dad thinks he’s come so far in the past few months, that his anxiety and mood have improved by leaps and bounds through his months of bi-weekly therapy sessions. But honestly, he’s not sure if he can claim the same, and he’d hate to break his heart with that news. In many ways, he still feels exactly like he did back in March— tense, hyper-vigilant, and numb— only now, he’s burdened with knowing the proper language for what he’s slogging through. Generalized Anxiety Disorder. C-PTSD. Major Depression. All of them fancy, clinically detached ways to say that there’s something seriously messed up about his brain. It’s not like he ever needed a therapist to tell him that, though.
Nah, he’d solved that puzzle eons back.
He supposes it’s true he hasn’t lapsed and glowed pink for a good week now, and that rolling out of bed and taking basic care of himself feels far more attainable lately. So, that’s at least one small victory. But to be fair, he’s had his guardians nudging him along all the way. Pearl makes certain to wake him up at eight AM each morning and open his slider door to let in some fresh air. (Whether or not he’s able to get dressed at that time.) Garnet always sets up a music player and some small weights on the beach at eleven AM for their daily workout routine. (And he feels awful leaving her hanging, especially when he knows she’s only trying to help provide him with structure.) Amethyst’s hanging around the temple more often lately, openly offering to play video games or wrestle or take a walk around the boardwalk, if he wants. (He’s not sure who would feel more upset if he declined... him or her.) And of course there’s his dad, who comes over almost every night to spend time with him, who he’s overheard sobbing to one of the Gems on a few occasions about his deep worries for him, who for whatever reason never chooses to share those thoughts to his face directly.
With all that in mind, it’s easy for him to question if any of this ‘recovery’ is real, or if it’s simply a brand new facade he’s donned for his family’s benefit. If he were on his own, would he still feel the same? Or would he feel even worse? He genuinely doesn’t know. And thus, for the sake of his loved ones, he at least tries to act like he’s in a better place. Maybe one day, if he practices at it enough, he truly will be. After all, isn’t there some scientific evidence proving that smiling for a certain amount of time can single-handedly work to improve one’s mood? He’s pretty sure he remembers Connie telling him that, once. It’s like... something to do with endorphins in the brain, or whatever.
Sighing under his breath, he reaches to stuff his face with popcorn once more. What’s happened in the movie since he last paid attention to it?
As he realigns himself with the plot of their cheesy sci-fi film, it suddenly occurs to him that a good ten or so minutes have probably passed, having slipped right away while he was blindly wandering in circles inside his own head. He missed a huge fight scene. Jarynn has already been taken prisoner on the enemy’s ship. He pales, recalling the therapy session he had a few weeks ago where he learned this was referred to as ‘dissociation.’ A common coping tactic, Dr. Flowers said. Something the body often triggers on automatic. But what on earth could be triggering this now? He’s safe, isn’t he? The storm’s outside— but he’s not. He’s cuddled up on the couch with his dad. He’s watching a fun movie. His world has literally never been as secure and peaceful in his life. So why can’t he just enjoy this? Why does his mind always have to be on high alert?
It’s not fair.
Thunder continues to rumble in the distance, causing his muscles to seize. It seems closer, this time. He glances through the window with a pensive frown, watching the precipitation pelt their porch. Huh. When did the rain turn to hail?
“You okay, Schtu-ball?” Dad asks, unmasked concern painting his tone.
Embarrassingly, he fails to stop his voice from cracking with buried emotion.
“I’m fine,” he insists externally, desperately clawing at one of his elbows— repeatedly scouring his fingernail across the stark boundary between smooth skin and scar tissue on automatic— but to no relief. The ambient sounds of the storm echo deep within his bones, corrupting into a battlefield of nightmare and memory against his will. His jaw clenches tight as the brassy soundtrack of their film blossoms to a melodramatic crescendo. If he were alone, he might just slam his hands over his ears. All this unwanted noise... it’s just too much.
And then one more memory layers in. The memory, the one he’s never found the strength to put to words beyond the occasional poorly timed ‘joke.’ The one he’s never fully admitted to any of his family, its intimate and horrifying details reserved for Connie’s audience only.
