Chapter Text
Wayne never wanted kids, is the thing. Never particularly wanted a partner, either.
He was happy in his solitude. Happy with quiet and stillness, happy with waking up alone and going to bed alone and happy with the freedom that came from his childless, spouseless life.
But he never could’ve said no to Eddie.
His yes was so immediate the social worker wasn’t so much as able to finish her sentence, Wayne already looking around his home wondering how in the hell he’d ever be able to make this place work for the both of them. Because Wayne knew what it was like to feel unwanted. Knew his brother did, too. Knew his brother was the type of man to inject that distinct type of pain into his own kid.
1.
“ SHUT UP!” The door slams, the thin wood shuddering in its jam as it does, and Wayne hears the tell tale click of the lock that means he’s not going to see Eddie until tomorrow morning.
Wayne picks up the crumpled pages of Eddie’s essay, the 34 written in large, red marker still legible. He thumbs over it.
His handwriting is neat, for once. The black ink is unsmudged and his paragraphs are indented. His title is centered. All caps.
PRISONERS IN THE U.S.
Wayne stares at the words. The careful penmanship. The numbered pages at the bottom, one through three.
Wayne only has to get to the second paragraph before he can’t read any further, Eddie’s dark pen strokes carefully spelling out My dad has been imprisoned since-
He flattens out the pages. Wonders how in the hell he’s supposed to make this better.
Eddie’s music starts, then.
Wayne winces, the headache he’s been fighting since that morning surging in earnest at the noise. He can’t tell the difference between any of that racket but it seems to help Eddie. Helps to soothe him in a way Wayne can’t.
But it doesn’t take long for the neighbors to complain. He can hear them, just a few minutes in, over the screaming vocals of Eddie’s room, chittering outside like school mice.
So he’s not surprised when he has Mrs. Bellefonte and Ms. Reed on his front porch, blithering away about his nephew's music choices like it’s midnight and not five in the afternoon.
“It’s demonic , what he’s listening to.” Ms. Reed insists, her bright red hair done up in rollers. “And it’s disturbing the whole neighborhood. I’ve never had a problem with you, Wayne. You know I’m not one to complain, but ever since that nephew of yours came around here a few weeks back he’s been nothing but noise and trouble.” She cracks her gum, and a vein pulses in Wayne’s forehead.
Mrs. Bellefonte nods, her saggy jowls waving as she does. “We know it’s not your fault, here, Wayne. Not like you raised him, we know he came from that brother of yours. Not your fault he is the way he is, but we really must insist-”
But Wayne’s had enough. Of these stuffed shirts coming around to his home thinking they can prattle on about his nephew like they know the boy, like they know how good he is or isn’t.
“See here.” Wayne interrupts. And he’s always been quiet. Always been one of few words. Liked to let his actions speak for themselves, but he was a sergeant, as much as he now tries to forget Vietnam, and there he learned how to command those beneath him.
“We’re all gonna let my boy play his music. Because he ain’t bothering nobody. He ain’t knockin’ down mailboxes, like your boys, Miss Reed, and he ain’t leavin’ flamin’ bags of feces on neighbors front porches, like your boys, Missus Bellefonte. And if we ever hear of you running your mouths about him, or what he listens to, or any other nonsense, well, Chief Hopper is an old friend of mine. He might be interested in those pieces of information.” He smiles, through the screen door he hadn’t bothered to open. “And don’t you worry, you can trust that when I take my evenin’ smoke breaks, I see a whole lot more than just that.”
Not like he’d rat those boys out, a bit of property damage is nothing Wayne’d ever bat an eye at, especially in the parts of town those boys do it, but it has the intended effect. The women, seemingly struck dumb by Wayne’s words, huff, then huff again, before Mrs.Bellefonte utters one more intelligent “ demonic”, before they leave his front porch with identical affronted looks.
Wayne closes the door behind him. Seals in the raucous noise of Eddie’s music.
He grabs a couple of Tylenol from the bathroom cupboard, and tries to watch the Hoosier’s play.
2.
“Got band practice tonight.” Eddie says, nose in the fridge. “Do we still have jelly?”
Wayne reaches around him, pulls the sticky jar of strawberry jelly from its spot in the door.
“With a knife, Ed,” Wayne reprimands, eyeing the way his boy’s about to empty the jelly onto his sandwich without one.
“Sorry,” Eddie grumbles. But he does what he’s told, grabs a knife from the drawer and dumps half the sugary mess onto bread before slapping it together and shoving it into a plastic bag, sucking the excess off his fingers.
He bolts from the kitchen, rustling around in his room, before running back a moment later, notebook in hand and his guitar and case strapped to his back. He grabs his sandwich and shoves it under one arm, effectively crushing it.
“We’ll be at Gareth’s,” Eddie says, walking to the door.
Wayne nods, looks to the fridge where Gareth- (812)555-6279 is scrawled in messy handwriting.
