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As much as he wants to hate it when his parents go away, when they leave him for months, he can’t. He wishes he could long for them to come back, to miss them, but he can’t. He feels bad for it, feels ungrateful and guilty, but he likes the peace. The quiet. The freedom. The privacy.
He feels guilty for longing for it now, as his dad stands in the doorway, on yet another tirade about - god knows what. The government, he thinks? It’s usually about that. Or maybe the war, one of the wars, Steve’s pretty sure he mentioned that at some point. He’s couldn’t say which one. He knows there’s no need for him to listen - as long as he gives him a thoughtful-sounding hum whenever there’s a pause, that seems to be good enough for his father.
He’d once asked his father why he had these kinds of conversations with him - loathe as Steve was to call them ‘conversations’, as he was under the impression they tended to need more than one participant. His father simply replied;
“Don’t be insolent, Steven. I want to help you.”
Steve had wanted to believe him. He really had wanted to believe that his father at least had his best interests at heart. That this was some misguided effort to help Steve think about the world he lived in, his place in it. He had really tried to believe it for a while, given him the benefit of the doubt. Mostly, though, in the end, he thinks his father just wants to be right. Just wants to rant at someone who he’s sure he knows better than, to prove how much he seems to think he knows about the world, about right and wrong. Steve thinks if he really wanted to help him he might ask about his day. Might listen to him, invite him to watch a game, show some sort of interest in Steve’s actual life. Sometimes he imagines a version of his dad who knocks on the door, comes and sits beside him on his bed, talks to him without raising his voice. The thought of it makes him want to laugh. That’s not his life - never has been.
His father's voice rattles on, reverberates through the room, as Steve picks at a loosening thread on his duvet. His eyes are starting to feel gritty. He glances up at the clock. It’s nearly 11pm. They’re two hours in now. He tunes in a little, notices his father’s voice is a little hoarse now from talking for so long. He hopes his father will get tired soon too and start to wrap up. Steve wants to get up, clean his teeth, get ready for bed. He’s so tired.
He hates how his father leans in his doorway, one arm up against the frame, blocking the entire entrance. He feels trapped, caged into his own room. He stifles a yawn as he continues to pick at the thread.
He wonders what Eddie’s doing right now. He’s normally up at this time, he knows that much. Sleeps late, rises late. He pictures him playing his guitar, rolling a joint, reading one of the enormously heavy novels that he pours over for hours at a time. The thought of it makes Steve feel warm inside, and even more tired. He sleeps so easy at Eddie’s. He wishes he didn’t feel the guilt churn inside him when he thinks about how Eddie and Uncle Wayne have helped him more than his father ever could.
“Well, Steven,” his father says, and the use of his name makes Steve glance up at him. “I hope this conversation’s been useful to you. Remember to turn the landing light off.”
And he’s gone, turning out of Steve’s doorway and out of sight.
Steve blinks his eyes groggily, stretches his arms over his head until his shoulders pop. Glances at the clock. Just past 11.
He stands up and his joints feel creaky from being in the same position for so long. He dithers for a moment, before heading to the bathroom to get washed up. He does it quickly, so ready to sleep, before traipsing back to his bedroom. He feels his jaw clench as he steps inside. It makes him feel tense, the image of his father in his doorway lingering in his mind. He feels almost as if his voice is still reverberating off every surface in Steve’s room.
He sighs, rubs his hands across his face, looks in the mirror. His eyes are a little bloodshot, eyelids drooping. He needs to sleep but he just feels restless, uncomfortable, unsettled. He takes another look in the mirror, and heads back out of his room, towards the phone in the hallway and punches in the familiar digits.
It takes a few rings before he hears the voice at the end of the line.
“Yup, Eddie speaking,”
“Hey Eds,” Steve says quietly. His voice sounds scratchy and tired.
“Steve? What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Steve brushes past the question, “Just, uh, I was wondering if you fancied a guest for the night?”
There’s a pause before Eddie responds. “Course, sweetheart. You know you don’t need to ask.”
Steve can’t help the sigh of relief that passes his lips. “Thanks, Eds. I won’t be long.”
“Sure thing, sweet stuff. See you soon.”
Steve hangs up the phone, walks swiftly back to his room so he can start packing the things he needs for an overnight stay. Shoves in one of Eddie’s old shirts that he’s taken to sleeping in now.
He’s grateful for Eddie’s lack of questioning on the phone. He knows that Steve doesn’t have the best relationship with his parents, sees the tension that’s a constant companion to him whenever they’re back in town. He doesn’t know the specifics - Steve’s never felt the need to tell him and Eddie’s never pushed it. Steve doesn’t think it particularly matters, if he’s honest. Eddie can always tell when he’s worked up about something, always knows how to work him back down again.
When he’s packed, he creeps quietly out of the front door, inching it closed as he leaves. Hopes they won’t notice he’s gone. He doubts they will, most likely will assume he had an early start, if anything. Still, he doesn’t particularly fancy trying to make up cover stories for the fact he went to sleep in his boyfriend’s bed rather than sleep in the same house as his own parents.
He listens to the radio quietly on the way, grateful that the roads are quiet and the drive to Eddie’s is short. He already feels better now he’s out of the house, can feel his lungs filling a little more easily. He never realises quite how tense he gets until it’s over, until he’s out.
By the time he pulls up outside Eddie’s trailer, he’s just about ready to drop. He supposes Eddie must have seen his car lights as he pulled up, or heard his car door slam shut, because the door to the trailer’s already opening by the time he’s a few steps away.
He crosses the threshold, and Eddie shuts the door closed behind him before instantly pulling him into a hug. He smooths his hands through Steve’s hair, pulling back to kiss his forehead softly, so softly, before pulling back further to look at him fully.
“You look exhausted, Stevie.” Eddie says, eyebrows pulling together, eyes scanning over Steve’s face.
Steve only hums, leans back into another hug, pressing his face against Eddie’s soft shirt. It’s warm, he can feel the warmth of Eddie’s body through it, and it smells like him. He shuts his eyes against the gentle glow of the lights in the trailer, and Eddie weaves the fingers of one hand through his hair, rubbing softly against his scalp. Steve sighs, the quiet of the trailer wrapping around him like a blanket.
Eddie lets him stay there for a moment, lets Steve be held by him for a little longer, before he rubs a hand against Steve’s shoulder, squeezes it gently.
“C’mon then, sweetheart. Let's get you to bed.”
Steve hums agreeably, lets Eddie take his hand and lead him through to his bedroom. Says nothing as Eddie retrieves Steve’s pyjamas from his bag as he gets undressed. Carefully helps Steve get redressed, kissing his lips, warm and lingering, once he’s pulled his own t-shirt over Steve’s head.
“You want anything? Tea? Your chamomile’s still in the cupboard.” Eddie asks gently as he smooths his thumb over Steve’s cheekbone.
Steve shakes his head, knows he just wants to curl up quietly in Eddie’s arms.
“Sure?” Eddie checks, and Steve nods again, feels his cheeks growing pink under Eddie’s steady affection.
“Alright,” Eddie says, kissing him briefly once more, before taking his hand once more and leading him to his bed.
Once Steve’s curled up in his arms, head resting on Eddie's chest, his heart thumping beneath his ear, Eddie pulls the covers up over them both, and Steve can’t help but smile a small, private smile. He’s warm. It’s quiet.
He’s so glad he called Eddie.
“Night, sweetheart,” Eddie says once they’re all settled. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” Steve murmurs lowly into Eddie’s chest, before sinking into the warmth and silence of sleep.