On the screen, Lord Zander grips the protagonist by her neck, gingerly lifting her off the ground until she chokes in his grasp and her legs helplessly dangle. She He can’t even talk, can’t manage to utter a single cry while tangled within the roots of a primal fear as those long, black talons reach closer and closer and—
His head grows woozy upon this remembrance, and a wave of discomfort surges upwards from his stomach. Part of him almost wants to throw up.
“Dad... can you stop the movie for a bit?” he whispers, not even trying to hide his distress anymore. “Please?”
His dad acquiesces to his request immediately, grabbing the remote off the living room table and quickly jabbing his thumb down on the pause button. The house falls silent, the storm roaring outside the only remaining auditory stimuli. Steven inhales unevenly, shifting his arms so that he’s nearly hugging himself. (Though he knows by this point it’s nothing more but irrational paranoia, anxious fingertips reach for his gem, tracing its central facet through the fabric of his shirt. He’s whole. He’s here, for better or for worse.)
A deadened chill suddenly falls upon the room as he considers the numb void of existence both halves of him experienced, that day he was torn apart... a void that, now that he thinks about it, he’s genuinely not sure he’s ever escaped. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? No matter how many strides he takes in his recovery, a core part of him will always be that shattered little boy desperately crawling across the cold white stone, yearning to be whole again.
“Is something on your mind, bud?” his dad asks, his focus snapping back to the present like a rubber band.
He swallows hard.
“I—“
(I... I need— I need it—)
His hands fidgeting in his lap, he takes a deep breath and resolves to begin anew. Briefly lowers his facade. “I... I’m just thinking about how there’s still a lot of stuff I never told you. Gem stuff, from when I was a kid,” he hastily clarifies, worrying that his initial statement might only inspire further stress without context.
Dad shifts his position on the couch so that he can face him, and nods in silent support.
He begins to open his mouth, his tongue curling in preparation for the first syllable of a pre-scripted conversation he once doubted he’d ever get to have...
And then he makes a rookie’s mistake. He hesitates. He freezes. The jumbled words crowding his mind crumble and die under the pressure before they can ever hope to be spoken aloud. His bottom lip starts to quiver, and after that it’s all over. The surrounding room is bathed in a faint pink glow as his normally neutral expression collapses into vulnerability and he begins to cry.
“I’m so stupid,” he hisses through lukewarm tears, suddenly more angry at himself than anything. “I- I should’ve told you this years ago! A-and maybe then, if I... if you knew everything that happened before, maybe then I wouldn’t have—“
“Whoa, whoa... Steven, listen, it’s okay,” his dad leaps in, planting sturdy, grounding hands on his shoulders. The pink illuminating his cheeks slowly fades. “Look at me, all right? I’m not upset with you for not telling me things sooner. I’m sure you had your reasons.”
“They weren’t exactly good reasons,” he mumbles in shame, rhythmically knocking his bare feet against the legs of the coffee table.
He frowns in response, the faint lines creasing the edges of his eyes almost growing starker amongst the sudden shift of his features.
“Hey. Don’t worry about it,” he says, and reaches towards the center of the table to grab him a tissue, apparently the last in the box. “The past is the past. And if you’d ever like to share your thoughts in the future... I’m here to listen, y’hear?”
Sighing heavily, Steven accepts his gift and gently clears the damp from around his eyes. Outside, the hail seems to have lightened up for a moment. A true blessing, really, given that its constant clattering noise had him sitting on pins and needles before. He was beginning to irrationally worry that the icy precipitation might grow large enough to break through the roof, or at least damage the porch. Perhaps this change means the tide of this storm is finally turning. Perhaps this means he should follow its example, that he should do the same. He’s obfuscated this particular trauma to silence for so long, thinking it the wisest choice in a once-fraught political atmosphere, but what good has that ever done? In the end, it’s only rendered him supportless.
His gaze absentmindedly drifts towards the window, to the stretch of beach lying right outside his doorstep. The landscape finds itself radically transformed today at the storm’s hands, great swaths of the shoreline drowned in water. He thinks of the wedding he once officiated on that shore, and of the battle that happened afterward... leaving Blue and Yellow Diamond’s ships lying fragmented in the water. A pink leg ship en-route for Homeworld, rising tall above them. (A monster, rising even taller still. A near relapse, happening mere feet from the stretch of beach where he fully transformed the first time.)