“Remember your helmet.” Wayne calls, scrubbing the pan he’s been soaking all day.
Eddie makes a noncommittal noise.
“I mean it , Eddie, not playin’ with that type of thing.” He gives up on the washcloth, bends over to see if they still have steel wool under the sink.
“There’s a talent show Thursday.”
Wayne looks up, Eddie at the door, slipping on his shoes.
“Just so you know.”
And then he’s gone, screen door slamming behind him, helmet gone from the basket by the door.
*****
In the end, Wayne had to call Jeff’s parents, Eddie having bolted from the house before giving him a single bit of helpful information.
Turns out his band’s in the talent show. Thursday, 6 o’clock.
Wayne has wanted to sit up front, but the PTA moms with their stiff hair and paisley dresses have taken up the first three rows by the time he arrives. Their husbands are eyeing the stage with unfocused eyes, looking like they’ve been drug here by the scruff of their necks.
Then again, they probably had.
The kids tap dance, and jump rope, and do all number of things Wayne tries very hard to stay invested in. Unfortunately, however, he’s starting to understand the blank looks all those other fathers are giving the stage, especially after two girls double dutch for twelve minutes straight. But when the very harried looking teacher announces Corroded Coffin in her nasally, wispy voice, Wayne sits up straight in his seat.
And Eddie doesn’t talk to Wayne about much. Not outside of the essentials. Nothing outside of we need more eggs and we have a half day at school tomorrow , but he’s seen Corroded Coffin scratched across Eddie’s notebook, the letters dark and angular.
The four of them strut out, Eddie leading proudly, decked out in those dark colors and silver chains that make the rest of the town whisper. He recognizes Gareth and Jeff, can’t remember if Ed ever mentioned the third one. But he sees his boy scanning the faces in the crowd, the hard line of his brows scowling into the audience like he’s bracing himself.
So Wayne waves. Softly, barely above his head, and it takes Eddie a moment, that horrible frown on his face like he knows it’s a lost cause, but Wayne can see the moment his boy sees him. His little eyebrows relax. Those wide brown eyes soften, and the barest hint of a smile graces Eddie’s lips before he waves back.
Wayne feels lightheaded with it. The little smile. The wave. And it settles within him that he’s finally done something right. Because coming and watching his boy play music he doesn’t understand in this stuffy gymnasium with women who glare at him for his dirty boots is never how he planned on spending an evening, but anything is worth it if it gets that boy to smile at him.
That rage he thought he’d buried months ago against his brother and his wife comes back with a vengeance, watching Eddie up on that stage, because how dare they. How dare they give this up, give Eddie up, give up the opportunity to see him play the songs he wrote on a guitar he’s spent months practicing on. Because Wayne can’t think of anything that would be worth missing this for. Miss the little glances of eye contact Eddie feeds him throughout their song, like he’s checking Wayne is still there, checking Wayne hasn’t left, that Wayne is paying attention.
Like Wayne could do anything other than hang onto Eddie’s every movement. Because his nephew is brilliant. Wayne can barely see his fingers, the way they move so quickly on that guitar, and Wayne’s never been one of any musical talent but he can see Eddie has it, can see his friends have it, too.
So he isn’t even embarrassed when all those parents with their ironed shirts and glinting watches stare as he gives Corroded Coffin a standing ovation. He claps his hands above his head and whistles two fingers in his mouth, proud, until Eddie is smiling wide and proper, his face beet red as he clambers off the stage.
Wayne finds them after. All the boys wearing identical expressions of giddy delight, their parents hovering behind them, looking equal parts happy and put upon.
Wayne’s nearly knocked in the face with Eddie’s guitar when his boy sees him. His scrawny arms lock around Wayne’s middle and his curly head of hair presses into Wayne’s chest, that guitar head nearly taking an eye out.
But Eddie’s hugging him. Holds on. Ties his little arms around Wayne and presses close, their knees knocking together.
Wayne swallows the lump in his throat. Wraps his arms around him.
“Now you’re gon’ start playin’ for me, right?” He asks, trying very hard to keep the emotion from wavering his voice, “‘cause I think I might start likin’ all that rubbish you listen to if you’re the one playin’ it.”
Eddie releases his hold, and for a moment Wayne thinks he’s ruined it, thinks Eddie’s about to shrink back into his shell because Wayne had to go and stick his foot in his mouth, but his boy is smiling when he pulls back.
“We have other songs.” He mumbles.
Then Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. Shoves his hands inside his pockets. Like he’s embarrassed at the show of affection. Like he’s trying to contain himself. Trying to tone himself down. To not let himself get too excited. To not be too much.
So Wayne smiles back. Ruffles Eddie’s hair. “How ‘bout we get some ice cream, and then you can play ‘em for me?”
3.