He fidgets with the damp tissue in his lap, simultaneously nibbling at the inside of his cheek.
“What do you remember hearing about the second time I went to Homeworld?” he asks quietly, not yet able to make full eye contact. “After Garnet’s wedding.”
Dad raps his fingers against his leg, considering. “Well, um... I know there was a big fight, against all the Diamond ships, or something? You said that you, Amethyst, Garnet, and Pearl had to fuse to climb up its side.”
“Obsidian, yeah,” he nods.
“Obsidian. Gotcha. Anyways, I don’t actually know too much about that trip besides that. I mean, I do know y’all were in trouble at some point, and had to call for help, but you clearly managed to get the Diamonds on your side by the end— so that’s good.”
Steven’s heart fragments into pieces upon this report. Is that really all he ever told him? His own father? His blood nearly boils at the foolishness of his younger self. And it’s not like he can blame the Gems for not bringing any of this up either, because they weren’t even conscious for most of it. Thus, they don’t have any clue that the Diamonds threw Connie and him into space jail, or that White nearly ki—
His chest painfully seizes up at the mere thought, leaving him unable to take in air for a moment.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope— he’ll get to that mess when he gets there. No use dwelling on it now.
When he finally manages to properly breathe again, steadily inhaling in and out until his heart rate settles like he was advised to do in therapy, he initiates his recounting of the past, marked hesitance clinging to his voice. Specifically, he makes the decision to begin his story from the very beginning, from the moment they set foot on the Gems’ home planet. His dad’s context is limited, after all. So he really has no choice but to fill in some of the blanks.
He tells him about their bizarre arrival on that world, how a huge crowd of Gems was cheering for them as the ship touched down. Next, his first meeting with White, blinding, colossal— and her staunch refusal to let him slip a word in edgewise. He briefly mentions the pebbles in Mom’s old room and the outfit they made him, an exact replica of Pink Diamond’s. He gives a watery smile at the memory, and at their kindness. If it weren’t for that outfit’s burdened history, he honestly would’ve kept it. It was super comfortable and pretty, and fit like a glove.
“The Era 3 ball came next,” he says, distantly acknowledging that he’s probably skipping a few pertinent details, but oh well. He’s only giving the highlights, not a full dossier. “Basically, it was a disaster.”
“Was that when you had to call for help?”
“Pretty much. I, uh... I fused with Connie in the middle of the ballroom. Yellow didn’t take too kindly to it. The Gems tried to defend me, but they were quickly struck down. Poofed.”
“Huh,” his dad muses out loud, his hand pressed to his chin. “I was always wondering why they came back with new digs. That sure explains it.”
Steven sighs, and leans his head back on the couch. “Yup,” he mutters, popping the ‘p.’ “It was awful to watch, at the time. She poofed them like they were nothing.”
He swallows hard, trying to rid his voice of its pathetic waver. A fool’s errand, really. Stars knows he’s only one traumatic remembrance away from crying again.
“And then they threw Stevonnie into this dark tower, and they didn’t check on us for a day and a half. W-we genuinely weren’t sure that, um... we weren’t sure if we’d ever get out of there,” he whispers, strained.
Another thick roll of thunder chooses then to announce its presence, swiftly and startlingly dotting the end of his sentence. He flinches. Breathing shallow, he hugs his arms tight to his chest, wrapping them around himself like his own weighted blanket. The hail starts ramping up again, deluging their side of the peninsula in thick sheets. His dad scoots closer, and— likely sensing the weight of his internal distress— pulls him against his side. They sit there in near silence amidst the empty rage of the storm for a few minutes, Steven’s cheek resting over the steady beat of heart.
“I’m so sorry that happened to both of you,” Dad says eventually, rubbing gentle circles on one of his arms. “Connie, her parents- do you think they know?”
He gives a stiff shrug, suddenly feeling miserable. “I didn’t tell her to keep everything secret, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“Steven... now, you know that’s not what I meant,” he frowns, a sudden burst of parental annoyance creeping into his tone.
“Anyways,” he continues, vouching to ignore Dad’s last statement lest they slip into a silly argument he’s not in the mood for, “I have no idea what she did or didn’t tell them. We don’t really like talking about it, much. In fact... you’re actually the first person beyond her I’ve said anything to.”
Dad’s brow creases with noted concern. “Not even your therapist?”
He shakes his head, and suddenly it feels impossibly heavy, as if every single empty fold and crevice has been filled in with sand. “Not yet,” he says, hoarse.
“There’s still more to this story, isn’t there?”
He offers a solitary nod in response, burning tears already budding at the corners of his eyes. A reassuring warmth settles over his hand, then. Dad’s palm, protecting his. Sniffling, he finally turns to look at him, instantly greeted by swirls of sorrow and muted anger in his eyes. (Not anger directed at him, of course— but at Them. The Diamonds. At their wretched old regime.)
“If it’s too much, you don’t have to—“
“No, I- I want to,” he interjects. “I want you to know.”
And I don’t want to have to carry this alone anymore, he thinks, reflecting on how ultimately detrimental that decision probably was for his mental health. He loves Connie, and is forever glad he wasn’t companionless during that awful trip, but... there’s a good reason why they don’t discuss these matters much. What happened in White’s head, it was horrendous. Life shatteringly traumatic. He’d never dream of forcing her to relive all that for his own benefit, even if processing it might’ve provided him a greater sense of mental stability.
After all, she’s his girlfriend, not his therapist.
“The whole fight you know about happened soon after the tower,” he continues, choosing his words carefully as he edges ever closer to the prime source of his nightmares. “Connie and I managed to convince Blue to let us out, and we found the Gems, but... Yellow was really upset about that.”
He paints as vivid a picture as he can manage of the events leading up to Bismuth, Lapis, and Peridot’s arrival: about Yellow’s tussle with Blue, her eventual acceptance of Homeworld’s unhappiness, and White’s untimely entrance to the scene in the head of the massive diamond ship. Following that, he moves on to discuss the gang’s first attempt at getting through to her.
“We only wanted to change her mind,” he explains, “to show her that her strict rules were only hurting the Gems she created, but she refused to listen. She, um— she refused to even let the other Diamonds speak for themselves. It was like... she possessed them, almost. She’d speak, and her words would come out of their mouths.”
His dad pales as he drinks in the horror of this concept, seemingly beginning to piece together scattered sources of context he’s gleaned throughout the years to recognize who the prime source of most of his trauma is. “Is that... is that what she did to you?”
“No,” he mumbles with a subtle wince, sudden phantom pains shooting through the bundles of nerves surrounding his gemstone like sheet lightning. “But I almost wish it was.”
(It certainly would’ve been easier, having no memory of her abuse of him. Instead, cruel as his past is, whenever his mind decides it’s time to embark on an internal re-enactment he’s left with almost picture perfect recollections, vivid enough to drown within.)
Desiring to distract himself for the moment, he swiftly moves on to the part of the story where the Gems reform. Where they fuse into Obsidian, and win a temporary victory over White’s colossal mecha. He doesn’t dwell on these details for too long, though— after all, it’s the segment Dad already knows. His younger self must have been so excited about all the fusions that he couldn’t help but break his self-imposed silence to gush about it. Bless. What he would give to consistently feel that level of genuine enthusiasm about life again. Maybe one day.
But not right now. Not while he’s here.
Because he’s finally arrived at the storm’s core.
This is no hurricane. There’s no eye at the center, no chance for emotional respite. This is a massive cumulonimbus cell, stretching miles high and as wide as the ocean horizon. There’s no escaping the weather once he’s crossed the threshold and passed into its waiting arms, no reliable method by which to soften the blow. If his desire is to finally be an open book, to permit his dad access to the knowledge of his most wounding experience, then he must understand what he’s walking into. No matter the company, reliving this moment won’t be pleasant.
The Steven in his story enters through the chute in White’s eye.
Like one of his favorite comic book superheroes, he effortlessly lands on the cold white stone, bracing himself in his kneel with an open palm. All three diamonds stand before them, arms extended outwards, Yellow and Blue’s otherwise expressionless features moving in sync as White speaks. Her form glows as bright as a star, as blinding as lightning. The wispy hair at the nape of his neck stands on end within her commanding presence, any confident, rebellious words once budding on his tongue suddenly consigned to oblivion.
“Oh Starlight, what are you doing crawling in here?”