Wayne’s gonna skin him alive. Gonna string him up by his toes on the flag pole until Eddie gets it through his thick skull that no matter how smart that boy is , he needs to go to class .
“Makin’ me leave work.” He hisses to himself, and Eddie better not be at home. Better be off somewhere else so Wayne can cool down before he grounds him ‘til next year, ‘til he graduates- no Hellfire. No band practice. Nothing until that boy starts applying himself.
Because Wayne knows if Eddie could just- sit down and use half of all that energy he spends on those damn campaigns- he could graduate with honors. Which only fuels Wayne’s anger. Eddie squandering himself like this. Because he doesn’t think himself worthy of graduating. Of anything better .
But Ed’s van is parked at home. And Wayne’s never been a yeller. Never been one to raise his voice or lose his temper, but it’s threatening to tear loose, now, seeing Ed’s car parked at home after he’d waved Wayne goodbye that morning.
He stomps inside, ready to see his boy sat on the couch or with his nose in the fridge, and he’s ready to shout some sense into him before he sees the main rooms are empty.
But Eddie’s door is shut, and this is Wayne’s home- and as much as he’s respected Eddie’s privacy over the years he’s not about to grant it to him now, not when he lied. Lied about goin’ to school today, lied through his teeth when he promised Wayne he’d start trying.
And trying damn well means going to class.
So he opens the door without preamble. Without a knock and without announcing himself, he walks into Eddie’s room ready to tear him a new one.
The words die on his lips.
Eddie, shirtless, with the Hargrove boy from down the street, both their belts unbuckled.
Hargrove leaps off the bed, his eyes wide and wild, putting as much space between himself and Eddie as possible.
“Wayne!” Eddie shouts, and his panicked tone makes Wayne look to him.
All that rage he’d felt not a moment ago drains from him, because his boy looks terrified. His eyes wide as dinner plates, his lips trembling as he looks from Wayne to the other boy and back again.
“It’s not-” Eddie starts, but Hargrove interrupts.
“He came onto me.” Hargrove growls, still in the corner. Shirt unbuttoned and fly open. “I’m not one of them, sir, he tricked me- I-”
But Wayne stops listening. Sees the look on Eddie’s face, and that’s all he needs to know.
“Get out.” He says, low and slow.
Hargrove’s mouth clicks shut. He stays frozen, cornered, until Wayne steps out of the doorway. Wayne’s eyes are on Eddie, now, who’s still looking at Hargrove like he’s hoping he’ll take the words back.
“He’s the faggot.” Hargrove barks, “ not me.”
Wayne rounds on him. “ GET OUT!” He bellows, and Hargrove flinches, good, before fleeing, doing up his jeans as he does.
Wayne thinks longingly of the shotgun under his bed as he follows the boy out of Eddie’s room and onto the porch, watches as that snake tears from his property.
Wayne doesn’t leave the porch until he can no longer see that boy’s silhouette.
“Goddamn it,” he whispers, and he wants to shout, wants to scream, wants to shove Eddie in bubble wrap and lock him in his room because his life was already hard enough. Already enough with his daddy who he is and his mama the way she is, with Eddie dressing the way he does and the hobbies he has and- and Wayne is scared. Scared for his boy and what the world will do to him.
What the world has already done to him.
He walks back to Eddie’s room. Tries to find the words to make this better. Tries to arrange them so he can fix this.
But when he gets to Eddie’s room there’s a bag on his bed, already haphazardly half filled with clothes, his copy of The Hobbit on top.
Eddie’s crouched low, under his bed, frantically tearing through the rubbish in a desperate search for something in particular. He finds it, stands, and freezes when he sees Wayne in the doorway.
His face and chest are red. There are still tears dribbling down his face.
“He’s right.” Eddie snarls, eyes shining. “About what I am. So you don’t have to say anything. I’m leaving myself. I’m nearly old enough.” He crams whatever he had in his hands into his bag, still shirtless, belt still undone, before stepping over to his desk. His shoulders shake. His hands tremble.
So Wayne doesn’t say anything. He walks up to his son, and pulls him into his chest.
Eddie fights him at first. His arms scramble. His legs push against Wayne’s. He pulls his head away, now crying in earnest, hiccuping sobs that shake his chest.
But Wayne holds on. Grips onto him the same way he did when Eddie realized Al wasn’t coming back. The same way he did when his mama asked for money for that final time.
Eddie’s movements get sloppier. Weaker. Until Wayne’s nearly holding his boy up as he sobs into his chest.
Eddie’s knees tremble. So Wayne whispers that Eddie’s okay. That he’s here. That he’s not going anywhere.
He wraps one arm tight around his boy. Brings his other hand up to Eddie’s head and strokes his soft curls.
“I love you, Eddie.” He says. And his voice doesn’t waver. He speaks clear, right into Eddie’s ear despite his own tears. “And you’re mine. Nothin’s ever changin’ that.”