Their one-sided conversation wraps around on itself in his memory, tangling into a crown of knots. Impurities, repression, every color of the light...
“Your new friends are so funny,” White says in that effortlessly patronizing way of hers, narrowing her eyes as she gazes down upon them. “Is that what they’re supposed to be? Funny?”
Warped screams echo across the flat, staticky plane of this ship’s interior as White hijacks their gemstones, each and every one, sucking the color right out of them as they writhe in her clutches, powerless to resist. Reduced to mere puppets. Amethyst, Garnet, Pearl... His palms grow clammy and cold as the truth of his newfound isolation sinks in, as he side steps away from the horrifyingly uncanny imitations of his family. Blood pounds in his ears. This is wrong. Seeing the Gems, but hearing her voice passing through their lips... feels so, so wrong, in a manner that far exceeds mere discomfort. In his book, it’s an outright violation of autonomy.
And then, the gaslighting begins.
“S-she... she kept saying I was Mom,” he explains, his dad clasping one of his quivering hands in his. “That I was Pink Diamond. That I was always her.”
“It feels good, doesn’t it, Pink?” she drones in that calm, insufferably melodious lilt. “Dulling your power, hiding your face, blaming everything on someone else...”
Reflecting on his past through the more distant perspective he has now, that belief of hers was perhaps the most insidious, tricky little lie anyone’s ever attempted to convince him of, because it almost worked. Her tortuous words hit at every last insecurity and flicker of doubt he once harbored with such pinpoint accuracy that by the end of her unsettlingly calm tirade he was left questioning his own understanding of reality. Every single flash of Pink’s memory his mind bequeathed him... the haunting familiarity of the palace, as if emerging from a very long dream... How tempting it was back then, to acquiesce to her will. To give in. To finally ease those thousands of years of needless suffering and be welcomed home with open arms. To accept that of course White is right, and he she’s simply been playing another ridiculous game with one of his her worthless organics, silly, silly Pink! A few minutes more, and he genuinely might’ve submitted under the pressure, convinced himself of her falsehoods if only to survive.
“Stop cowering inside your gem,” she commands, her will rippling across the vast curved walls of her ship’s interior. “You can hide from yourself, but you can't hide from me, Pink...”
She He’s grinding her his jaw as she he attempts to block out White’s rhetoric, desperately clutching at her his hair, trembling fingers sinking deep into her his tangled mess of curls. It’s Connie’s voice that finally offers an anchor amidst his spiraling doubt. Somehow managing to pry the hijacked Pearl’s hand off of her mouth, she addresses him by name, re-frames White’s words as the vile lies they are. H-he... he’s Steven. He’s Steven . He’s always been Steven, right?
And then, while he’s still cycling through endless waves of disbelief, a monstrously large hand plucks him off the ground. At this point he’s too mentally exhausted to fight back, limbs falling utterly slack in White’s grasp. His stomach flips as Connie and the Gems all but disappear beneath him in his swift ascent, becoming mere specks. (Is that how she sees everyone else, as high as she towers above them all? As nothing but meaningless specks?)
“Now, Starlight... this has gone on long enough,” she says, her features twisted into the most deranged, terrifying expression he’s ever seen another living being present.
The visceral reality of what she plans to do doesn’t hit him until she hooks one of her glossy black nails on the underside of his shirt, and pulls it up to expose his belly. His gem . He struggles to take in full breaths in his shock— to even produce a sound louder than a pathetically hoarse gasp— as those sharp talons creep ever closer to his vulnerable flesh.
“It’s time to come out, Pink...”
Searing pain slices through the skin surrounding his gemstone, a sensation so vivid and lifelike to what he experienced in White’s clutches that his body immediately reacts in defense.
“Get away from me!” he screams through hot, sloppy tears, throwing a protective hand over his gem and scrambling clear to the other end of the couch, away from the oppressive presence looming far too close to his core, away from White, away from—
His chest irregularly heaving for breath, he blinks to clear his field of vision, his eyelids suddenly feeling insufferably heavy. H-he... he’s at home. He’s not there, not on Homeworld anymore.
(She can’t touch him anymore.)
There’s three details about his current surroundings that his wandering mind latches onto first. One, he’s glowing again. That’s not exactly a surprise, given he’s pretty sure he’s having a mild panic attack, but it does come as a disappointment. After all, he hadn’t turned pink for a good week or so before today. Two, the bowl of popcorn he and his dad were sharing during the movie now lays upside down on the floor, its contents spilled underfoot. And three, poor Dad appears thoroughly startled, with a flicker of hurt mixed in. His hands are outstretched, only wishing to embrace him, and yet—
He irrationally yelled at him, pushed him away. Again.
Upon this realization, he crumples under the weight of his embarrassment and breaks down into a mass of pathetic, mewling sobs. The shifting winds beyond the confines of home howl in sympathy as he curls his legs to his chest and drowns in his own shame. His own failure.
He has no way of comprehending how many seconds pass before his dad finally attempts to approach, calling his name. Predictably, his tone resembles that of a zookeeper approaching a perturbed animal. Finding it difficult not to feel mildly offended, he tips his head up, peering at him from behind his knees.
“Steven,” he says again, freely offering his hand. “Listen to me. You’re safe. You’re at home, okay? We don’t have to talk about this anymore if you don’t want to, in fact, maybe it’s best if you—“
“She took my gem,” he blurts out between stilted, shallow gasps for air, no longer able to tolerate a world where he’s condemned to hold these words in eternal silence. “She, she dug her nails under my skin and... a-and tore it out of my body!”
The remaining dams shatter at this admission. Now weeping without restraint, he throws himself into his father’s embrace, likely smearing his messy tears and snot all over the front of his shirt. Blessedly, Dad doesn’t say anything at first— instead rocking him back and forth in his arms like he always did when he was just a child, just an innocent little boy whose only true fear was thunderstorms. All in all, it’s a fitting reminder; he may not be able to entirely escape the weather’s wrath, but he can find temporary solace in the comfort of others.
Minutes pass. By now his hiccuping sobs have softened into the occasional sniffle. That eerie pink glow has finally faded from under his skin, leaving him pale and shivering from the wasted adrenaline. All in all, he’s spent. Both physically, and spiritually. Part of him can’t help but obsess over the fact that he still hasn’t finished his story, hasn’t told his dad the happy ending about how his halves joined back together again, but does that really matter right now? It should be obvious that his life didn’t end at fourteen, in the throes of a tragedy. Anyways, he doubts he has the strength to share that part today.
“I hate her,” he whispers against his chest, another fact he’s never shared out loud to another living being. “I hate her so much. Every time I have to be anywhere near her I feel sick.”
Clearing his throat, his dad finally speaks. “Steven, I- I’m so sorry. She had zero right to treat you that way. And if— going forward— you feel you need to set strict boundaries with her for your own well-being, I’ll be there to support you, one hundred percent.”
Sitting back on the couch, he roughly rubs the corners of his eyes with the backs of his knuckles. “Thank you,” he says, the tired voice coming from his lips sounding as hollow as his battered soul feels right now. Then, with a slight laugh mixed in with his understandably morose mood: “Geeze, I probably need to unpack this in therapy at some point, don’t I?”
“That might be beneficial, yes,” Dad nods, with the hint of a smile teasing the edge of his mouth. He leans down, and after placing their old popcorn bowl right-side-up on the coffee table again, begins to clean up scattered pieces of food from the floor. “I’m sure a therapist could provide a lot more structured support with stuff like this than your ol’ dad, anyways.”
Steven quietly watches his progress for a moment, absentmindedly tussling with his own fingers in his lap. If anything else, he’s thankful that the only thing he’s ruined with his outburst this time around is a simple bowl of popcorn. Still, the severity of his response to reminders of this particular trauma worries him. How is he ever supposed to ‘unpack’ this in Dr. Flowers’ office if he can’t even explain what happened to his own dad without snapping pink and freaking out?
“I guess... when it comes to the whole therapy thing,” he mumbles, lifting one of his hands to his head, “My problem’s that I don’t know how to start with this. It’s just—“ he nervously threads his fingers through his curls— “so much.”
Dad deposits a few more buttery crumbs in the bowl before pausing in his work. Turning to face him, he rests a strong, guiding hand on his shoulder, his expression filled with nothing but encouragement and love.
“You just gotta trust yourself. When you feel the time is right, you tell her everything, Schtu-ball, like you told me. Don’t hold back.”